Manel Loureiro - The Wrath of the Just

When I came around a bend, I was stunned by what I saw: a white ice cream truck with a giant ice cream cone on the top. Its side doors were flung open. Dead leaves covered the speakers that had once blared out little tunes to attract customers. I’d only seen ice cream trucks in American movies. It was so out of place in the swamp that I looked away from the road for a second.

That was enough. In the middle of the road was a pile of decomposing bones (the driver of the ice cream truck?) covered with blue mold. I didn’t see it until I was nearly on top of it. I swerved, but it was too late. A femur bone caught on one of the footrests, causing the bike to fishtail. I cut the handlebars in the opposite direction, but the rear wheel skidded on the rotting leaves that covered the pavement.

I hit the ground to the sound of twisting metal and snapping plastic. The bike slid sideways for about sixty feet, my right leg caught under it. Fortunately, the side defense rod didn’t bend. If it had, my entire leg would’ve been reduced to a bloody pulp mixed with gravel as the bike dragged me along the asphalt. I felt a lash of pain in my ankle before I was thrown into some underbrush.

I rolled several times before landing in some bushes. For a moment I just lay there, blinking and glad to be in one piece. I gingerly felt my body. I couldn’t believe it. At the speed I was going, I should’ve died on the spot.

I lay there on my back in silence, listening to birds chirping as the sun filtered through the trees and cast strange shapes on my face. Suddenly I remembered Lucullus. I jumped up, but when I put my weight on my right foot, I let out a scream of pain and fell back down. My ankle was broken. And it hurt like hell.

I straightened up again, careful not to put much weight on my injured ankle, and limped to the middle of the road, fearing the worst.

A ball of orange fur burst out of the brush, chasing a lizard. The lizard darted into a crack in the pavement. My cat clawed furiously at the crack, meowing in frustration.

“I’m fine, Lucullus, thanks for asking. By the way, I think I broke my ankle, you little shit.”

Lucullus looked at me, hesitated for a moment, and then went back to his game. To him, it was just another adventure he’d survived without a scratch.

With a jabbing pain in my ankle, I hobbled over to the bike, which had come to rest against an oak tree. I realized I had a very serious problem. No! Hell, no! I’m so close! This can’t happen!

The front wheel had smashed into the tree and the bike’s fork was bent at an impossible angle. A dark pool of oil was spreading under the Daystar. It had gone its last mile.

On top of that, it had fallen on its right side, crushing the saddlebag. That was where I kept my supplies. And half my supply of Cladoxpan. With a heavy heart, I tried to lift the bike. That was difficult under normal conditions, but even harder when I couldn’t stand on one of my feet. Using a tree branch as a lever, I finally raised the bike enough to drag out the battered saddlebag.

When I opened it, I detected a familiar, sweet smell. The glass bottle with half the Cladoxpan was broken and the medicine had spilled on the ground.

I slumped against the tree in despair. The situation couldn’t get much worse. It was getting dark, I was in the middle of a swamp full of dangerous creatures, and I had no transportation. I couldn’t walk because of my broken ankle. The worst part was that I’d lost half the medicine that kept me from becoming an Undead. Just when I was almost to my destination. I wanted to shoot myself.

An hour passed and night fell. I wallowed in self-pity for a while, then struggled to my feet. I had to go on as best I could. No one was going to rescue me. I got out my knife, cut a low tree branch, and fashioned a crutch as Lucullus darted around after the flying wood chips. When I was finished, I studied it with a critical eye. It was the ugliest crutch in history, but it would have to do.

I couldn’t carry much weight, so I decided to leave all my water behind. I was surrounded by streams and ponds, so I wouldn’t need it. I packed the army rations, pistol, compass, and the remaining bottle of Cladoxpan. I draped the saddlebag around my neck and tied Lucullus’s leash around my waist. My little pal would have to walk the rest of the way.

After two hours, I stopped, exhausted. I’d only gone about a mile and I was still surrounded by deep swamp. At that rate, it’d take a month to get to Gulfport. But I wouldn’t be alive in twenty-four hours, given the amount of Cladoxpan I had left.

Disheartened, I collapsed in a clearing by the side of the road. I struggled to light a small fire and ate the last army ration. The fire would keep any creatures away. If it attracted a human being, so be it. No matter how hostile that person was, it’d be better than dying there alone. The thought of dying made the rest of the night seem even longer and more hopeless. Demoralized and weak, I fell asleep next to the fire. Game over.

The next morning I was awakened by Lucullus licking my face. I grumbled and turned over, eyes shut tight. I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to get up. I just wanted to lie there and transform alone. When the time came, I’d put a bullet in my head and end it all.

Lucullus kept licking me. His huge tongue covered one whole side of my face, from my chin to my eyebrows, soaking me with drool. With another lick, drool ran into my nose and down my entire face. Puffs of his hot breath rifled my hair. When he didn’t get any attention, he let out a loud bray. A bray?

I opened my eyes and bolted upright. A dappled mule gazed at me with interest, waggling its ears. When it saw me react, it licked me again. Until you’ve been licked by a mule, you don’t know how disgusting its breath is, but I didn’t care. I rubbed my eyes and pinched myself to make sure I was awake.

“Hello, sweetie,” I whispered soothingly. I didn’t want to scare the animal.

It was a young female, medium height, in pretty good shape. She stood there, caked in mud to the tip of her muzzle. She was very docile and gazed intently at me. She seemed very happy to find me.

“Where on earth did you come from?” I ran my hand down her back and scratched behind her ears. There was no one in sight. I called out a few times, in case someone was watching from the bushes, but nobody answered. She must be alone.

She looked like she’d been living in the swamp for quite some time. Her shoes had fallen off and the nail holes in her hooves were almost closed up. Her brand was barely visible. Maybe she’d been abandoned at the start of the pandemic and hadn’t seen a human since. So when she found me in that clearing, she approached me. I couldn’t be sure, but she seemed to be as glad to see me as I was to see her. Lucullus watched us, his eyes wide as saucers.

She didn’t have a saddle, but that wasn’t going to stop me. Fate had given me another chance, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I fashioned a halter out of a strap from the saddlebag and tied it around her neck. I settled the saddlebags over her back and tied them below her belly with the last strap. The mule stood quietly, as if she were used to this ritual. I stuck Lucullus in one of the saddlebags and climbed on.

I hadn’t ridden a horse in a long time—and I’d never ridden a mule—but riding a horse is like riding a bike. You never forget how. I clucked softly and kicked her sides. As if that were what she was expecting, the mule started walking briskly down the road.