April 11, 2:14 p.m.
I surrendered the driver’s seat. I didn’t want to argue with Prit about his ability to “drive any heap on four wheels.” Truth is, the Ukrainian is a damn good driver, but he puts the fear of God in me.
Traveling from the port to the VNT office had taken nearly a week. We made it back to the port in just thirty-five minutes, ten minutes of which we spent trying to back out of a café window where we’d gotten stuck. A hair’s breadth from killing ourselves, the way I saw it. According to the fucking Ukrainian, just a small mental fuckup.
The fact is, we were just a few yards from the entrance to the port, almost back where we started. The tall buildings at the port hid the Zaren Kibish and the Corinth from view, but they were close by. And we were ready with a plan.
With a screech that set my teeth on edge, Pritchenko shifted gears and set off for the entrance to the port.
There’s an old military saying that a plan only works perfectly when you try it out on the enemy. We’d find out very soon that our plan was no exception.
The entire port gave off the pungent stench of rotting flesh. In the light of day, you could see that the entire Safe Haven was one big graveyard. Everywhere we looked were mountains of half-burned, rotting corpses.
The chuffing of the van drove away hundreds of gulls and fat rats with glossy coats. I shuddered when I thought about their diet. From time to time, a few staggering figures came out from between the wrecked warehouses and headed for our vehicle, but they were too far behind us. We were moving too fast for them to be a threat.
The Darwinian principle of survival of the fittest seemed to be working. Gradually only the toughest, fastest, or biggest sons of bitches were left. Or the luckiest, Prit said acidly. I was more and more convinced we’d get out of this alive. The mere fact that we were moving at top speed through an area full of those creatures would’ve paralyzed me with fear a few months ago. Now it just seemed like an everyday occurrence.
I told Prit what worried me most was not that there were so few survivors, but that there were so few female survivors. He thought for a moment, then started to tell a lurid tale about a girl from his village named Ludmila, nicknamed the Firefighter. Just as he got to the part about the straw, he hit the brakes. I almost flew through the windshield. We’d come to the Seguritsa alley, a few yards from where we’d landed what seemed like a million years ago.
Prit parked the van alongside a wrecked Beetle, leaving no way to get through, not even on foot. That makeshift barrier wouldn’t hold them for long, but it would give us time to carry out our plan. Let the dance begin.
April 12, 1:07 p.m.
As the Zodiac approached the Zaren Kibish, adrenaline roared through my veins. The salt spray soaked my hair as the freighter’s hull loomed ahead. With my right hand on the rudder, I clutched the black steel Samsonite briefcase with my left. A familiar bearded figure was leaning over the railing, staring through binoculars. Ushakov.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The salty air, the familiar scent of algae and burning fuel, took me back to better times. I opened my eyes, with the childish hope it had all been a nightmare. Instead I saw the ladder hanging over the side.
Gripping the briefcase, I started up the ladder to the Zaren’s deck. When I got to the rail, an eager Filipino hand reached for the case. I slapped the hand away and hit another sailor in the chest with the briefcase as I stepped on deck. I didn’t plan to let go of that briefcase. Not yet.
Ushakov pushed through a group of sailors and planted himself in front of me, his hands on his hips. There was a deathly silence on the deck.
On one side was Ushakov, surrounded by half a dozen burly sailors aiming Kalashnikovs at my chest. On the other side, there I was, dirty, unshaven, covered in cuts and bruises, wearing VNT overalls two sizes too big, bone tired, clutching a shiny black steel Samsonite briefcase. A real duel of Titans.
“Well, well, Mr. Lawyer!” Ushakov boomed. “You look awful! Where’s the rest of group?
“They’re not here,” I answered laconically.
“Kritzinev?”
“Dead.”
“My crew?”
“Dead.”
“Pritchenko?”
“He’s dead, too.” My voice cracked. “I’m the only one left, Comrade Captain.”
Ushakov’s face turned gray. I guess he hadn’t expected me to return. His greedy gaze was fixed on the case.
“Is that it?” he asked in a trembling voice. “Is that the briefcase?”
“That’s it, Ushakov,” I said quietly. “Check the label.”
I carefully placed the briefcase on the ground, the label clearly visible, and took a couple of steps back. Ushakov stared at the label and muttered something in Russian as he grabbed the Samsonite with both hands.
