“That’s wonderful,” Runkle said. “But I don’t think any of us are in the mood for a sermon right now. How about you tell us what’s been happening here? Who crucified those zombies back there in the woods?”
“I did.”
“You?”
“Yes. You see, gentlemen, with the power of the Lord, I can bring people back from the dead. Just as Christ brought back Lazarus; just as our savior was delivered on the cross.”
Mitch stopped walking. “You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
Ortega turned and winked; then he continued on his way. We emerged from the tree line and approached the back end of the warehouse.
“You saw for yourselves,” Ortega continued. “Back there in the clearing. You saw them rise. You beheld the mystery. They were asleep—dead—and now they are changed. They live again in death. Christ told us, ‘I am the resurrection and the life.’ He is working through his faithful, giving the gift of eternal life to all. This is happening all across the world. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed!”
Mitch shook his head in disbelief. “You crucified them by yourself?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy. I’m not as young or as strong as I used to be. But the Lord is my strength. My sword and my shield. He gives me the power to do his will.”
We approached the chapel door. The preacher reached for the handle, but Runkle stopped him, motioning with his pistol for the man to step aside.
“I’ll go first.”
Reverend Ortega smiled. “As you wish, young man. This is the Lord’s house. All may enter freely. I told your friend the same thing before I administered Communion.”
’ This was the second time Ortega had mentioned giving Turn Communion. I didn’t know Turn very well, but he hadn’t seemed like a religious sort. The statement didn’t ring true to me.
“What do you mean?” I asked, stepping forward. “What’s this Communion shit?”
Ortega frowned. “You aren’t familiar with the rite of Holy Communion? It symbolizes Christ’s pact with man. He gave us his flesh and shed his blood. It is through his blood that we are born again. It is his blood that’s responsible for what you have seen. That’s why the dead return to life—because of his blood.”
“They’re zombies,” Tony shouted. “You and your God didn’t have anything to do with it. Everybody is coming back from the dead because of a fucking disease. Don’t you know that?”
The preacher’s expression darkened. “The Lord has shown you proof. He has shown you miracles—the miracle of the resurrection. And still you don’t believe. You’re just like the first one I crucified. I removed his eyes and tongue before I nailed him to the cross. ‘If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out. If thy tongue offends thee, cut it out.’ Those aren’t my words. They’re God’s. Who am I to disagree?”
Flinching, Runkle shoved the chapel door open. Mitch ran after him. They both shouted for Turn. Meanwhile, Tony and I held Ortega at gunpoint and warned him not to move.
“I’m not going anywhere,” the preacher said. “Not until I die. Then I will—”
“Would you shut the fuck up?”
Tony slapped him with the back of his hand. Ortega collapsed to his knees. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes narrowed, and when he spoke again, his kind tone had vanished.
“You struck me. I came to you in peace, ready to share the glory of God, and you greeted me with violence. But you will see that I’m right. Even now, your friend is undergoing the transformation. Christ’s blood moves through his veins.”
“What are you talking about?” I raised my hand as if to hit him again, and Ortega scuttled backward, whimpering.
“I told you,” he whined. “I administered Communion. I gave him the flesh to eat and the blood to drink. The flesh and blood of our Lord. The sacrament. He didn’t want to partake, of course. They never do. So I had to force him. I clubbed him over the head and then forced it down his throat before he regained consciousness.”
I reached down and ripped the collar from around his neck. “Who’s blood? Who’s flesh? What the hell are you saying?”
“That’s where the power comes from—the flesh and the blood of Christ.”
Runkle and Mitch came back outside, supporting Turn between them. He looked weak and pale.
“Something’s wrong with Turn,” Mitch said, sounding worried. “He’s really sick.”
I flung Ortega to the ground and stood over him, pistol pointed at his face. “Where did you get the blood?’
“What blood?” Runkle asked. “What’s he talking about?”
Between them, Turn groaned. Mitch let Runkle take all of the weight and stepped forward.
“Lamar, what’s going on?”
“Tell us, Ortega, or I swear to God I’ll blow your fucking head off. Where did you get the blood?”
“From the dead,” Ortega whined. “1 took the body and blood of Christ from those he had already touched. Then I fed it to your friend. Fed it to them all, one by one. I’m doing the Lord’s work, just like it says in the book.”
“You fuck…”
I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. My finger tightened on the trigger. The gun felt heavy in my hand. My breathing seemed very loud. But then my finger eased. I couldn’t do it. Even now, after we’d learned exactly what he’d done, I couldn’t kill him in cold blood. I didn’t have it in me. It pissed me off—this schism inside. When that bitch took a bite out of Alan, I’d had no problem shooting him. I hadn’t balked yet when it came to wasting a zombie. Yet Ortega was just as bad, if not worse than them, and I couldn’t do it. When that woman had been slaughtered right outside my house, I’d felt no remorse for not helping her. But I felt something now. I felt sorry for this crazy old man who’d butchered people in the name of some insane, murderous God.
“The dead walk,” Ortega babbled, clawing at the dirt. “Ye must be born again. The dead are God’s children—the chosen ones. They shall inherit the earth. This is not the end. There are many doors. Death is just another doorway that we all must pass through. This is my blood, which has been shed for thee. This is my flesh. Eat of it and have eternal life.”
I stepped away from him. “I can’t do it. He deserves to fucking die, guys, but I can’t do it.”
“Ain’t no shame in that,” Mitch said.
Then he shot him. He didn’t flinch; didn’t hesitate. He did it mechanically and without emotion, just like he’d done with Hooper. The first round hit Ortega in the neck. The second tore his head apart. Mitch ejected his magazine and loaded a fresh one into the pistol.
Tony whispered, “Fuck…”
“When I sold Bibles,” Mitch said, “it was fuckers like him that made my job hard. Nobody wants to buy one if they think everyone who reads it is bat-shit crazy.”
“Is he awake?” I asked Runkle, nodding at Turn.
“On and off. He’s really sick. You want to tell us what the hell is happening?”
“He’s infected,” Tony told them. “The preacher fed Turn infected blood and flesh that he got from the zombies.”
Runkle looked sick. “Oh, God…”
Sighing, Mitch stared into the distance.
Runkle leaned the half-conscious Turn against the chapel’s wall and quickly moved away from him. He turned back to us.
“Maybe we could induce vomiting? Get it out of his system.”
’That’s not going to work,” Mitch said softly. “It wouldn’t have helped Hooper and it won’t help him.”
“Guys,” Turn whimpered. “I feel like shit. What’s wrong with me?”