The Wrath of the Just (Apocalypse Z)

by Manel Loureiro

  The scene was very similar to the place where the guards had left us. Not a living soul in sight. I took a chance and walked down the deserted main street, which was lined with about twenty houses. From inside every window, dark, threatening shadows watched me. The only sound was my shoes crunching on the gravel-covered pavement.

  When I heard a groan behind me, I whipped around like a snake, Berretta in hand. It was just an old Coca-Cola sign creaking in the wind. I lowered my gun, shaking.

  I slipped into the town’s only cafe. Shattered window glass crunched under my feet. The interior was dark and empty. Never taking my eye off the door, I skirted around broken chairs and overturned tables and inched over to the counter. In a fury, I yanked open drawers and cabinets. After five minutes I slumped, discouraged. There wasn’t a thing to eat or drink. Survivors from previous trains must’ve looted every scrap of food in the place. Anything of use was long gone. I didn’t need to check the rest of the town. I knew it would be the same in every house.

  My eyes fell on a pile of bills and papers under the sink. Out of curiosity, I picked them up and read them over. Mixed in with the usual receipts and bills was a small treasure. It was a cheaply printed flyer advertising The Double J Ranch.

  Want to feel like a real cowboy?

  Experience the REAL Texas at The Double J Ranch

  RIDE HORSES! BRAND CATTLE!

  Enjoy the best Tex-Mex cuisine around!

  THE DOUBLE J RANCH! You’ll never forget it!

  At the bottom were a phone number and a very simple map from Sheertown (the ghost town I was in) to the ranch. A photo showed galloping horses and smiling cowboys leaning on a fence in the background.

  What the hell was the rancher thinking? Did he think anyone would come to that remote corner of the world to experience the “real Texas”? Even before the Apocalypse, Sheertown mustn’t have been a thriving place. I figured you wouldn’t need a reservation at the Double J’s restaurant. Visitors were probably few and far between.

  A crazy idea popped into my head. The ranch was about four miles from town, in the opposite direction from the train station. Maybe no one had noticed it before. Maybe I’d find veterinary supplies and food there, or even a car that still ran. At least I’d have a place to spend the night. I wouldn’t sleep in Sheertown for all the money in the world. It was an open-air cemetery. Evil lurked around every corner there. And a lot of misery and pain. I could feel it in my bones.

  Without a backward glance, I started walking. After ten minutes, I came to an unmarked dirt road that branched off to the west. I checked the map; I was on the right track. The road was covered with dead branches and leaves; in some places, weeds almost entirely blocked it. Besides the coyotes’ tracks, there were no footprints. No one had passed that way for a long time.

  I walked for an hour down that dusty road, cursing in Russian (thanks to Prit) every time I got caught on a thorn bush. Once I had to fight my way through some weeds so thick I couldn’t see the other side. That gave me hope. With the road in such a sorry state, it was unlikely anyone had visited the ranch in a long while.

  Finally at the crest of a small hill, I spotted the Double J Ranch.

  The ranch house was really run-down; a wooden fence surrounded it. Near the house was a huge red barn and a long, low building I assumed was the stable. The place probably was never very prosperous, but now it looked really spooky. In a corral next to the house were the bleached skeletons of fifty head of cattle. With no one to take care of them, those poor cows had slowly died of hunger and thirst in the burning sun.

  Then it hit me. The owners had to be around somewhere.

  Gripping the Beretta, I eased down the road. At the arch over the entrance, I set down my backpack and Lucullus’s basket. Better to be unencumbered.

  First I inspected the stable. Its long central corridor was flanked by two dozen stalls. Half were empty; the other half contained the bones of a dozen horses. The metal doors were beaten in; some had bloodstains. Mad with hunger and thirst, the noble beasts had tried to break out of their stalls. Otherwise, the place was empty.

  On my way out, I spotted a small refrigerator against a wall. I opened it with no expectations. I almost fell back on my ass when a wave of cold air hit me and soft white light bathed my face. The refrigerator still worked. The ranch still had power.

