Manel Loureiro - The Wrath of the Just

Prit, the officers, and I left the deck, which shimmered in the tropical midday heat, and headed down to the dining room, where Enzo directed waiters in white uniforms laying out a fabulous lunch. The contrast was deeply disturbing. Looking through a window, I could see the exhausted survivors sprawled on the deck, shedding their heavy equipment and greedily gulping down bottles of some liquid. Inside the dining room, the officers chatted, smoked cigarettes, drank gin and tonics, and bowed politely as Lucia passed among them. Only minutes before, they’d fired on the multitude of Undead on the dock, then allowed several of their own men to die without lifting a finger. The dock was still packed with Undead, rocking back and forth. Their monotonous moans could be heard above the hum of the air-conditioning. It was like being in the cocktail lounge of an exclusive country club, looking out a window onto hell.

The captain made his way through the officers, courteous and smiling, and walked over to us. He kissed Lucia’s hand politely.

“Miss, it is a pleasure to have you share this simple repast with us,” he said. “I think I speak for all my officers when I say that your presence on board is wonderfully refreshing. A lady as beautiful as you is a joy to behold.”

“Unlike that spectacle of your men out there,” I said curtly.

Lucia and Prit shot me a warning look.

“It’s obviously not pleasant, sir,” said Captain Birley, unfazed. “Keep in mind we’re immersed in a struggle between the powers of God and Satan, between Light and Darkness. We must set aside social conventions, such as compassion.”

“But they’re your men!” I protested.

“The landing party?” Birley shrugged. “They’re helots, an inferior class of people, sinners all of them. They fight and give their lives to atone for their sins and earn a place at the Lord’s Table. Right now, those fallen soldiers are seated with our Lord Jesus Christ, at a banquet much bigger and better than this simple meal. I hope you don’t have a problem with that… sir.”

I picked up on the elegant pause the captain had tacked on and backed down. “Um, no, of course not, Captain Birley. We’re eternally grateful for your hospitality and we fully understand your methods.”

“It would be a shame to discover that you don’t deserve this status,” Birley said. An implied threat hung in the air. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to radio Gulfport and report the success of our operation.”

Captain Birley walked to the radio room, stopping to chat with a group of officers along the way. The hum of conversation and soft classical music mingled with the groans of the Undead still lingering on the dock. It was truly surreal.

“What do you make of all this?” Prit asked, taking a sip of his drink.

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it,” said Lucia. “These people are so formal, so polite, and yet they give me the creeps. Something doesn’t fit.”

Just then Strangärd casually walked up to us. Keeping his eyes on the crowd of Undead on the dock, he stood so the other officers in the room couldn’t see his face. Anyone would think he was lost in thought, distracted by the scene on the dock.

“Be careful,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Birley is watching you closely. The captain is very suspicious and will write a report about you for the reverend as soon as we get back. You’re treading on thin ice, friends.”

“What’s going on? Who’re the helots? What’s this all about?” I asked, keeping my eyes on Lucia and flashing her a bright smile, as if she and I were having a lighthearted conversation.

“We can’t talk here. The walls have ears. Just know that there are other people who think this is an aberration. When we get to Gulfport, I’ll explain everything.”

Strangärd moved on and joined another group. I heard him laugh at a joke. That Swede certainly knew how to cover his tracks. How many more like him were there? In Gulfport, someone better give us an explanation. And it better be good.

Forty-eight hours later, the Ithaca ’s holds were nearly overflowing with a half million tons of high-grade petroleum. I stood on the deck, watching as sailors disconnected the hoses, sealed them with layers of rubber tar, tied them to buoys, and then tossed them into the ocean. If they returned to Luba, they’d just have to fish those hoses off the buoys and reconnect them.

A slight tremor signaled that the Ithaca ’s engines had started. The tanker’s slime-covered anchors were raised, and the behemoth started slowly out to sea. Before we left the harbor, several helots on the other side of the fence brought four flag-draped coffins on deck, fired a salute, and cast them into the ocean. The TSJ virus had taken its toll among the wounded, as I’d predicted.

The Ithaca picked up speed and headed for the open water. The wind began to blow hard across the deck. As I turned to head back inside, I stopped in my tracks and stared in disbelief. Among the soldiers saluting the sinking coffins was the giant black man who’d led the landing party. He’d been bitten twice, yet he looked to be in excellent health. He certainly wasn’t an Undead.

Lieutenant Jung Moon-Koh was bored. He’d been at his post for seven hours. And just like every day for over a year now, his screen displayed the same thing: nothing.

The Hangeul 9 Long-Range Listening Station was one of more than a hundred stations strung across North Korea, built to monitor South Korean radio transmissions. Back in the sixties, someone convinced Dear Leader Kim Il-Sung that listening in on those ruthless capitalists in the south was the best way to uncover and foil an attack.

The bold promoter of the plan didn’t realize that radio transmissions numbered in the millions at the height of South Korea’s “Asian Tiger” economic boom. There were far more transmissions than in North Korea—where Juche, an extremely xenophobic, paranoid version of Marxism, was practiced, and where owning a radio was against the law. Sorting through all the transmissions was an impossible task for an impoverished country with limited technological capabilities. After a two-year investment of time and money, the idea was quietly shelved. A bullet cut short the brilliant career of the plan’s author—the usual reward for failure in the Workers’ Paradise.

For over forty years, almost all the stations sat shuttered. A few monitored transmissions from the US fleet as it patrolled the Sea of Japan, but since most naval communications were encoded, that didn’t prove very useful. No one had suggested changes to the system for decades—initiating a task without Dear Leader’s request was unthinkable.

Then came the Apocalypse.

At first, the news filtering in from North Korea’s embassies around the world was confusing. They reported that a disease had broken out in Dagestan and was spreading like wildfire throughout the world, but the details were sketchy. Government officials and military leaders in Pyongyang concluded that the news must be a smoke screen to hide the South’s imminent attack on the North. In response, the ever-paranoid North Korean regime activated all its defenses. The People’s Army was put on high alert and the country’s borders were sealed tighter than ever. That paranoia saved the country.