Читаем Dead Sea полностью

    "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.