  I just stood there for a moment, enjoying the cool air. Then I searched the stable, inside and out, before figuring out what the hell made that small miracle possible. Solar panels covered the roof and powered a generator somewhere. Either the owner didn’t like to pay electric bills or couldn’t afford a power outage in such a remote place. A stroke of luck either way.

  Inside the refrigerator were several small bottles lined up in an orderly row. I rummaged around a shelf and found antibiotics for horses and cows. I hesitated. They might not be suitable for a cat, and too strong a dose might kill Lucullus. I didn’t have many options, so I stuck some bottles in my pocket along with half a dozen hypodermic needles I found in a drawer.

  I looked around one more time, then headed out of the barn. That’s when I saw the first Undead. He was in his midtwenties, dressed in denim overalls and a red-and-black plaid shirt with a faded handkerchief tied around his neck. He staggered around the corner of the house in my direction.

  At that distance, I couldn’t see any injury. He hadn’t been attacked by another Undead; the treacherous virus had hijacked him when he shared a bottle or a kiss. That was the good news.

  The bad news was, when the Undead saw me, he groaned and made a beeline in my direction. I waited until he got closer, not wanting to miss the shot. Then I spotted an ax leaning against the door. I pocketed the Beretta and grabbed that ax with both hands. It was heavy and long, and its blade was dull, but still looked dangerous. And it was a lot quieter than the gun.

  When the Undead was about six feet from me, I raised the ax over my head. I realized that, if I missed, I wouldn’t get a second chance. Shooting might’ve been a better bet, but I didn’t have time to ponder that. The Undead came at me with a roar. When his outstretched fingers had almost reached me, I brought the ax down on his head with all my might.

  The blade struck the middle of his face with a crack, and he stopped in his tracks. I braced my foot against his chest and pulled the blade out with a watery chuuup that made my hair stand on end. The Undead fell backward into the dirt and lay there like a turtle on its back. I hit him a second time. The blade penetrated deep into his skull and destroyed his brain. The Undead kicked a couple of times and finally lay still.

  I gasped, trying to catch my breath. It took me three tries to get the blade out of his head. Holding the bloody ax out in front of me, I headed for the house. I must’ve looked like a crazed psychopath.

  I crossed the porch, eased open the front door, and peered inside. Two years’ worth of dust covered the furniture. Outlined in the dust on the floor were halting footprints. My heart racing, I followed those tracks to the kitchen.

  The trail led to an Undead woman standing beside a fireplace. When she saw me, she rushed forward but tripped over a stool and fell in a heap. Not hesitating for a second, I hit her with the ax over and over till her head was a mass of bone and brains.

  I plopped down on a couch, sending up a cloud of dust. I calmly picked up a crumpled pack of Marlboros lying on the coffee table and lit a cigarette. I amazed myself. I’d taken out two monsters in five minutes, and my pulse was pretty steady. Strange . . . a while back, I couldn’t have imagined doing something like that.

  The Undead’s blood meandered through the grit on the floor. When it reached my shoe, it branched off and disappeared under the couch. I threw the cigarette on the floor after just two puffs. I’d suddenly lost interest in smoking.

  I walked around the house but didn’t find anyone else. In the basement, I got a wonderful surprise: a freezer filled with huge
cuts of beef. My mouth watered. That night I’d have a first-class dinner.

  I still had to check out the barn. I went back outside and crossed the yard to the large red wood building. Two vultures were gorging on the scattered brains of the cowboy I’d just killed. The birds studied me, but made no move to fly away. They’d lost their fear of humans. I noticed how fat and shiny they were. No wonder—there was no shortage of food.

  The barn door was locked with a heavy padlock. I cursed under my breath. The key had to be around somewhere, but I didn’t have the time or inclination to search. I drew the Beretta and fired at the padlock. The frightened vultures flew off, squawking indignantly. The shot sounded like thunder and probably echoed for miles, but I didn’t care. There wasn’t anyone—or anything—around.

  The interior of the barn was dark and very cool, but I was surprised at how humid the air was. I looked around and discovered why. A water pump at the back of the building had burst; water was spurting out of a well. A small lake had formed in the back of the barn and was disappearing under the wall, into the parched dirt.

