“The Undead are dying. All of them.”
11
“Lucullus! Come here right now! Damn cat!” Lucia was furious as she tried for the umpteenth time to grab the big Persian cat, who studied her with a gleam in his eyes. During the first week on the Ithaca, Lucullus became very popular, since few cats had survived the Apocalypse. Officers and sailors alike were immediately won over by that mischievous orange fur ball. No place was off-limits to him, except for the front of the ship where the helots were housed. At least, that was the case until three days ago, when Enzo caught him lying on the captain’s bed, sprawled across Birley’s dress uniform. After a stroll through the engine room, he’d left a large swath of motor oil all across the jacket, which upset Enzo and, of course, Captain Birley. After that, Birley ordered that Lucullus’s movements be “restricted.” Lucia was delegated to rein him in.
“Come on, Lucullus,” Lucia said sweetly as she waved a little piece of meat in front of the cat. “Come here, handsome, come on…”
Lucullus did what any cat would do in that situation. He turned, scampered a few feet across the deck, and then jumped up on a porthole, just out of reach. He was having a great time.
Lucia sighed. The afternoon sky was overcast. It could rain any minute. The last thing she wanted was to chase after the cat in a downpour.
“Come on, Lucullus. Be a good boy…”
Lucia slowly inched up to the orange cat, but each time she got close, Lucullus skittered a few feet away and waited, swishing his tail. Lucia had never owned a cat, so she didn’t understand that, sometimes, a cat doesn’t want to be caught. Lucia didn’t know that if she just feigned disinterest and walked away, Lucullus would come trotting behind her. Instead, she slowly inched across the length of the ship behind the little orange beast until he reached the fence that divided the ship’s two groups.
“I’ve got you now, you little bugger,” Lucia muttered, cornering him. The cat realized the game had changed and looked around for a way out. He spotted a gap the size of his pudgy body in the tightly strung barbed wire and shot through it, leaving orange fur behind.
Lucia lunged in a desperate attempt to catch him, but came up empty-handed. She kicked a pipe in frustration, cursing like a truck driver.
“Damn cat! Your owner’s going to have to take care of you from now on—”
Lucia stopped midsentence. On the other side of the fence, a man in his thirties, wearing US army fatigues, materialized out of the shadows. He calmly lit a cigarette, stuck his hands in his pockets, and, limping slightly, walked over to the cat. He bent down and ran his hand along the cat’s back. Lucullus purred and stretched every muscle.
The soldier gathered Lucullus in his arms and walked over to the fence, still scratching the cat behind his ears. He carefully passed the cat through the hole in the wire and placed him in Lucia’s arms.
Lucia stared at him. He was tall and swarthy, with black hair and dark-brown eyes. He looked part Native American, so Lucia was surprised to read “Dobzhansky” on his nametag. “Thank you… uh… Mr. Dobzhansky. If weren’t for you, I’d never have caught this troublemaker.”
The man froze for a moment, then burst out in hearty laughter. He gave Lucia an amused look and threw his cigarette on the ground.
“My name’s Carlos, Carlos Mendoza,” he said in Spanish with a Mexican accent. “I don’t know who Dobzhansky was. They gave me this uniform when I got to Gulfport. Either that damn güero has been dead for a while, or he’s one of those fucked-up lost souls wandering around out there. Pardon my French. Who are you, señorita?”
“Lucia. I’m from Spain,” the girl muttered, mesmerized by the soldier’s eyes. “Our boat sank in the storm and the Ithaca rescued us. I was chasing Lucullus, but he got away and wouldn’t mind me and then—” Lucia realized she was babbling. She always did that when she was nervous. She cursed inwardly. “What happened to your leg? You’re limping.”
“This?” the Mexican man replied nonchalantly. “It happened the other day, when we went ashore to connect those damn hoses. Nothing serious.”
“An Undead attacked you?” Lucia took a step back.
“Yeah, but it’s OK, señorita. It’ll heal in a couple of weeks. It wasn’t a very deep bite. The bastard jumped me from behind while I was shooting. Never saw him coming. Luckily he was missing half his jaw.”
Lucia stared at him. Was she hallucinating? She knew that the TSJ virus was terribly infectious. She’d seen infected people turn into Undead in minutes. Yet the man in front of her was alive and well, casually telling her an Undead had bitten him.
“Are you immune? The TSJ virus didn’t infect you? I don’t believe it!”
The soldier laughed again, this time bitterly. His deep voice reminded Lucia of Benicio del Toro.
“Of course not, señorita. Don’t I wish? The fucking truth is nobody’s immune. That virus is the worst kind of bastard. You know that. Once it infects you, you’re fucked.”
“So, how the hell—?” Lucia started to ask, but then she heard a voice behind her.
“Miss, please step away from the barricade. And you, you fucking helot—more than six feet from the fence. You know that. Don’t make me tell you twice, or I’ll blow your brains out. Now get moving.”
Lucia turned. Behind her stood two sailors and an officer in a pristine navy-blue uniform, all three wrapped in raincoats, armed with M16s. Lucia noticed that, although they weren’t pointing their rifles at the man, their fingers were resting on the triggers.
Carlos Mendoza slowly raised his arms and backed away, never taking his eyes off the sailors. His expression was a mixture of pride, contempt, and anguish.
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I didn’t touch her or her fucking cat. We were just talking.”
“Is that true?” The officer looked at the Mexican soldier, whose face was unreadable. “He didn’t touch either of you?”
“No.” Lucia wasn’t sure why she lied. “He didn’t touch us.”
“OK, but please don’t approach this area without telling us first. Those men are dangerous criminals, the worst kind.”
“Good-bye, Lucia.” Mendoza waved and took a swig from a flask. “Don’t forget Carlos Mendoza. If you need me, say you’re one of the Just. You never know when our paths’ll cross.”
“The Just? What’re you talking about?”
But Mendoza had turned and was headed back into the bowels of the ship.
Lucia walked slowly back to the stern, petting Lucullus as the first drops of rain splashed onto the hot metal deck. She felt light-headed, and her thoughts were racing. That man wasn’t immune, and yet the virus didn’t affect him. It made no sense. She’d seen the crew cast several soldiers into the ocean. TSJ had killed them. But Carlos and the giant black soldier with the tattooed arm were still walking around as if nothing had happened, even though they were infected.
She couldn’t get the man’s bold smile and his bright, defiant eyes out of her mind. The more she thought about him, the better-looking he got.
12
Reverend Greene had never been good-looking, but the sour expression on his face that morning didn’t help. He was short, skinny, and in his seventies. Age spots dotted his leathery skin. He was dressed the same way he’d dressed for over forty years: gray suit, a bolo string tie with a silver slide, and a Stetson hat. Even though his sermon at the morning prayer service had been particularly inspired (Praise the Lord Jesus Christ forever, amen, hallelujah!), the reverend wasn’t happy. He sensed something was wrong. Rather, his knee sensed something was wrong. And his knee was always right.