“I’ve fulfilled my part of the deal, Ushakov. Now it’s your turn. Give me my cat and let me go.”
Ushakov was mesmerized by the case. For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me. I was about to repeat myself when Ushakov snapped out of his trance. Glancing briefly at me, he turned to one of the sailors armed with an AK-47.
“Kill him,” he said matter-of-factly.
The Filipino cocked the rifle and aimed it at my chest. I had a split second to get out of that mess. It was now or never.
“I wouldn’t do that, Captain,” I said in a trembling voice. When I’d planned that, it seemed much easier. That was because I hadn’t had the barrel of a gun pointed at my chest.
“No? Why not, Mr. Lawyer?” Ushakov said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I have what I wanted, thanks to you. And I’ve decided I don’t want a lot of people to know about it. I don’t know if I can trust you to keep your mouth shut, so I’ll shut it for you. So…bye-bye!” He smiled.
“Can you be sure you have the right case, Ushakov? Don’t be in such a hurry.”
Ushakov’s face froze in a grimace as he looked from the case to me and vice versa. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, Ushakov. Take a look.”
I walked over to the side of the Zaren Kibish and waved toward the shore. Prit’s familiar silhouette appeared from around the corner. The bastard was smiling from ear to ear. He lifted a shiny black steel Samsonite briefcase over his head so it was clearly visible from the boat.
Ushakov’s face was quite a sight. The crew looked confused. Nobody knew what was happening.
“That briefcase you’re holding is full of old newspapers, Ushakov. You don’t have shit, you fucking maniac.”
“But…” he stammered. “How?”
“Oh, come on! Vigo’s a big city. It has several luggage stores. It wasn’t hard to find a case like that one, Ushakov.” I smiled.
“But the label…”
“Ripped off the other case. Consider it a show of good faith, proof that the other case is the real thing, Captain. As soon as you give me what I want, Pritchenko will leave the bag on the shore and we can all go our merry way. Now, don’t fuck with me. Let’s talk this over like good little boys, right?”
“What do you want?” Ushakov muttered, as he approached menacingly. Sparks of anger shot from his eyes.
“Very simple,” I said quietly. “My cat, my boat, and Mr. Pritchenko’s package. One of those AK-47s, and food for a week,” I ticked the items off on my fingers, as Ushakov’s face got redder and redder. “Oh! And a carton of Chesterfields.”
Ushakov yelled something unintelligible as he squeezed his fists tight. He stared at the shore for several seconds that seemed to go on forever. “What’s stopping me from killing you and going after your friend onshore and killing him too? Tell me.”
“Simple,” I replied, acting more relaxed than I felt. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, alone, Prit will run like hell with the briefcase and hide in some corner of that godforsaken city. You won’t find him in a million years, Ushakov. Think it over.”
Ushakov thought for a moment. Suddenly he turned to a sailor and began barking orders in Russian. After that, he strode toward me menacingly.
“All right, Mr. Lawyer. I’ll give you what you want, but you’ll regret this. I swear.”
Some people say lawyers are sons of bitches. I won’t argue with that. But when it comes time to negotiate, it’s great to be a lawyer.
April 13, 11:57 a.m.
Sometimes the craziest memories hit when you least expect them. A strange image kept coming to mind as I stood on the deck of Zaren, waiting for them to bring me my stuff.
I was six or seven, and my parents had taken me to the circus. I was watching the knife thrower. I remember I was impressed that the girl standing in front of the target was so brave that she let a man hurl knives at her. My mother always told me knives are very dangerous and they can cut you. The smiling, relaxed face of the surprisingly calm girl was etched in my mind at that tender age.
At that moment, I wished I had the same presence of mind. The truth is, I was scared shitless. One false step, a wrong word, a miscalculation, no matter how small, and someone might get nervous and shoot me between the eyes. I knew Prit would be all right on his own, but I didn’t want to die that morning.
Ushakov was pacing like a caged bear, shooting me murderous glances. I had to be careful. The bastard must have had an ace up his sleeve to fuck me over with.
A furry blur appeared through the ship’s hatch, attracted by the noise on deck. My heart raced. Lucullus! Instinctively I stepped forward but stopped short when I realized my mistake. It wasn’t Lucullus but a brown female cat, with a bell around her neck and wicked green eyes. She slithered sinuously between the sailors’ legs, then sat on a roll of cable to groom herself, giving everyone the withering look only a cat can.
