Dead Sea (18 page)

    "Let's check the rest of the compound," Runkle said. "Make sure it really is free and clear. Then we'll start hauling this stuff back to the boat."

    The next building was a small infirmary, and we found a large stockpile of medicine. Since none of us were doctors, we didn't understand what a lot of it was, but we grabbed the stuff we recognized and set it by the door. The warehouse was full of vehicles and equipment-lawnmowers, a forklift, tractor, several old pickup trucks, and a speedboat sitting atop a trailer. Another boat was suspended on jacks. It looked like someone had been working on the hull at one point. Now it would probably sit here for all time. Outside, behind the warehouse, we found skids with fifty-five gallon drums of motor oil, gasoline, diesel fuel, and kerosene, along with propane bottles, a pump, and several empty plastic gas cans.

    "The chief will flip when we bring all this back," Runkle said. "Unbelievable."

    I tapped a drum. "How are we going to get these down to the boat?"

    "The forklift." Tony laughed. "We should have had Chuck come with us. He drove a forklift for a living. But I can run it, okay long as there's keys and fuel in it."

    For a moment, I thought that I heard Turn's voice, calling out for us. When I glanced around, I didn't see him, and nobody else mentioned it. I figured it was my imagination.

    "I got to take a piss," Hooper said. "Be right back."

    "Wait a second." Mitch grabbed his shoulder. "We still need to clear the chapel."

    Hooper brushed his hand aside. "Man, ain't nothing in the chapel. Look around. This place is deserted. Anybody that was here ain't here now."

    "Well," Runkle said, "you still shouldn't go walking off by yourself."

    "I got to piss, and I ain't pulling my dick out in front of Lamar. Fucker might try to molest me and shit."

    "Trust me, Cleveland-I'm not interested."

    He scowled at me, and then stalked off into the trees, muttering under his breath. We watched him go, shaking our heads.

    "Asshole," Mitch said.

    "He may be a dick," Tony said, "but he's right. We're all on edge. But this place is zombie free, man."

    A crow flew overhead. Something pink dangled from its beak. I thought I knew what it was. Before 1 could say anything, the wind shifted, blowing from inland out to the sea.

    Mitch cringed. "Oh yeah? Well if that's so, then what's that smell?"

    Deep inside the forest, Hooper screamed.

    

    

    

    We ran into the forest and pushed our way through the thick undergrowth. Vines and thorns tugged at our clothing. A few yards beyond the tree line, the foliage abruptly cleared. Sand gave way to a thick carpet of pine needles, and the trees were spaced far enough apart for us to move freely. Hooper screamed again, his voice closer.

    "Cleveland," Runkle shouted, "where are you?"

    He answered with another shriek.

    "Hooper!" Mitch cupped his hand around his mouth."Sound off, man. Let us know where you are."

    "I'm over here! Oh, fuck me. Fuck me running! Ya'll get over here, right now."

    We followed his cries and emerged in a circular clearing. Hooper was in the middle of the clearing, staring upward. We brushed past the branches and stood beside him. Each of us froze, gaping in horror. I felt my gorge rise. I ran to the edge of the clearing and puked.

    Except for the section where we'd entered, the outer edges of the clearing were lined with crosses. Somebody had made them out of fence posts and logs. A zombie hung from each cross, nailed through the wrists and ankles, their legs, arms, and waists tied down with thick coils of bare copper electrical wire. The stench was terrible, but even worse were the flies. Their buzzing filled the clearing. Maggots writhed inside the corpses and fell out of various orifices. They squirmed on the ground. Birds sat on the creatures' shoulders and heads or perched on the crossbeams. They'd stripped the crucified zombies of most of their skin. What remained were pink, wet, human-shaped
things
-internal organs, lips, tongues, and eyeballs missing. Their nerves and veins hung like limp strands of spaghetti and bones poked through the glistening tissue. One of the zombies raised its blind head, as if sensing our presence, and moaned. Worms burrowed in the empty eye sockets. Bird shit covered an exposed section of skull. The creatures' stench made my eyes water.

    "Jesus fucking Christ…" Mitch bent over and threw up all over his boots.

    I wiped the bile from my lips and rejoined the others. My stomach lurched again. The comic books in my back pocket brushed against my spine. I'd forgotten all about them. I was surprised they were still there.

    The buzzing flies grew louder. Another bird flew off with some intestine. The grayish-purple strand looked just like a big, fat worm.

    Runkle gagged. "Somebody… somebody did this. The zombies couldn't have crucified their own. They're not that smart. They don't function that way. A human being did this."

    "How"-Tony choked-"How did they get them up there? If the bodies were already dead and infected, they'd have turned into zombies before they were finished with the crucifixion."

    "And if they were still alive when they were crucified," Runkle said, "then how did they turn into zombies? How did they get exposed to Hamelin's Revenge from up there?"

    "Maybe they were exposed and then nailed to the crosses before they actually died," Mitch said, gasping for breath. "But that still doesn't tell us why."

    "It was God's will."

    The voice came from behind us. Hooper screamed again, his voice growing hoarse. We all whirled around, weapons raised and ready. A man slowly stepped out of the forest. He was short and thin, and looked to be in his late forties. A few wisps of white hair clung to the sides of his head. The rest of his scalp was bald and shiny. He was dressed in black pants, a white short-sleeved dress shirt, and had a dirty preacher's collar around his neck. A small silver cross was pinned to the collar. Sweat stains covered his shirt and there was mud on his pants. His dirty yellow fingernails were long and ragged.

    Mitch stepped forward and pointed his pistol at the stranger's head.

    "Don't you fucking move."

    The man held up his hands and smiled sadly. "You have no reason to fear me, son. I am a man of God." He had a Hispanic accent.