  Grain stored in the barn had sprouted in that damp air; the grain sacks had burst, filling the barn with a strange, vegetal smell. In the middle of the lake, a huge John Deere tractor sat dormant, waiting for a harvest that was years overdue.

  I cautiously circled the tractor and spotted something large covered with a white sheet, wedged between a workbench and a rolled-up, moth-eaten orange rug. I walked around the table and the rug and pulled off the sheet.

  “Thank you, God! Thank you!”

  Under that sheet were two shiny motorcycles.

  An hour later, the sun was setting and night was falling on the Double J Ranch. I was back in the barn, sitting in front of a fire, grilling some fantastic steaks.

  Lucullus was sleeping peacefully, softly snoring, as near the fire as he could get without singeing his fur. I’d cleaned his wound, changed the dressing, and injected him with a tiny bit of the antibiotic I’d found. I’d tried to calculate the amount according to his weight, and prayed that it didn’t kill him. The antibiotic seemed to be working. My little friend looked much better than he had in days. His tail was still a bit infected, but he was going to pull through, even if he’d left one of his nine lives on the road.

  I was ecstatic as I gazed upon my new acquisitions: a huge, heavy Honda Goldwing and a small, ugly 125cc Korean dirt bike.

  The Goldwing gleamed in the firelight. It was one of those sturdy touring bikes with a wide seat and a handlebar covered in dials. It was built for riding thousands of miles and was in superb condition. Of course the Goldwing was my first choice, but it had two problems. First, the battery was completely dead, and its fuel-injection engine would never start without a battery. Second, it was big and unwieldy. It’d be perfect on the open road, but I needed something more nimble to speed away from the traffic jams I knew I’d encounter along the way.

  So I turned to the Korean Daystar dirt bike with its cheap finish. I’d never heard of that brand, but it was small, light, and rugged looking. Best of all, it had an engine I could kick-start.

  I flipped the steaks and went over to the motorcycle. I rolled it to the center of the barn and got on. I gave it a shake and found that the tank was full. Perfect. I put it in neutral and tried to kick-start it. After being parked for two years, the engine sputtered and coughed and wouldn’t start. I pulled out the spark plug, cleaned it, and put it back in. I got back on the bike and stomped hard on the kick-starter. The engine sprang to life with a raspy sound; black smoke blew out the exhaust pipe. I smiled, relieved, and revved the engine a couple of times. The bike gave a somewhat muted roar, but it was still a roar. I roared, too! I had transportation out of there!

  I jumped off the bike and did a silly Irish jig around the barn, too ecstatic to stand still.

  Suddenly, the orange rug groaned. I let out a startled yelp and collapsed next to the fire, my heart pounding. Surely I hadn’t heard right.

  The rug groaned again. I tore through my pack searching for the gun, knocking the steaks into the coals. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as I held the Beretta with trembling hands.

  The rug growled again and, this time, moved a little. I approached cautiously, not taking my eyes off that mound of rotting fabric. When I looked closer, every hair on my head stood on end.

  It was no rug. It was a damned Undead. What I’d thought was fabric was actually a huge colony of orange fungus that had quickly spread over the thing’s entire body in that damp, dark barn.

  I recalled that the barn had been locked from the outside. This person must’ve been the first to be transformed. The other two people on the ranch didn’t have the guts to kill him. Were they his parents? His brother and sister? So they locked him in the barn, not knowing that TSJ was coursing through their veins too. And there the creature stayed, slowly rotting, till I arrived.

  I wondered why the thing didn’t move. I approached cautiously, bracing myself for any sudden movement. I could see that the fungus had eaten away most of the person’s muscles. Man? Woman? Impossible to tell. It couldn’t stand up or move what was left of its muscles. It was just a skeleton, wrapped in a thick orange down, barely covered by what flesh the fungus hadn’t eaten yet. Protected inside the skull, the Undead’s brain would last to the end. That couldn’t be much longer.

