Manel Loureiro - The Wrath of the Just

The Ukrainian explained everything that had happened. Mendoza joined the conversation, reluctantly at first, but got more and more animated as he reeled off his plans. The ghetto uprising was his obsession. The plan was all he thought about. And he was just a few hours from carrying it out.

When we were three miles from Gulfport, the truck driver slammed on the brakes. The lead tank had stopped, and the crew peered out the window. In the distance a red flare shot up in the sky, followed by two more.

“What is it?” I asked. “What does that mean?”

The Mexican looked at us, his face pale and drawn in rage. “It’s the ghetto! That’s the emergency signal for a raid. The Greens have attacked!”

“How bad is the situation?” Prit asked.

“Really bad. They must’ve uncovered our plans.” Mendoza shouted into the walkie-talkie, ordering the convoy to proceed at full speed. Then he turned to us. “Get ready to fight. I just hope we get there in time. The ‘cleansing of the ghetto’ has begun.”

“Ale, we need more rags,” Lucia said. “And some bottles. We’re nearly out.”

Alejandra dashed to the back of the room where they were making Molotov cocktails with half a dozen other people. She grabbed a handful of cotton strips and a wheelbarrow full of empty glass bottles and rushed back to her post.

Workshops like theirs filled the ghetto. Some were making Molotov cocktails while others were making bullets, although they weren’t sure that the ammunition would be reliable in battle.

Prit was right, thought Lucia. Our supply of weapons is almost laughable. If we don’t take the Wall in the first assault, they’ll squash us like bugs.

A lingering black cloud had replaced the girl’s good mood. She’d been on an emotional roller coaster in the ghetto. From the top of the Wall, she scanned the horizon for her man all day every day, oblivious to the rain and the Undead roaring a few feet below. Alejandra and Pritchenko thought she was losing her mind. Finally Mendoza ordered her to get down. Her presence up there sent up a red flag for Greene’s militia. Someone might ask some difficult questions no one wanted to answer just days before the ghetto rose up against its oppressors.

As the days passed, her hopes faded. She wouldn’t admit it to herself, but she knew that with every passing hour, his chances of making it back diminished. She feared something far worse than all the dangers lurking on the outside or the infection running through his veins. What if they’d killed him when he got off the train? Night after night she woke from that nightmare screaming. All she could do then was curl up in bed, trembling and waiting for the weak morning light. Another day with no sign of him. Her face was puffy and she had dark circles under her eyes. She couldn’t eat. All the life had gone out of her. She was going through hell, oblivious to everything and everyone.

One morning during their shift, Alejandra sat her down. “Keep your mind busy. If you don’t, the pain’ll drive you crazy. You’re not the first to go through this and you won’t be the last. There’s two ways to handle that pain: turn it into something small and manageable, or let it grow till it crushes you and you can’t breathe. Trust me, that second path leads to a gray, sad life with no future. You’ve gotta move on.”

“I don’t want to move on,” Lucia said in a raspy whisper. “Not without him.”

“You’ll move on, of course you will.” Alejandra gave Lucia’s arm an affectionate squeeze, lifted her chin, and looked into her eyes. “You have to go on, for you and for everything you two stood for. For him, for his memory. Above all, you can’t give up now. The future is so close. Sooner or later this nightmare’ll end and then the world’ll be a very big place for the few survivors. You have to tough it out somehow. So sit down and make those fucking Molotov cocktails as if your life depended on it. Clear your mind. Think about anything you like, but find a way to live! If you don’t, everything you’ve done, for yourself and for him, will be meaningless.”

Lucia lowered her head and worked in silence, choking back tears, and burying her pain deep in her heart. The mindless work did help to keep her afloat. She didn’t let herself forget, but at least she kept busy. And that was what she needed.

“How do they plan to break through the ghetto wall?” she asked Alejandra as she carefully filled half-liter bottles with gasoline and potassium soap shavings.

“No idea,” said Alejandra. “Only a handful of people know that. Rumor has it that, in one of the basements, they’ve stockpiled huge amounts of fertilizer and God-knows-what-else to make a very powerful explosive.” She looked all around. “The walls have ears.”

“I hope it works, whatever it is—” Lucia stopped short when gunshots rang out.

Everyone in the workshop looked up, their eyes wide. Then there was a long burst of gunfire, and several assault rifles rattled in the distance.

“What the hell’s that?” Lucia asked in alarm.

“Don’t know, but it can’t be good.” Alejandra jumped up and eased over to the windows.

The windows had been covered so no one could get a look at what they were doing on the second story of the house. The petite woman struggled with the latches and finally managed to slide the window up. She stuck her head out to get a look from their second-story perch, then pulled it right back inside.

“The street’s full of Green Guards and the militia! They’ve got dozens of trucks!”

“How many?” asked a tall, rail-thin Mexican man with a tangle of black curls. He tucked a couple of Molotov cocktails into his belt.

“More than normal. They must’ve enlisted more guards. They’re all over the place!”

“Whadda we do?” murmured a very frightened woman. “Gato and most of the leaders are outside the Wall. Hardly anyone’s left to coordinate the groups.”

“We’ll all have to step up.” Lucia was surprised to hear those words come out of her mouth. She felt more centered than she had in days. She wanted to take the law into her own hands. Fuck everyone who’d destroyed her life. Let them share her pain.

“Is there any way to signal them?” she asked.

“Yeah, someone’s got flares someplace,” Alejandra replied. “I’m sure they’ll shoot them off anytime now.”

“Let’s show them what we’ve got,” said Lucia, dragging out a box of Molotov cocktails. “We’ll blow the head off any asshole who comes snooping around here.”

They loaded the cocktails into backpacks and headed for the street. Shots, screams, and the sound of breaking glass and wood came from everywhere. The Greens were clearing out the ghetto strongholds, showing no mercy to anyone who resisted. There was nowhere left to hide.

A couple of explosions rocked the street. The demonic rattle of machine guns grew with a crescendo and a huge fireball rose from the far side of the ghetto with a sickening roar.

“We’re fighting back!” roared the tall guy, raising a fist. “Those are our AK-47s, not the Greens’ M4s.”

“We gotta hurry,” Alejandra said. “They don’t have enough ammunition to keep that up. They’ll need all the help we can give them. Divvy up the bombs and split up.”

The small groups scattered in all directions. Alejandra and Lucia went with the tall man, who seemed to have a plan. The shooting was widespread and the sky glowed with a dozen fires. People ran everywhere, screaming and looking scared out of their wits. A few clutched motley collections of weapons with a determined look in their eyes.

“Back a mouse into a corner and he’ll attack a lion,” Lucia muttered under her breath.