Manel Loureiro - The Wrath of the Just

I ran my hand over my face in disbelief. One minute I was thinking about the best way to end it all, and the next minute I was headed for Gulfport on a mule. My guardian angel was definitely working overtime.

The road widened slowly and the vegetation became less dense. The sooner we left that swamp behind, the better.

“Just thirty miles, sweetheart,” I whispered in her ear. “Think you can do it?”

The mule pricked up her ears and trotted faster, as if she understood. She seemed glad to hear a human voice. Maybe she thought we were headed to a nice, warm barn.

“You need a name. How about Hope?”

The mule trotted along, oblivious to my ramblings. I was so happy to be alive that anything put me in a good mood. Then suddenly I realized my Cladoxpan supply would only last another day. I figured we were only about thirty miles from Gulfport, but in my condition, Hope would never get me there in time.

Stay calm. Cut your dosage in half. That’ll make it last twice as long.

Great idea. But what if the fucking TSJ isn’t satisfied with half a dose?

What choice did I have?

I bellowed, helpless. The mule pricked up her ears, alarmed. I had only one card to play, so I cut my ration in half.

Just then, on cue, my whole body started to sweat. That was the first warning. My transformation had begun.

Two hours later, the cramps started. I drank only a tiny sip; the cramps lessened but didn’t go away. I was sweating so hard I had to take a drink more often.

By noon, the cramps were unbearable. My hands shook so violently I nearly spilled my dwindling reserves. The temptation to take a long drink was very strong, almost unbearable, but I controlled myself.

By the afternoon I had a burning thirst. I stopped Hope next to a stream so I could get some water. As I climbed down, one of my feet got tangled in the saddlebag. I waved my arms, but couldn’t keep my balance and fell face first on the ground, hitting my head and reopening the gash on my forehead. A few drops of my blood fell into the stream, and the current slowly carried them away in lazy spirals. I stared blankly at the bloody water. What would happen if someone drank that water downstream? He’d probably contract TSJ. How many liters of water would those drops contaminate? For how long? That damned Italian doctor could’ve answered those questions if he weren’t such a lunatic.

After several failed, tortured attempts, I finally got back on the mule but only by walking her over to a crumbling wall and climbing on that way. She looked surprised, as if she wondered how anyone could be so uncoordinated. The shooting pains I felt weren’t just from my broken ankle. My legs were starting to fail.

I rode for only fifteen minutes before I was dying of thirst again. The same gurgling stream ran alongside the road, so I stopped the mule again. This time, I plunged my face into the stream and gulped down a lot of water. As soon as I finished, I violently vomited all that water back up.

I put my head back in the stream and drank more sparingly, trying to rehydrate myself. But that didn’t quench my thirst. At least not for water. I reached for the bottle of Cladoxpan and uncorked it. In a final act of self-control, just before it touched my lips, I stuck the cork back in. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

I don’t know how much time passed. The mule walked at an easy pace down the road, sidestepping abandoned vehicles. Fortunately we were in an uninhabited area, so there were no Undead. If we’d crossed paths with any, I know what would’ve happened. I could barely stay upright, let alone fight.

Hold on tight. Don’t fall. Don’t fall. You can’t fall.

“Oh, go ahead and fall,” Greene said cheerfully as he unwrapped an ice pop and eagerly sucked on it. “Just relax and let go. Everything will be much easier.”

I turned my head, confused. The reverend was walking beside me, Bible under his arm. The crimson ice pop in his hand left a dark stain on his lips that looked like blood.

“What’re you doing here?” I muttered between chapped lips.

“The question is, what are you doing here?” replied the reverend, lasciviously licking the ice pop. As he did, I caught a glimpse of his rotten gums, teeming with maggots. “You should be dead by now. You know that, don’t you?”

“I think he wants revenge, Reverend,” said a voice on the other side of the mule. I turned my head and blinked. To my left walked Grapes, pulling cats out of a backpack. He slit their bellies with his knife, ripped out their guts, and popped the entrails into his greedy mouth. “He wants to come to Gulfport to kill us, but he doesn’t know he’s already dead.”

“I’m not deeeeaaaad,” I protested weakly. I realized, scared, that I was slurring my words. “And you’re not heeeerrre. This is a fucking hallucination.”

“Oh, of course we are,” said Greene. When I looked over, I saw that the reverend had turned into Ushakov, the Russian captain from the Zaren Kibish . “We’re dead, too, you know. We’re all dead because of you.”

“And you’ll join us very soon,” said Grapes. He wasn’t gutting cats anymore. Now he cut out bits of his own guts and popped them in his mouth. “Want some?”

My gut roared and my mouth filled with saliva. That hot, bloody human flesh looked so appetizing… I reached for it, but Grapes pulled the piece back and gave me a sly look. He shook his index finger in front of my face, like a metronome.

“No, no, no. Get your own. Like the rest of us.”

“Like the rest of us!” shouted Greene/Ushakov.

Beside them walked the sailor who’d tried to rape Lucia in the Canary Islands. He was so covered in that fungus, I could hardly make him out. It had grown over his tongue so he couldn’t speak, but his gestures were unmistakable. The guy shook his pelvis lewdly. Then he put a piece of human flesh in his mouth and chewed furiously. Every time he bit down, a couple of teeth fell out and landed in the dust, like blood-soaked pearls.

“Gooo to heeellll,” I cursed. My tongue was so thick I could barely form the words.

“Where do you think you are?” Greene whispered in my ear. Now he was riding behind me on the mule, clutching me around the waist as if we were lovers, holding his Bible open in front of me. “Look what it says in the book. Repent of your sins. You’re dead.”

“No!” I roared and gave him a shove. My arm flew through the air. Greene had disappeared, along with everyone else.

Trembling with panic, I uncorked the bottle of Cladoxpan and raised it over my mouth, but not a drop came out. The bottle was empty. I stared at it as if I were clutching an alien’s arm.

I looked up at the deep-orange sun. It was starting to set. It was much later than I thought. I’d completely lost track of time.

This is the end. The fucking end.

With clumsy fingers, I struggled to get the gun out of the saddlebag. I had to do it now while I still had an ounce of control over myself. A growl came from inside the bag and I stopped. Lucullus was scared to death—of me. Or rather, of what I was becoming.

My hand was covered in spider veins. They hadn’t burst yet, but very soon they would. Then I remembered I’d tucked the gun in my belt. I fumbled around and finally got it out of its holster. My eyes were blurry, so I couldn’t see well. I raised the gun to eye level and checked the safety.

Two shots. First the cat, then me. Fast and clean.

Just then the mule hopped over a broken bicycle in the middle of the road, and the gun flew out of my hands.

“Nooooo!” I growled, twisting my lips, but I couldn’t do anything else. The reins hung down from Hope’s neck, so I couldn’t stop her. My muscles contracted in a sort of macabre St. Vitus dance. I’d lost control of my body, so we just kept going, leaving the black Beretta lying in the road, the last rays of sunset glinting off it.