This cat brought to mind Lucullus with a painful intensity. Suddenly, bouncing out of the same hatch, a couple of steps behind, came another ball of fur, this one a familiar shade of bright orange. Lucullus!
He must’ve sweet-talked the ship’s cook while I was gone, because he was fatter and his hair was glossy. He smugly approached the brown cat, purring, doing what my sister called “the Lucullus move,” twitching his tail seductively and roguishly wiggling his ears.
Typical. I dragged my ass through an abandoned city full of monsters, dying of hunger and thirst, risking my life at every turn, while he spent the whole time stuffing his face and romancing that green-eyed doll.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I cleared my throat. The noise was enough. Lucullus looked up. As soon as he saw me, he forgot all about the gorgeous feline at his side and rushed to me, meowing so pitifully you could’ve heard him all over the city. Before I knew it, he’d planted himself in my lap and was purring with delight, rubbing against my neck.
I grabbed my cat and felt a strong sense of relief. Not only had they not killed him, he was great shape. I’d been afraid I’d never see him again.
I looked up to find Ushakov watching, with contempt tinged with anger. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what he thought of me. I just wanted out of there. Who cared if the bastard was furious? But he was calm—too calm, when you consider I’d just fucked him over royally, showing him up in front of his own men. No, the guy was planning something, and I didn’t know what it was.
Time passed very slowly, as boxes of food were piled at my feet. One of the sailors brought me a package addressed in Cyrillic. I checked the part to make sure it matched the description Pritchenko had given to me. A Pakistani handed me a loaded AK-47 and a box of shells.
All that stuff weighed a ton, but no one was helping me load it onto the Corinth. I raised an eyebrow at Ushakov. He replied with a half bow and barked some commands to two sailors, who carried the boxes to the sailboat. Shit. Too easy. I didn’t like that.
Something vibrated in my pocket, accompanied by two short beeps. Before the astonished eyes of crew and captain, I pulled out a small blue walkie-talkie we’d taken from a blood-soaked patrol car, abandoned on a side street.
That car was a real mystery. It was perfectly parked near a ransacked hardware store, between some smelly trash cans and a car with flat tires and broken mirrors. After more than a month and a half of neglect, all the vehicles in the street were covered a thick layer of dust and dirt, but that patrol car was nice and clean, as if it’d just come from a garage. That was what made us stop and take a look. Inside it was empty; the driver’s seat was covered with dried blood. There were no traces of blood on the sidewalk or tracks leading away from the car. The street was completely deserted. A ghostly wind whistled through the dirt and abandoned vehicles. The car was spotless, as if it had just been parked there. It was so unnatural and mysterious, my hair stood on end. Prit and I found a pair of police-issue walkietalkies in the car, as well as a high-powered flashlight. Not a single piece of paper or a weapon, not a clue, not a trace. Nothing. A complete mystery.
Now one of those walkie-talkies crackled in my hand. I pressed the button, knowing Prit was on the other end.
“Talk to me,” I said in Spanish, fairly certain no one else on board spoke Spanish.
“How’s everything going?” The Ukrainian’s voice was staticky.
“Well…too well,” I said, not taking my eye off the sailors. “They’re up to something.”
“Don’t look, but we have problem on bridge,” Pritchenko said quietly in his Slavic accent. “A guy with RPG-7 is hidden behind top rail. I see him perfect.”
A cold sweat rolled down my back. An RPG. A fucking rocket launcher. I should’ve guessed. Anyone with a TV has seen an RPG. The poor man’s artillery. Virtually all guerrillas and Third World armies had thousands of those things, mass produced in the former Soviet Union. The black market was rife with them. They are so simple and effective. You just insert the grenade at the end; a tube serves as a launcher. So easy to use, even a child-soldier from some remote African country can learn to shoot it in ten minutes. So lethal that when the Russians invaded the Chechen capital of Grozny in 1994, they lost dozens of tanks to Chechen guerrillas armed with those lethal tubes.
Their plan was clear. Once we’d left the suitcase in the harbor, that bastard Ushakov would fire the grenade launcher at the Corinth, at Prit, Lucullus, and me. If one of those things could blow up a tank, imagine what it could do to a fiberglass sailboat like the Corinth.