    "What the hell happened here?" Runkle patted the man down, carefully searching for weapons. "Who did this?"

    The man's smile remained. "I told you. It was God's will. This is the Lord's work. Only he can grant life after death."

    "He's fucking crazy," Hooper muttered. "Just shoot him and be done with it, Runkle. The hell with this shit."

    "Please," the man said. "As I already told your other friend, I mean you no harm."

    "Our other friend?" Runkle stepped away and holstered his weapon. "What are you talking about? You better start making sense."

    "The man on the boat. He was your friend, yes? He said his name was Turn. He told me all about your trials, how you escaped from Baltimore and traveled here, looking for a safe harbor. I spoke to him while the rest of you were here in the forest. I explained to him what has actually happened- told him all about the resurrection and the life. He's in the chapel right now. Come, I'll take you to him."

    Mitch's finger tightened on the trigger. "Have you hurt Turn?"

    "No," the man said, as if speaking to a child. "Why would I do that? I am a man of peace. I merely told him about the glory of God."

    "I'm telling ya'll," Hooper said. "We should shoot this crazy old fucker right now."

    "Shut up," Mitch snapped, not taking his eyes off the preacher.

    Cursing in frustration, Hooper kicked the base of the nearest cross. The ground around it must have been soft, because the post shook and the zombie nailed to it shifted in its bonds. Before we could cry out a warning, the copper wire that had been holding the corpse to the beams sliced through the rancid meat. The zombie slumped forward, now cut into sections. The feet and hands remained nailed to the cross. Everything else tore loose and exploded, spilling down onto Hooper and showering him in gore. It reminded me of a bursting water balloon. Shrieking, Hooper flailed his arms and legs. Blood and half-liquefied tissue dripped from his nose, chin, and fingertips. Putrefied slime ran into his mouth and eyes.

    "Oh shit," he squealed. "Got it on me, motherfuckers. Got it on me, got it on me,
got it on me.
…"

    The zombie's head and shoulders were still attached to each other by a cross-section of rotting musculature, sinew, and tendons. The creature's gaping mouth worked soundlessly. Hooper danced around, slapping at his gore-covered body and stamping the corpse into mush beneath his heels. The creature's head split open, spilling maggot-ridden brains.

    "Oh, shit," Tony gasped, staring at Hooper. "Oh, fuck me. Somebody do something. Help him!"

    Runkle and I could only stare at the grisly site. Hooper leaned over and vomited blood. He shook his head like a dog, spraying droplets of gore. The stranger didn't seem affected by what had happened. He just watched with a blank expression, his hands folded in front of him as if in prayer.

    "Oh, motherfucker…" Long, ropy threads of red spittle hung from Hooper's mouth. "Somebody get me a hose. I got to wash this shit off before I get infected."

    Mitch walked toward him. Hooper looked relieved.

    "Mitch. Yo, man-help me out. Fucking shit is all over me. Get me some water and disinfectant. Got to wash this shit off. Damn, it stinks!"

    "I'm sorry, Cleveland."

    "I'm sorry, too, motherfucker. Now help me out."

    "No," Mitch whispered. "I mean that I'm sorry."

    Mitch raised his pistol. Hooper's eyes widened. In the space of a second, Mitch turned his face away, closed his eyes and mouth tightly, and squeezed the trigger.

    And then we couldn't tell which parts were Hooper and which parts were the zombie. They both looked the same.

    Mitch ran over to me. "Is there any on me, Lamar? Did I get splattered?"

    It was hard to hear him clearly. The gunshot still rang in my ears. I looked him over carefully, and made him turn around in a circle.

    "No," I said. "You're clean, man. You're okay."

    On their crosses, the rest of the zombies wiggled harder, stirred up by the noise.

    "You shot Hooper," Tony said. "You didn't even hesitate. Just walked up and… bang. You killed him."

    "No," Mitch replied. "He was already dead. You saw what happened."

    Tony nodded. "Yeah, I did. No problem there. I'm just saying-I'm glad you had the balls to do it. He was an asshole and everything, but I still don't think I could have done it."

    Mitch turned to Runkle and nodded at the man in the preacher's collar. "What about him?"

    Runkle grabbed the man's arm and twisted it behind his back. The man yelled in surprise and pain.

    "He's going to tell us what the fuck happened here," Runkle growled in his ear. "Aren't you, pops?"

    "Please," the man pleaded. "You don't have to hurt me, young man. Please let me go. I'll be happy to help you, just as I helped your friend. That is what the Lord wants-what he asks of us all. And my name is Daniel, not pops. Reverend Daniel Ortega."

    Runkle released his arm and spun him around. Then he leaned close, his nose almost touching the preacher's.

    "Okay, Reverend. You said that you'd met our friend, Turn. Where is he now?"

    "He's resting in the chapel. I administered Holy Communion to him and then came out here to fetch you all. Follow me. I'll take you to him. We can break bread together."

    Runkle moved aside and let him pass. Ortega slipped into the forest. We glanced at each other and then followed him; Runkle, then Mitch, and then me. Tony brought up the rear. Behind us, the crucified thrashed helplessly on their crosses.

    Ortega spoke calmly as we shoved our way through the underbrush. He seemed unaffected by what had happened to Hooper. True, the preacher hadn't known him, but it was just so fucking grisly. He should have had some reaction.

    "Corinthians, chapter fifteen, verse twelve, tells us: 'Now if Christ preached that he rose from the dead, how can some of those among you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? But if there is no resurrection of the dead, then is Christ not risen; and if Christ is not risen, then is our preaching in vain, and your faith in vain?' That's always been a favorite verse of mine."

    "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?"