The rest of the men became frightened. Some raised their weapons, looking around for the shooters. Others fired blindly, and a few turned and ran.
Nothing they did made any difference. The North Koreans were excellent shots and they had formed a perfect enfilade. Shots from every direction mowed down the entire looting party. The shooting lasted only a few seconds. When it was over, the smell of gunpowder and blood hung in the air. Ten bodies in camouflage fatigues lay sprawled on the dusty road.
Hong leapt through the window, barking orders. He knew his men would stick as close as his shadow anywhere he went. At the other end of town, the sergeant’s group had sprung into action. Their automatic rifles sounded like a giant typewriter.
Hong ran down the sidewalk, blood pounding in his temples. “Get to the trucks!” he barked to the other squad as his group ran toward the boarded-up grocery store. He knew there were seven or eight looters still in there.
When Hong was about a hundred feet from the store, three figures appeared in the doorway. Two of them had their rifles slung across their backs and were loaded down with large cardboard boxes of food. The third guy, a bald tattooed giant, held his M16 loosely in one hand and a bag of food in the other.
“What’s all the damn racket?” the bald man shouted. “You trying to attract all the damn Undead? What the fuck!”
Hong let out a war cry and started running, firing from the hip. Bullets pierced the bald guy’s chest and he spun around like a top. The other men dropped their boxes and grabbed their weapons, but they died before they got off a single shot.
Not breaking stride, Hong and two of his men leapt over the bodies and stationed themselves on either side of the door. At Hong’s signal, they tossed three grenades into the room and took cover.
The explosion blew out the glass and ripped the boards off the store’s windows. A man missing a hand and screaming in pain, his bloody uniform in tatters, stumbled out the door. He tripped over the bald guy’s body, tumbled down the stairs, and lay motionless.
Gunshots rang out all over town. Hong’s second group had gotten the jump on the men loading the trucks, and had taken them out. The helots had finally realized living beings were attacking them, and were trying to get organized to return fire.
Two Undead—an old woman and a woman of indeterminate age—stumbled out of one of the houses into the middle of the fray. Fungus had completely eaten off their faces, reducing them to macabre skulls. And judging from the way they lurched around, their brains were probably being eaten away too.
Bullets from one side stopped the younger woman in her tracks, but by some miracle, the old woman reached the middle of the road intact. Oblivious to the shoot-out, she focused her attention on a helot too busy reloading his M16 to notice her.
The Undead lunged at the soldier with a roar. The man had just enough time to raise the butt of his gun and smash the monster’s face. Blood and broken teeth flew out of the old woman’s mouth and she staggered back. The helot fired two shots at her head. He jumped to his feet, but even before the Undead’s body stopped twitching, a half a dozen bullets tore into his chest.
A huge explosion echoed through the streets. Hong’s men had thrown explosives into the helots’ tanks and blown them up. They were now a smoldering heap.
“No!” Hong yelled. “Don’t blow them up! We need them!”
In the heat of the moment, Hong stood up. A couple of bullets drove into the wooden wall above his head, raining splinters down on him. Cursing under his breath, Hong ducked behind a Ford pickup with flat tires. Another explosion shook the ground, sending a truck flying.
“Do not throw grenades. I repeat: do not throw grenades!” Hong shouted into his walkie-talkie, hoping the other group could hear him over the shooting. The explosions suddenly stopped. Either someone had heard his order or they’d run out of grenades.
The surviving helots kept shooting as they slowly retreated into a house at the end of the street and tried to mount a resistance. They outnumbered the Koreans, but they didn’t pose a serious threat. These men and women had no military training. Battling small groups of Undead was one thing. Facing elite soldiers was a different story, as the bodies littering the street proved. Outgunned and outwitted, their resistance crumbled by the minute.
A white sheet appeared through one of the shattered windows in the house where the helots had taken refuge. Hong ordered his men to stop shooting.
“We’re coming out!” shouted a hoarse voice. “Don’t shoot, damn it! We surrender!”