The sailors climbed back on board the Zaren after loading the Corinth. I swear they had a sadistic expression on their faces. They were looking forward to the fireworks.
With a twinkle in his evil eyes, Ushakov approached me and stuck out me his hand. “I hope you keep your word, Lawyer. Leave the case on the dock. Then it’s every man for himself. No hard feelings.”
“Of course. No hard feelings,” I said as I bowed my head, ignoring his outstretched hand.
Ushakov slowly lowered his hand. “We live in difficult times, Mr. Lawyer. Things are changing fast; only the toughest will prevail. I don’t expect you to understand. I act the way I do for very powerful reasons.”
I stopped, half my body hanging over the side, and looked hard at him. “You’d kill me over a fucking briefcase?” I snapped. “Tell me. What the hell’s in it?”
Ushakov looked at me with a frightening grimace. “Good luck, Mr. Lawyer,” he said with a smirk. “You’re going to need it.”
I climbed down the ladder to the Corinth’s deck, Ushakov’s laughter floating down around me. Once I’d set foot on the familiar teak deck, I untied the ropes, with everyone’s eyes on me.
The Corinth’s engine roared to life, and I gradually pulled away from the huge bulk of the Zaren Kibish, headed for the port where Prit and the briefcase waited. The second part of the dance was about to begin.
April 14, 9:40 a.m.
Water lapped quietly between the side of the Corinth and the black stones of the dock. As I approached the shore, with Lucullus nestled against my chest, purring nonstop, I thought about our next move. With a slight pressure on the rudder, I maneuvered the Corinth alongside the pier, next to the bollards, and tied it up.
I smiled, satisfied. I was relieved that the auxiliary motor, which I’d hardly used, responded perfectly. I would have been embarrassed to be stuck just a few hundred yards from shore, with sails furled and the crew of the Zaren Kibish looking on.
I passed my hand lovingly along the teak beam. The Corinth was a superb boat. She had sheltered me and saved my life. Now I must abandon her forever.
Before I jumped to the dock, I ran to the pulley wheel in the bow and grabbed the tip of the line. I kicked the sail locker open, jumped down in it, and waded through a lot of bunched-up fabric with the line in my hand. The locker smelled of Dacron, stagnant salt water, and rotting seaweed. The Zaren crew had carelessly gathered up the Corinth’s sails and piled them every which way.
On a bottom shelf, I found what I needed—the spinnaker, the huge-bellied sail used on the bow. It was normally only unfurled at sea with the wind aft, but I was confident no one aboard the Russian freighter had a clue how to sail.
I hooked one end of the upper ring of the spinnaker, then crawled on deck and turned the hand-cranked pulley wheel. With the familiar click of the winch, the spinnaker slowly ascended to the top of the mast, swelling slowly as the soft south wind brushed against its fabric. The huge sail spread open with a loud flutter. It didn’t stretch all the way, since I’d taken the precaution of leaving the bottom sheets loose.
The huge sail hung along the length of the ship, slack like a gigantic curtain. Any sailor watching the Corinth would wonder what kind of freshwater rat had hoisted that sail in such a weird way. Had any strong gusts of wind blown through as I was putting up the spinnaker, it might’ve torn the sail and taken part of the rigging along with it.
All that went through my mind as I hurriedly adjusted the lines. The sail would only have to stay in that position for a few minutes, long enough for Prit and me to carry out our plan. This was the last service the Corinth would provide me.
The fluttering sail caused the hull to rock and bump against the dock. Each crack that scraped the fiberglass and chipped the wood pained my soul. It was a crime to treat the Corinth that way, but I had no time to put the side shields in place.
I dived into the cabin and rushed around filling my backpack with everything I’d salvaged off the dead soldier, my other wetsuit, which still dangled on the hanger, and one of the spearguns with a dozen spears. Some sailor from the Zaren Kibish with nothing better to do must’ve taken the other speargun as a souvenir.
A familiar mustachioed face appeared at the cabin hatch. I started passing all the bundles to Prit, and he set them on the dock. We worked feverishly and quietly. We had to empty it all in three or four minutes, or they’d figure out what we were up to on the Zaren Kibish. The huge sail blocked the view of the sector of the dock where we set our supplies, and disguised Prit’s trips back and forth. All they could see was a sailboat next to the dock, swaying in the breeze.
