“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, Reverend Greene…” said the tall guy, trying to act important.
His name is Greene, Grapes thought.
“Arming these guys might’ve been a bad idea…” The sheriff’s whiny voice chimed in as he wrung his hands.
“It’s a revelation from the Lord Himself. God told me Gulfport would be a safe place, a New Jerusalem. He told me these sinners are part of His divine plan.” The reverend was on a roll. He took Grapes by the shoulder. “This man’s name is—”
“Malachi Grapes,” the ex-con heard himself say.
“Malachi.” Greene mulled over the biblical name with delight. “He’s a soldier of Christ and he won’t have any trouble getting rid of those things.”
Gulfport had always been a quiet place. The worst problem the police had to deal with was the occasional wayward teenager or obnoxious drunk. The idea of having forty gang members armed with assault rifles around town didn’t inspire confidence. It dawned on the sheriff that he and his one deputy would have to confront them if things took a bad turn. But the reverend seemed so sure. Since he’d turned up, life in Gulfport had gone extremely well—even while the rest of the world went to hell. Until that morning, when those Undead monsters invaded the Bluefont subdivision, south of town.
The reverend seemed to cast the same spell on Mayor Morgan, who stared at the huge Aryan gang member for a few seconds, then made a decision. “In this truck are assault rifles and ammunition. Five minutes from here is a neighborhood in trouble. At least fifteen of those things showed up. We don’t know what shape the residents are in. You need to go in there, wipe out the monsters, and rescue my people. Can you do that?”
As an answer, Grape opened the truck’s tailgate, grabbed an M16 and a magazine, and with the expertise that comes from lots of practice, loaded it in the blink of an eye.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you have my word that tonight they’ll be dining with Satan.”
Grapes passed around the weapons. Bunched up at the back of the van was a green tarp some worker had left there. In a flash of inspiration, Grapes tore it into strips, tied one around his bicep, and handed the rest to his boys.
“Since we are Reverend Greene’s soldiers of God, shouldn’t we wear a green armband?” He flashed a wolfish grin at his men.
Greene nodded, pleased, but that idea was a bitter pill Stan Morgan had to swallow. He liked to have the upper hand, and he had the feeling they were leaving him out. “I don’t want any complaints from the neighbors,” Stan said. “No theft, looting, or destruction of property. Finish off those monsters and come straight back. Got it?”
“Whatever you say, boss. Come on, boys! Let’s kick some ass!”
Ten minutes later, they were at the entrance to Bluefont, a subdivision of about three hundred houses. A deep river, crossed by two bridges, ran in front of it and emptied into a marsh nearby. The south side of the river was being guarded by a kid right out of high school and a handful of men in their fifties armed with hunting rifles, all about to shit their pants.
“The Undead entered by the north bridge,” one of them said. “The Wall isn’t closed on that side yet. Ted Krumble and his boys were supposed to be watching the bridge. We heard shots and an explosion an hour ago. I don’t know what the devil happened to them. We’ve been calling them on the radio ever since, but they don’t answer. That’s all we know.”
Grapes nodded, guardedly. “Who are these… what’d you call ’em… Undead?”
The guards looked at him with amazement. Annoyed, Malachi explained they didn’t get any newspapers in prison, so they had no idea what was going on. The men quickly brought him up to speed. The gang quietly absorbed the information. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe those frightened old men, but surely the situation wasn’t as serious as they made it sound. Probably just some guys on a rampage. A few ounces of lead would fix that problem.
“On the radio, they said you gotta shoot ’em in the head,” a resident said in a frightened voice.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Grapes strode quickly across the bridge, followed closely by his men.
Once on the other side, he noticed that something wasn’t right. Bluefont was a typical American suburb with big houses and gardens, the kind of place rich white people moved to as soon as they got the chance. But they didn’t see anyone on the street. A lawn mower was lying on its side, still running. Its bag had come off and grass clippings floated down the sidewalk on a gentle breeze. A Subaru sat in the middle of the street, its engine running, all its doors standing wide open. Grapes carefully reached in and turned off the engine. The silence was unsettling. Then they heard the groans coming from the north end of the subdivision.
“Trent, take Bonder, Ken, and three other guys. Cover those houses. The rest of you, go house to house in groups of three. Make sure they’re empty. If you steal so much as a pen, I’ll personally rip your guts out. Got that?”
The men nodded and split into groups. Grapes continued down the center of the street, on high alert, followed by three guys—Seth Fretzen, a small, quiet guy named Crupps, and a fat, bearded guy they called Sweet Pussy, God knows why.
They came to an abrupt stop at one house. The door was ajar and there was a puddle of fresh blood on the ground. Someone had leaned against the doorframe and left a bloody handprint. A drop of blood trickled slowly down the white wood.
Something shattered inside the house. Grapes signaled for his men to stay close as they headed for the porch. He climbed the staircase slowly, trying not to make any noise, but the stairs creaked with each step.
When he reached the door, he thrust the barrel of his M16 inside. The interior was dark and cool. A hallway led to a living room in the back. On the right was a staircase to the upstairs; blood was splashed on several steps. Someone had dragged himself along the wall. All the pictures that once hung there now lay shattered on the ground.
He gestured to Seth and Crupps to head upstairs. With Sweet Pussy at his heels, he walked down the hall to the living room.
The room screamed, My owner is fucking rich. The furniture was high-end. A dozen people would fit on the sofa. A monstrous TV hung on the wall. The carpet was so thick, if a coin fell onto it, no one would ever find it.
Sweet Pussy tugged on his sleeve and pointed to the ground. In one corner, next to a huge china cabinet, lay a broken vase. That must be what they had heard crash.
A dragging sound came from the kitchen. They stepped over the broken vase and eased up to the door. Grapes stopped in his tracks, stunned.
A girl in her early twenties swayed in the middle of the room, a blank look in her eyes. She was tall, slim, with a great body. She was wearing nothing but a tiny thong.
She must be stoned out of her mind, Grapes thought. It was hard to tear his eyes away from the girl’s perky boobs. Straight blond hair hid half of her face. She hadn’t noticed the two men enter the room.
Something’s wrong with this picture. His brain was shouting warnings, but he couldn’t fit the pieces together. Sweet Pussy came up behind him. When he saw the naked girl, his eyes opened wide.
“Fuck! Hello, gorgeous!” he exclaimed and walked up to the girl. “You see this, Grapes? What a rack—”