Two men and three women filed through the door. One of the men was wincing in pain and holding his bloodied right arm. A bullet had shattered his right shoulder. He’ll never use that arm again, Hong thought.
“Drop your weapons!” shouted the colonel in his careful English. “Hands on your head!”
The frightened helots obeyed immediately. A couple of Hong’s men frisked them for concealed weapons, then forced them to kneel against a wall. The attack had been a complete success. Forty bodies were starting to draw flies. Only one of Hong’s men had been injured when a bullet grazed his leg.
The colonel observed that one of the women prisoners had pissed herself. She must’ve been terrified that they were going to rape her. In other circumstances, Hong would have allowed that. He’d done that himself on more than one occasion. Rape was a very powerful psychological weapon. He could make even the most tight-lipped woman sing like a bird. It all depended on how brutally and how frequently they raped her.
Unfortunately there was no time for that, though their captives didn’t know that. They’d apply the exact dose of terror they needed and not one drop less. Hong was a master at that.
At the end of the row were the two surviving men, the one with the useless arm and a black guy with huge, tattooed arms. Hong noticed that the man had a bandage around his bicep and one on his calf. Fresh wounds. Interesting.
“What’s your name?” Hong asked.
“I’ll be damned! You’re Chinese soldiers! Or Vietnamese or somethin’. What the hell’re you doing in our country, man?”
Hong stared at him with dead eyes. The soldier bravely tried to meet the colonel’s eyes, but he had to look away.
“Go to hell,” the tattooed soldier said haughtily, his head bowed.
The guy with the injured shoulder smiled—even on his knees, his buddy still maintained his dignity. Hong turned his head and studied the man for a few seconds. Then without a word, he drew his pistol and shot him in the head.
The man collapsed like a bag of sand as blood pulsed out of the hole in his forehead. The woman next to him screamed hysterically, her eyes glued to the pool of blood slowly approaching her knees.
Hong grabbed the hysterical woman by the hair and brutally beat her with the butt of his gun. Thump. Thump. Thump. With each crunch, the woman’s nose and teeth turned to grit. Then he pressed the hot barrel of his gun to the woman’s neck and looked down at the black soldier, whose eyes were shooting sparks of anger.
“Let’s start over,” Hong said, as the woman sobbed through bubbles of blood, tears, and snot. “What’s your name? What’s your name?”
“Darnell, Darnell Holmes,” the man replied after a very long second, chewing each word with a deep hatred.
“Where are you from, Darnell?”
“Gulfport. If you do anything to Chantelle, I swear I’m gonna—”
Hong smiled at that. “You’ll speak when I tell you to, Darnell Holmes from Gulfport. Tell me, how did you get those wounds?”
The soldier looked from Hong to his bandages. “What the hell difference does that make?”
“I’ll decide that, Darnell Holmes. Now, answer my question.”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. We’re just looking for supplies—”
Hong cocked his gun and pressed it into the woman’s neck. She shrieked in horror.
“OK, OK, dammit! We were in Africa a few weeks ago. Looking for oil. Some Undead cornered me on the dock and bit me.”
Shocked by what he’d heard, Hong staggered back a couple of inches, and his hand wavered. He’d expected the man to say he’d gotten his injuries in a previous shoot-out. That would’ve suggested there were other armed groups he’d have to deal with. The last thing he expected to hear was that an Undead had caused that injury.
“How’s that possible? Explain!”
Darnell smiled knowingly. “I’ll tell you on one condition.” He licked his dry lips as he thought at full speed. “You let the girls and me go, unharmed. Are we clear?”
Hong stared at the group for a few long seconds, then leaned forward, holstered his pistol, and placed his right hand over his heart. “You have my word as an officer that I will let you go on your way. Now explain how an Undead attacked you and you’re still alive.”
Darnell looked at him suspiciously. He didn’t trust the bastard, but he had no choice. In his hometown of New Orleans, when someone points a gun at your head, you don’t have many options. So he started talking.