We were sweating like crazy as we hid our stuff behind the spinnaker, out of sight from the Zaren. Finally, I pulled on my wetsuit as Prit dragged a life-size male mannequin out of the back of the van, courtesy of a fashion boutique downtown. He dressed it in a yellow slicker, drawing up the hood as a finishing touch.
Not three minutes had passed from the moment I unfolded the sail till we set up the dummy in the cockpit of the Corinth. While Prit slipped back around the corner, I cut the line that held the Corinth to the dock.
In one smooth motion, the sailboat began to slide toward the harbor entrance. The rudder was locked in place so it would hold its course for a few minutes—more than enough time. Trying not to make noise, I let myself down into the water between the Corinth and the dock. The water was really cold, but I didn’t even notice. As the hull slid up against me, I took a few deep breaths and dived.
Diving relaxed me completely. I could make out the black silhouette of the Corinth as it pulled away, and beyond that, through the rushing waters of the port, the Zaren Kibish’s waterline.
I gently began to swim for shore, trying not to create lots of bubbles. Less than ten yards from the shore, I ran out of air. Angry with myself, I kicked a few more times. Finally, about to pass out, I surfaced at the dock, right where we’d tied up the Zodiac the first time. Prit was waiting to hoist me out of the water.
Breathing hard, we ran to the imposing Seguritsa warehouse. Dripping wet, I peered around the corner of the deserted dock, to where the Corinth had been just minutes before. At the edge of the dock, sparkling in the midday sun, lay the black Samsonite briefcase, the object of so much trouble.
Swaying as if a drunk were at the helm, the Corinth sailed slowly toward open water. Before getting off the boat, I’d caught up the sheets in the most visible way possible, trying to draw the attention of the sailors on the freighter. Now I was afraid I’d tightened them up too much and the sail would rip.
It was too late to worry about that. A barrage of automatic weapons fire from the Zaren’s bow splintered the Corinth’s deck into a thousand places. The dummy’s head rocketed through the air. Wood chips and pieces of carbon fiber flew everywhere as hundreds of bullets pierced the boat’s hull and rigging. A man stood on the bridge with an RPG-7 on his shoulder. The Corinth swayed and drifted less than two hundred yards from his position, making it an easy shot.
With a roar, the grenade hit the sailboat in a cloud of smoke and a blinding flash. The impact was devastating. A huge column of fire shot up through the hatches of the Corinth. The hull disintegrated into a million pieces.
As thousands of gallons of water flooded the injured vessel, another shell hit the deck. A jet of fire and smoke rose from the bowels of the Corinth, now a roaring inferno. A piece of mast spun in the sky and fell back into the water. With a gurgle, the battered hull sank to the bottom amid the explosions.
Pritchenko and I didn’t hang around to watch the show. We ran like hell down the alley to the idling van. As the last explosions on the Corinth thundered all over the port, Prit gently accelerated and headed for the exit.
In the backseat, a fat, happy orange cat was perched in a mesh cage, contentedly eyeing his owner and a small mustached man who drove as if the devil were carrying him to hell.
Prit and I smiled. Not only had we danced with the devil, we’d gotten out alive. Nestled between the two seats sat a black Samsonite suitcase sealed with red tape, identical to the one we’d left on the dock.
April 15, 9:08 p.m.
Everything was going too well. And that was the problem. We got too confident. We let our guard down. We acted like heroes out of a damn action movie, and we paid the price. The world today is dirty, mean, tough, and terribly dangerous. If you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. Burned. Fuck. That’s ironic. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
When we drove away from the rubble of the port, we were euphoric. We were alive, healthy, with a car full of supplies and weapons. And we knew where a helicopter was, so we could get out of that hole. Everything was going smoothly.
Prit drove like a madman through the deserted streets of a Vigo suburb. Out the window I saw luxury villas, most of them locked up tight. Some had boarded-up doors and windows. Those safeguards suggested that it was one of the first neighborhoods evacuated in an orderly and systematic way.
After several months of neglect, the area was starting to look really bleak. The houses peeped out from behind overgrown bushes and weed-choked gardens. On one driveway, a fire-engine-red tricycle lay on its side, gradually being consumed by hedges. With all the humans gone, nature was reclaiming its place. Almost no cars were abandoned on the shoulder. Maybe their owners had fled in them, trying to escape the inevitable.
