He ranted and raved at the top of his lungs for hours, but only a few curious onlookers or people too exhausted to go on stopped to hear his sermon. Then the Lord decided to help him, and Stanley Morgan crossed his path.
Stanley Morgan, known to his neighbors as Old Stan, had been mayor of Gulfport for nearly twenty years. White, Southern Baptist—and Republican to the core—Stan thought there was only one right way to do things: his way.
So when a spit-and-polish marine colonel with a Yankee accent planted himself in front of Stan’s desk and ordered him to evacuate the entire town of Gulfport to the Biloxi Safe Zone in forty-eight hours, Stan had to muster every ounce of self-control not to punch out the guy’s pearly white teeth.
Nobody told Stan Morgan what to do, and certainly not a cocky East Coast marine colonel. Evacuate my city, my ass! Gulfport had weathered thousands of emergencies. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina leveled the city, but even then, it was never completely evacuated. They should name a library or a park after me. I deserve it, damn it! But Stan was sure that would never happen if he were known as the mayor who evacuated his beloved city.
So he did everything he could to look like he was complying with evacuation orders, without actually lifting a finger. He kept one eye on the soldiers and the other on the TV, which showed the entire world crumbling.
Everyone in his town also tuned in to CNN and saw the Undead spreading unchecked across the country. When the media informed them that the nearest Safe Zone was in Biloxi, they all panicked. Families shoved their belongings into their cars and took off. But with no organized evacuation, all they managed to do was shut down the interstate between the two cities, trapping tens of thousands of people in a massive traffic jam. In just a few hours, when the Undead closed in, it would be the scene of an unimaginable massacre.
Stan did all he could to stop the people of Gulfport from leaving, but that proved harder than directing the floats at the homecoming parade. Panic kept everyone from thinking rationally. He argued, reasoned, pleaded, and cursed, but the imminent arrival of the Undead scared most people shitless. They said, “Sorry, Stan, really sorry, but…” then climbed into their cars and didn’t look back.
That was until fate brought his town a half-crazy preacher yelling himself hoarse under a tent by the side of the road. Of course, the woods were full of guys like him: an itinerant preacher, living on charity, donations, and, Stan suspected, false miracles. He was yelling about the End of Days (a common theme in the Preacher’s Manual). The really interesting part was what this particular preacher added: Gulfport was the only safe place for thousands of miles. Gulfport. His city. That gave Stan an idea.
Not pausing to ponder the situation, Stan climbed up on the preacher’s rickety stage and stuck out his hand, flashing the same fake smile he used to seal a real estate deal.
“Good afternoon, Reverend. I’m Stan Morgan, mayor of Gulfport. I believe God has placed you in my path.”
Two hours later, Reverend Greene’s little tent was gone. In its place stood a tent as large as a circus big top that held over four hundred people and had a sound system that could rival the one in the Gulfport Marlins’ stadium. No one on the interstate could miss Reverend Greene with Stan Morgan by his side.
People were drawn by the combination of Reverend Greene’s magnetic preaching and the impressive figure of Stan Morgan, a man known to everyone in Gulfport. First, a couple of cars stopped, then three or four trucks. In less than half an hour, a small crowd had gathered under the tent, where Greene was declaring, in a raspy voice, that Gulfport was the only safe place in Mississippi. Stan knew that human beings were gregarious and would do what other people were doing, and soon, one after another, they followed their neighbors to the tent by the side of the road.
Stan circulated among the crowd. Greene’s words were like a gentle hand stroking the back of a terrified dog. Suddenly, the mass hysteria was soothed. Before, their only plan had been to flee to the Biloxi Safe Zone. Now they were willing to listen to Stan.
“He’s a holy man,” Stan whispered, as he clutched hands and slapped backs. “He traveled across three states in that beat-up camper, surrounded by millions of the monsters, without getting a scratch on him. The Lord has surely blessed this man.”
The frightened people looked at the reverend with changed eyes as they drank in his words. For weeks they’d lived in terror; the only news they heard was of death, devastation, and the mysterious plague of Undead headed their way. Greene’s rousing talk of salvation and safety in their own home was music to their ears.
Thanks to the Apocalypse, for the first time in nearly forty years, the Reverend Josiah Greene addressed a congregation willing to listen to him. He was happy until months later, when the Ithaca sailed back into port, and his knee resumed its throbbing. The pain was slight, but unmistakable. Suddenly, Reverend Greene was afraid.
13
“Lucia! Prit! You gotta see this! I can’t believe it!” I gasped as the Ithaca entered the Port of Gulfport. A pair of tugboats, exhaling huge puffs of smoke, slowly guided the colossal ship through the channel and into its berth. Enormous jets of water shot up along the tugboats’ sides. People ran along the shore, cheering and waving their arms. Cars sped down the wide street along the waterfront as people leaned out the windows and honked their horns. The quiet town had gone a bit crazy.
No wonder. All that oil in the Ithaca’s holds meant they’d have fuel for at least a year. Less than that if they continued to drive the six gas-guzzling Humvees that rushed toward the ship, a police car leading the way through the jubilant throng. I got worried when I got a closer look at them—they were the doorless version used in combat. A yellow school bus followed close behind. Crammed inside each Hummer were several men armed with assault rifles, each wearing a green band around his right forearm.
“Mission accomplished,” Captain Birley said, lighting his pipe and surveying the harbor with a satisfied gaze. “With the Lord God Almighty’s blessing, we went halfway around the world and returned home in one piece. Blessed is the Reverend Greene and blessed is this ship, wouldn’t you agree?”
I almost pointed out that the half-dozen men who died back at Luba and the other four who were dumped into the ocean as fish food wouldn’t agree. But I bit my tongue. Being cautious had kept us alive up till now.
“Is the Reverend Greene in that convoy?” Lucia asked as it came to a stop.
“Oh, no,” Birley chuckled. “That’s the reverend’s Green Guard. They keep the peace in the Lord’s city. They’re here to collect that rabble in the bow. I’ll feel a whole lot better when every one of those stinking lowlifes is off my boat.”
“Hey, that’s a terrible way to talk about those people!” The anger in Lucia’s voice took me by surprise. “They risked their lives to fill your damn ship with oil. Without them, the trip would’ve been a complete failure.”
Captain Birley stared at Lucia for a long moment with a menacing look in his eyes. He studied her as if he’d never seen her before, as if she’d magically materialized on his ship. He replied in an icy voice, drawing out his words.
“Watch what you say, young lady. It’d be a shame to have to spank a girl as lovely as you. You’re a woman, so of course you don’t know what you’re talking about, but your menfolk need to teach you some manners.”
“Who do you think you are, you piece of shit?” Lucia hurled insults at him in Spanish, which, fortunately, Birley didn’t know. “Racist asshole! Prick! Macho pig!”