  It was a horrible sight. I couldn’t imagine a worse agony.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off that wreck of a person. Where its head should’ve been was a lump that followed my movements. Its eyes were long gone and probably its inner ear, too, but somehow it sensed I was there. It was fascinating and repulsive at the same time.

  I pondered what this development meant for all the Undead. I doubted it was a special case. If the fungus had swallowed up and nearly destroyed that Undead, why wouldn’t all the others suffer the same fate sooner or later? At least the ones in humid, warm climates where fungus grew easily.

  With its proximity to the ocean, the area around Gulfport would be ideal. I wished I’d asked a helot what they’d encountered on the outside. I’d bet all the Cladoxpan I had left that the Undead around Gulfport were starting to look the same way.

  I thought back to my home in Galicia, a damp, rainy place on the Atlantic coast. It was as green as Ireland and damp three days out of four. It’d been two years since I left. Were the Undead there in the same condition? Tears welled up as nostalgia washed over me. I felt very alone, far from any place I could call home. The euphoria that filled me a minute before evaporated.

  I heard a faint meow. Lucullus poked his head up and managed to crawl out of the basket. It was sad to see my frisky cat staggering around like an old man. He hobbled over to me and climbed into my lap, purring. Somehow that goofy cat sensed I needed him. Anytime I wondered why I’d dragged him halfway around the world, I recalled that moment.

  Before I settled down to sleep, I bashed in the head of the fuzz-covered Undead with my ax. It wasn’t a danger to anyone, but I didn’t feel right leaving it that way.

  Next to the embers, I burrowed into some horse blankets and tried to sleep, but I only managed to doze. The next day was going to be long and hard, but it would bring me a whole lot closer to my friends waiting for me in Gulfport. And closer to my revenge.

  39

  WASTELAND

  DAY 3

  I set out early the next morning. The roads were in such bad shape that I couldn’t risk driving at night. I planned to ride until the hottest hours of the afternoon, take a break, then go on till nightfall.

  For such a small bike, the Daystar weighed a lot. After a few miles, it proved to be an excellent choice. It handled well and had enough oomph to get me out of a tight spot. Plus its simple but rugged engine was less likely to stall. The bike puttered along cheerfully as I picked up speed, headed for the main road.

  I had two choices: drive along th
e railroad tracks or take the secondary roads. Up till that point, I’d followed the tracks, but the map showed that they veered to the north before heading back southeast into Gulfport. They also ran dangerously close to some large towns and even cut through some of them. That wasn’t a problem for an armored several-hundred-ton locomotive, but it spelled death for a guy on a motorcycle. Only a fool would drive through those towns. On the bike, I could dodge a lone Undead, even a small group, but in a crowd, I’d be dead in ten minutes. One of those monsters would block my path, and I’d go down. So I stayed on the secondary roads that passed through just a couple of smaller towns where I hoped I wouldn’t find too many Undead.

  But I had bigger problems. I needed to find gas. And my supply of Cladoxpan was dwindling at an alarming rate.

  Lucullus was alert and feeling much better after the antibiotic injections. He wriggled around restlessly in one of the saddlebags, chewing on a leather strap. Beside him was the thermos with half of the Cladoxpan I had left. In the other saddlebag, I’d stashed water, supplies, and the rest of the drug, which I’d poured into an empty whiskey bottle. I’d divided the drug into two containers so that if I lost one, I’d have a backup.

  That morning I drove on a deserted dirt road overgrown with weeds. Occasionally I passed a car in a ditch or a lone figure staggering around in the distance. When those creatures heard the motorcycle, they turned and headed for me, but by the time they’d reached the road, I was already gone. If I had to stop or slow down, an Undead might ambush me. But I didn’t dwell on that. I just wanted to eat up the miles. Gulfport was drawing me like a magnet.

  The first night, I slept out in the open on a treeless hill. Despite howling coyotes, I didn’t dare light a fire; it would’ve attracted far worse creatures—and not just Undead. Along the way I’d seen signs of human travel. Fresh tire tracks, campfires, and lots of gleaming copper bullet casings. At one crossroads, I spotted the tracks of a convoy of heavy vehicles. I assumed no one out there was friendly and tried not to leave any evidence I’d been there.