There were dozens of undead in that area. Their occupation of the city didn’t seem to follow any pattern. There were wide avenues where you only saw a couple. Then, around a corner, you stumbled upon dozens, even hundreds, of them, wandering around or staring off into space, waiting for prey. What motivates them or draws them to one place or another is a mystery to me.
That neighborhood was a hot zone. There were dozens of those things at every intersection, in every garden, some in good shape, others horribly maimed or disfigured. I’ve gotten used to them; their smell doesn’t even disgust me. I know what they are, and they know what I am. Period.
Prit zigzagged, dodging undead. He drove awfully fast, as usual. With each turn, the tires screeched, shaking us around like peas in a can. The undead appeared in greater and greater numbers. Prit performed heroic feats behind the wheel to keep from ramming them. We had to slow down, and the mob pursuing us was more abundant. It didn’t look good.
Out of the blue, a middle-aged guy appeared suddenly in the middle of the road. He was about fifty, heavyset, his shirt open to the waist, wearing lots of gold chains around his neck. Half his face was a bloody, tattered mess; he was deathly pale like the rest of them. We didn’t have time to dodge him.
Just seconds before, Prit had swerved to avoid a group of undead crowded together in the middle of the road. What happened next was inevitable. He didn’t see the guy until we were on top of him. With a loud thud, the monster’s body struck the front of the van and was thrown to the side, completely limp, leaving a clump of putrid blood on the windshield. Prit swerved like crazy, trying to regain control, but the heavy van skidded out of control, dragging several of those monsters in its path as ominous noises came from its engine.
Doing a spectacular 360, our car finally stopped in the middle of the road, enveloped in the acrid smell of burning rubber. For a moment there was silence. I exhaled; I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath. Once again I was glad to have the very talented Ukrainian at the wheel. He’d kept us from crashing and made sure the van didn’t stall. That would have been absolutely fatal.
But the motor sounded like it was falling apart. A thin trickle of steam wafted through a gasket mangled by the impact. The radiator had a leak—and not a small one. That motor’s days were numbered. It was a miracle it was still running.
Slowly putting the van in gear, Prit got us going again, this time more slowly. We weren’t laughing it up anymore. If the engine broke down in that infested area, with all the houses closed up tight, we’d be doomed to a certain death in seconds.
The next twenty minutes were endless. Both tires on the right side had blown out, so we inched along through the subdivision, wrapped in a cloud of smoke, with the temperature light on. We were forced to slow down to a lousy ten miles an hour as dozens of hands pounded on the sides of the van.
Suddenly my window exploded into a million pieces. It had been cracked by a previous blow, so a punch from one of those things shattered it. A young woman tried to climb through the smashed window, trying to grab me. She reached in and touched my face. Her touch was cold. Cold, wet, and dead.
I panicked, almost like when this whole nightmare started. Paralyzed with terror, I could feel her trying to slip inside the vehicle as Prit shouted hysterically in Russian and Lucullus hissed inside his carrier, baring his teeth.
When she put her hand on my thigh, I finally shook off my stupor. I grabbed the AK-47 and bashed her temple with the butt. She raised her head and hesitated for a second, staring at me with dead, bloodshot eyes. I hit her in the face again. The woman slipped back out the window, unable to hold on, her face completely mutilated.
Drenched in sweat, grimacing, I turned to Prit. One look around told me that either we got out of there immediately or we’d be dead men in minutes. The resilient Ukrainian nodded and wrung a little more out of the damaged, groaning engine.
Once again, our luck held out. Just five hundred yards away, half-hidden by the weeds, was a sign pointing to a ramp to the nearby highway. Just a little farther, and we might be saved.
With one last push, Prit turned on to the highway. There, the van picked up speed, though the damaged motor was still making some very scary sounds.
At last we were on the highway. We felt relieved. We didn’t know the worst was yet to come.
The highway looked like a ghostly lunar landscape. I’d made this trip a million times, every time I had business in Vigo. Back then this stretch of highway had been packed with traffic. Now, it was deserted.
With the van making a deafening noise, we drove as fast as that battered motor allowed. We passed a few cars abandoned in the strangest positions. Some of them were ringed with blood. Others looked like they’d rammed into something—or someone. Aside from a couple of corpses rotting in the sun, we saw no sign of humans.