The expression on Colonel Hong’s face changed from amazement to deep reflection, then to determination. Darnell wondered if he’d made a big mistake.
An hour later, that determined look was still on Hong’s face. The Korean convoy rumbled through the town, taking the soldiers’ surviving tanks and trucks. The bodies of Darnell and the four others lay rotting by the side of the road. Coyotes would feast on them that night.
With a satisfied smile, Hong leaned back into the tank’s hard seat. He peered into a bottle filled with a milky fluid that he’d pulled from Darnell’s pack. He’d take back something even better than the location of an oil well: the key to his country’s victory over the entire world.
35
GULFPORT, SHERIFF’S OFFICE
The next morning, a surprisingly large group of Green Guards and militiamen came to escort me from the police station. I guess they didn’t want any trouble. They had me stick my hands through the bars to handcuff me, then they marched me out of the cell, three men in front, and three behind. They evacuated me through a side door to a van waiting in the alley. That way, they avoided any witnesses and the protesters throwing rocks in the front of the building. I was almost grateful.
The ride was mercifully short. The minute I climbed in the van, they pulled a sack down over my head. It must’ve contained onions once and the smell was sickening. I made a superhuman effort not to throw up. I wasn’t worried about getting that ratty van dirty, but vomiting could cost me my life. I needed to retain as much liquid as I could and not waste a single drop of Cladoxpan.
After Grapes left the night before, I swallowed a little of the drug. With the first sip, my anger immediately ratcheted down a few notches. I’d never smelled anything so repulsive, a cross between spoiled milk and orange juice past its expiration date, with a touch of acidity that stung my nose. But its taste was the complete opposite . . . and absolutely wonderful. Although the liquid was at room temperature, it felt cool, as if I’d drunk a pitcher of ice water. Every pore in my skin seemed to open up and breathe again. My fever and tremors stopped abruptly; my hands stopped shaking too. I didn’t need a mirror to know that the broken veins on my skin had disappeared.
It took all my willpower to stop drinking. Every cell in my body screamed for more of that sweet, creamy liquid. If I’d had a keg of it, I’d’ve kept drinking till I was full, then thrown up so I could drink some more. With that one sip, I was addicted.
I felt better than I’d felt in a long time—elated, even. It was as if a handful of amphetamines had kicked in. I was energized and eager to get a move on.
That feeling must give helot troops a boost when they went on raids outside the Wall. It reminded me of my grandfather’s stories about how officers passed around bottles of brandy to the troops before an attack on the enemy’s trenches. You wouldn’t need that with Cladoxpan. I felt like I could wring a buffalo’s neck. That must be why they’d sent so many men to escort me. How ironic . . . I was a junkie, but my jailers were the ones who’d gotten me hooked on this powerful drug.
The van rattled when we crossed over something rough. Train tracks, I guessed. Someone’s hand whipped the sack off my head, and I squinted in the dazzlingly bright light. After the silent tomb of my cell, the sounds of hundreds of people were hard on my ears. I must’ve looked pretty scary. My hair was matted; there was dried blood on my face and a huge welt on my forehead.
“Careful, Sal,” another guard told the man who’d taken off my hood. “This animal’s got blood all over his face.”
“That’s why I’m wearing gloves and goggles. Let’s go, pal.” The first guard gave me a shove with the butt of his M16. “Outta the van.”
I stumbled down. We were parked at what had once been a freight terminal. I could make out the passenger terminal off in the distance, far enough away that none of the fine citizens in that idyllic paradise could see how Greene’s men disposed of the riffraff.
There was a huge concrete parking lot next to a long bank of portable toilets. On the tracks in front of me were a half a dozen train cars and a gleaming Amtrak locomotive engine. The front of the engine was outfitted with an inverted blade at least six feet long, like the cowcatchers that steam engines in the Old West used to push dead animals off the tracks. I figured the attachment now pushed aside the Undead that got in the train’s way. The rumbling of the two idling diesel engines echoed across the parking lot.
