“Lucia, get ahold of yourself,” I whispered and held on to her so she couldn’t scratch Birley’s eyes out.
“Did you hear what he said about those people? He’s fucking sick!” Lucia struggled in my arms.
“I agree with you one hundred percent, but hear me out. I don’t know what the hell’s up with these people. One thing’s clear—if your skin isn’t white, you end up as cannon fodder,” I said, forcing her to look me in the eyes. “And these people saved us, we’re far from any place we can call home, and our lives depend on their goodwill. So, please, tone it down and apologize to the captain.”
Lucia snorted in fury and shook me off. She stomped off to the other end of the bridge, brushing past Pritchenko, who watched her, stunned.
“What was that all about? She looked like a pissed-off Siberian tiger.”
“Believe me, Prit, a Siberian tiger is a pussycat compared to Lucia.”
I turned to Birley, who had witnessed the whole scene in silence. “Please excuse Lucia, Captain Birley. She’s young and impulsive, plus I don’t think she’s feeling very well.”
“Oh, don’t worry, young man,” Birley said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “She’s just a woman, so her opinion doesn’t matter. Besides everyone knows that the female is a very fickle creature, especially if it’s one of ‘those days,’ right? Trust me, you should keep her on a short leash, my friend.”
Birley laughed and patted me on the back. I smiled, relieved that a confrontation had been averted; we’d live to see another day. Still, I felt miserable, like a damn traitor.
By then the Ithaca had docked. Lines as thick as a man’s waist held it fast. Dockworkers secured two gangways to the ship, one forward and one aft. The school bus and the Humvees stopped in front of the aft gangway. Some of the men in the Humvees got out and stationed themselves around the vehicles; another group boarded the Ithaca. With shouts, curses, and kicks, they forced the soldiers on the bow into a compact cluster. Those men who’d fought so bravely at Luba acted like frightened sheep… or like sheep resigned to their fate.
I studied the muscle-bound black soldier who’d led the troops. Even from where I stood, I could see the anger in his eyes. If looks could kill, half a dozen guys in green armbands would’ve died on the spot. But even he hung his head and got in line as the guards herded him and the other soldiers to the gangway.
Once on the ground, the guards ran a metal detector over their bodies, looking for weapons stashed in their clothes. Another guard passed out bottles of water, and a third checked them off a list as they boarded the bus.
“What do you make of that, Prit?”
“I have no idea. I’m sure those guys could make mincemeat of the guards in a heartbeat. And yet, there they go, like lambs to the slaughter.”
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Strangärd’s voice behind us made me jump, but Prit didn’t seem surprised. I was sure the Ukrainian had eyes in the back of his head.
“Who are those people?” Prit asked, curtly, pointing to the guards.
Strangärd looked from side to side to be sure no one was listening. “Those guards are ex-cons. The scum of the earth. The dregs of society. Evil incarnate. Don’t cross their path and don’t piss them off. They shoot first and ask questions later. But they’re the law here, the reverend’s private army. They carry out his orders to the letter. On top of that, most people in Gulfport adore them. They’re convinced that those thugs make it possible for them to live in peace and safety.”
I nodded, but what he said didn’t make any sense. I studied the men carefully. They had bulging muscles from hours and hours of lifting weights. Most wore khaki pants, white shirts, and a green armband around their right bicep. Their heads were shaved; a few sported unruly beards.
“Some tattoo artist made a killing with that group,” Pritchenko joked, cutting his eyes toward the guys nearest us. They were covered in tattoos of swastikas, cobwebs, skulls, and slogans spelled out in Gothic letters. One had “White Pride” tattooed on the back of his head.
White Pride. I realized with a chill that those rifle-toting guys were wearing the Aryan Nations armband. Those white supremacists made the Ku Klux Klan look tolerant. Before the Apocalypse, the organization had been implicated in extortion, drug running, murder, and arms trafficking. Every US federal prison had housed Aryan Nations members. Now they were the law in Gulfport.
Three of them walked up the aft gangway and headed in our direction. In the lead was a blond giant of about forty with ghostly blue eyes. A silver eagle was pinned to his armband and his white shirt strained over his beer belly. A black swastika peeked out at his collar. Tattoos on each knuckle spelled HATE JEWS. He planted himself in front of us and looked us up and down, letting his eyes linger on Lucia. She crossed her arms and looked down.
“So, these’re the fish Birley reeled in on the high seas,” he said to no one in particular. “When they told me you spoke Spanish, I thought you’d be one of those little Mexican shits. But you don’t look like Mexicans. You, with the mustache, you look Aryan, even though you’re a runt. Why do you speak that spic language, amigos?”
“We’re Europeans.” I stepped forward before any of my pals could speak. “He’s Ukrainian and we’re from northern Spain. We speak Spanish there too.”
I doubted that tattooed giant could find Ukraine on a map, maybe not even Spain, but that explanation seemed to suffice.
He shrugged. “I don’t give a rat’s ass where you’re from so long as you’re white, Christian, and you don’t fuck with Reverend Greene. I’m Malachi Grapes, head of the Green Guard. We make sure the white people of Gulfport live in peace. Do what the reverend says and you’ll enjoy all the comforts of home. Buck the rules and we got a problem.”
I didn’t ask what kind of problem, but I could guess. Grapes then fixed his gaze on Pritchenko, who stared back calmly, not flinching. The Ukrainian didn’t blink when the big man brought his face close to his, almost nose to nose.
“Fellas, we got a little rooster here,” Malachi Grapes growled. “You got a problem, dwarf?” A chorus of laughter rose from the other two skinheads.
Prit took a deep breath, dragging phlegm from the back of his throat. For one tense second, I thought he was going to spit in the guy’s face, but he just belched.
“You know, those black guys and Latinos you despise so much fought admirably,” the Ukrainian replied casually, as if he were talking about the weather. “If a couple of them on that bus ever caught you without your backup, your white ass would look like the flag of Japan. You’d better not insult them like that when they’re in earshot. And no, I don’t have a problem with you, amigo. For now.”
Time seemed to stand still. Grapes’s face turned several colors. Finally he laughed and walked away. “Gotta hand it to you, shrimp, you got balls. But don’t fuck with me or my men. Today’s your first day, so I’ll let that comment slide, but I won’t always be so nice. Now let’s go. The reverend’s waiting.”
We followed the guards down the gangplank. We had no luggage, except for Lucullus, who fidgeted, happy to be back on land. Strangärd climbed into a Humvee. He’d act as what he called our “liaison.” The reverend wanted to hear about our rescue from a crewmember. With Captain Birley’s hands full unloading the cargo, the task fell to Strangärd as first mate. As we roared off in the Humvees, I was relieved he was coming along. He was the closest thing to a friend we had, and something told me we were going to need all the help we could get.
14