I tried to imagine the scene. In the first days of the epidemic, dozens of undead turned up suddenly, staggering down the middle of the road. Startled drivers tried to dodge them. Some couldn’t avoid running over them, and they crashed. Some caring people, unaware of those monsters’ true nature, must’ve stopped to help what they thought were badly injured pedestrians. Either way, the drivers’ fate was fucking awful.
A mile or so down the road, we came upon the first serious accident. A Nissan SUV had slammed into the concrete median, knocking it down. The Nissan had bounced back into the middle of the road and collided with a couple of cars and a small delivery truck. All those vehicles were now a huge pile of bloody plastic and steel lying in the middle of the road, blocking all the lanes. We stopped, stunned by the scene. Rising off that mass of iron was the foul, sickening smell of corpses that had been rotting in the sun for several months. The smell of death.
Those people had been in a brutal accident and no one had come to their aid. They hadn’t even removed the bodies. My God!
A small space on the left allowed us to continue on our way. Prit drove deftly through the narrow gap, leaving some of our paint behind in the process. I wondered whether that lane was there by chance or whether another survivor had been there before us, moving the wreckage aside.
After two or three miles, we saw another major accident in the opposite lane. It was a huge pileup of about forty or fifty cars, buses, vans, and trucks. They had collided in a chain as they sped along, running from those things or just trying to dodge them. As a gauge of how hard the impact was, I saw a small Smart car folded like an accordion under the cab of a truck.
Those who weren’t killed in the collision had died in the fire that followed. The heat was so intense that pieces of asphalt had melted. A couple of blackened skulls stuck out from the charred frame of a car. The scorched remains of several more bodies were visible here and there. A shocking scene, right out of hell.
This was not a highway. This was a graveyard.
Six miles later, we saw undead again, reeling down the road. Prit said this meant we were getting closer to an urban area, so we’d better be prepared. My frowning friend ordered me to buckle my seat belt, and then he floored it. Bad idea. Something under the hood exploded with a thunderous bang, causing a sizable dent. Thick black smoke poured out of the engine. My heart almost flew through my mouth.
The Ukrainian looked at me, chagrined. “A rod,” he said laconically, as we came to a standstill. “The engine kaput.” He let the dying van roll slowly down an exit ramp.
I couldn’t read the highway sign, so I didn’t know where the hell we were. For the first time, I was totally disoriented.
We were wondering how the hell we were going to make it without the van when chance smiled on us again. The ramp was steep, so the van coasted to the bottom of the hill, right in front of a small industrial park with fifteen or twenty warehouses. There, in front of us, as if it were expecting us, was a huge car dealership with the familiar logo of the three-pointed star enclosed in a circle.
This was fucking great. I smiled and asked Prit how’d he like to drive a brand-new Mercedes. The Ukrainian’s beaming smile spoke volumes. We’d be traveling in style.
Momentum had carried us about 150 yards from the dealership. We could see several undead in the distance, but we’d passed by them unnoticed, since we’d driven the last half mile in neutral.
We got out of the battered, smoldering van and grabbed everything we could carry in one trip. We couldn’t risk coming and going, drawing unnecessary attention. I put the soldier’s knapsack on my back and the speargun across my chest and held Lucullus’s carrier tightly in my arms to keep him from escaping. The last thing I needed was to chase after my cat through an unfamiliar industrial park full of monsters eager to sink their teeth into me.
Prit carried the AK-47, the heavy box of ammunition, and some of the food from the Russian ship in one hand and the notorious briefcase in the other. The rest, unfortunately, we had to leave behind.
Loaded down like that, we didn’t think we’d ever reach the dealership. When we finally got there, we were out of breath. In the shade of the huge entrance gate, I collapsed exhausted against the giant glass window. Prit glided along like an eel, pressed against the building, searching for a way in.
As I waited, I took a swallow from the canteen and rummaged around in the backpack. At the bottom, I found a pack of crushed Chesterfields. I remembered putting them there when I left home. Kicking back a little, I lit a cigarette. After all this time, the first puff was like a shot of heroin to a junkie. Everything seemed simpler.
The muffled sound of breaking glass shook me out of my trance. I jumped up like lightning, the blood pounding in my temples. I gripped the speargun, braced for whatever might come next.
Suddenly I heard the metal door open behind me. I was terrified. But then I saw Prit’s amused smile. He’d slipped inside through a bathroom window. Hot damn!