I was shocked to see boxcars with a sliding door that locked from the outside. In front of each of the doors was a ramp. Heavily armed militants stood beside each car, laughing and passing around bottles of whiskey. In each group, one of the men gripped the leash of a vicious German shepherd, which was barking its head off. If it weren’t so awful, I’d have laughed. It was a backwoods version of the trains to Auschwitz. All those assholes needed were SS uniforms. I bet none of them were aware of the parallels.
A huge group of helots, mostly women, elderly, and children, was being loaded onto one of the cars. The elderly men were covered in blood, cuts, and bruises and looked as pitiful as I did. The guards stood way back while the dogs rounded up stragglers, like border collies with a flock of sheep. My heart sank even more as I studied the scene.
Once the cars at the front of the train were full, the guards slammed the doors shut. From inside came the muffled groans of a crowd squeezed into a small space, desperate for air. Faces peered anxiously out the tiny windows as they took turns breathing the fresh air. I was terrified to see that the rest of the cars were like huge coffins on wheels, without even the meager luxury of windows. This trip was going to be a nightmare.
“Let’s go, pal.” The guard gave me a shove. “You’re with this group.”
I looked around, disoriented. An Aryan took my cuffs off and quickly herded me to a group of crying, frightened people crowded together in front of one of the cars.
“Wait!” a familiar voice boomed out. “Bring that prisoner over here.”
The guards reluctantly separated me from the group. They wanted to get their job over with, and any delay pissed them off. Flanked by two guards with assault rifles, I obediently left the group and came face to face with First Officer Strangärd.
The clean-cut sailor looked totally out of place in that parking lot with the sun beating down. His navy blue uniform was impeccable and his stony face didn’t betray the slightest emotion. I barely remembered the smiling officer who’d rescued us in the middle of the ocean. That seemed like a million years ago.
“As executive officer of the Gulfport Christian Militia, I am required by law to provide this man with a copy of his expulsion papers.” Strangärd stiffly handed me a few sheets of pages stapled together.
“You shouldn’t hav
e gone to the trouble,” I said sarcastically. I’d never expected to see him again.
“The reverend himself gave me this task. As I was the one who brought you into our community, he decided I should be the one to send you away.”
“I respectfully invite you and the reverend to stick that document up your pious, lily-white asses.”
“I insist.” Strangärd’s voice was a bit on edge as he thrust the papers at me again. For a moment, I detected a light in his eyes. He was trying to tell me something. I grabbed the documents, my eyes glued to his, but he was stone-faced.
“I have something else to give you.” An aide handed him a wicker basket with a lid. Something inside the basket stirred and let out a weak meow. Lucullus!
I practically tore the basket out of Strangärd’s hands. I opened the lid and sighed with relief. At the bottom of the basket, curled up on a dirty blanket, was my little friend, the stump of his tail wrapped in some gauze. My cat looked weak and his lustrous coat was bloodstained. But when he saw me, his eyes brightened.
“I found him at the police station. I felt it was my duty to bring him to you.” The Swede stiffened as if he’d said too much. He clicked his heels, saluted, and said good-bye.
The guards shoved me through the crowd toward another boxcar that, mercifully, had a couple of small windows on each side. At least we wouldn’t asphyxiate. Not all of us anyway. Fifty people were already standing in the car. The guards tripled that number.
“We aren’t going to fit in here!” someone in the group shouted.
The guards paid no attention and kept pushing till they got everyone in. I was the last to climb in; they slammed the door behind me and bolted it shut.
At first I couldn’t see anything. I heard coughs, moans, and whispered conversations all around me. Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. I was shocked at what I saw. There must’ve been a hundred and fifty people squeezed into that small space with no room to sit down. We stood shoulder to shoulder, like a crowd at a concert. Shorter people, especially children, had trouble breathing. The temperature in the car rose steadily from the heat rising off our bodies.
The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z) Page 20