I lumbered through the entrance to the dealership, loaded down like a mule, with Lucullus scampering around at my feet and Prit standing guard. Once we got inside, he closed the gate again and threw the bolt to secure it.
Prit and I stood still for a long minute, trying to determine if anyone—or anything—was in there.
I stood there dumbstruck. The interior was dark and cool. Somehow, this dealership had been spared by looters. I could make out neat rows of vehicles in the shadows. I smiled. Time to go shopping.
That darkness felt really good. After a long day on the run, my muscles relaxed for the first time in hours. I’d started the day on the Zaren’s deck staring down the muzzle of an assault rifle. Now I was lying on a leather couch in a Mercedes dealership, puffing on a cigarette, thinking how wonderful it would be to sleep for three days in a hotel bed. And drink a cold beer. And get a foot massage from ten girls in sexy lingerie…I’m not shitting you. I sat up with a groan, every muscle pinging. I’d never been so tired in my life.
We quickly checked out the dealership. Nothing. All the doors and windows were closed and barred, except for the bathroom window Prit had broken. It was too high and narrow for those things to sneak in, but we wanted to take every precaution.
We wrestled a panel from one of the cubicles against the broken bathroom window. It wouldn’t withstand a heavy blow, but it would do for the short time we’d be there.
Bone tired, we collapsed in a room that adjoined the manager’s office. It was a room with no windows, stacks of files, a tiny bathroom with a shower and, surprisingly, a fold-out bed. What the hell was that bed doing there? Prit snooped around the room like a bloodhound. He picked up something from underneath the cot. With a sly smile, he held up some wadded-up lacy burgundy panties.
Well, well. This must be the manager’s bachelor pad. Way to go, you bastard. It’d been some time since that guy got laid. If he were still alive, he had better things to think about.
Overflowing with newfound energy, Prit tossed every drawer. I stepped into the bathroom and peered into the mirror. Out of habit I turned on the tap. To my surprise a stream of rust-colored water gushed out, popping with all the air built up in the pipes.
I figured the dealership had its own water tower, so it still had running water. Running water! If there was water, there had to be a gas or battery-operated water heater somewhere. I went back to the bachelor pad, where Prit was stretched out on the bed, leafing through a pile of old magazines. I left my friend comfortably settled there and started my search, armed with a flashlight.
Behind the hallway that connected the offices to the garages were some steep stairs that disappeared into the darkness underground. I got up my courage and started down the steps, my back pressed to the wall, a cocked speargun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The basement was cold and dry. It looked like a very old repair shop that had been completely renovated.
Surrounded by a thicket of cobwebs and tons of boxes of old brochures was a large modern water heater hooked up to an orange bottle of butane gas. Once I was sure the basement was safe, I climbed down the rest of the way. I shook the bottle. Empty. The pilot light had been on for weeks and used up all the gas in the bottle.
Disappointed, I turned around in the dark. As I started back up the stairs, I hit my knee so hard I saw stars. I shone the flashlight on what I’d run into. It was a mesh cage containing half a dozen sealed bottles. Fucking great!
Parting the cobwebs, I replaced the empty bottle with one of the full ones and pressed the button to purge the system. When I pushed the power button, a flickering blue flame appeared. I shouted for joy. We had hot water!
I raced up the stairs as Prit came walking out of the office, carrying a box full of keys to the Mercedeses. In a cheerful mood, we went into the showroom, where dozens of vehicles waited, neatly parked, ready to drive out the door.
As we strolled around looking for our new car, Prit and I had a little argument. He had his heart set on the fire-engine-red CLK cabriolet. He said it was a rocket, perfect for escaping at full speed. I finally convinced him that even though that convertible was fast, it wasn’t the wisest choice for driving on roads infested with undead.
I pragmatically chose a huge GL, the largest SUV Mercedes made, with four-wheel drive and lots of horsepower. We could drive off road in that beast if we encountered an accident blocking the road. Plus, it could push aside more undead than the sports car.
Prit grumbled and accepted my reasoning, casting a longing look at the convertible. We set to work and exchanged its battery for a brand-new one we found in the garage. Then we loaded our stuff, including an increasingly restless Lucullus.
A sudden, loud noise made us jump out of our skin. I threw myself on the floor, feeling around for my speargun, as Prit cocked the AK-47. We looked around for the origin of the sound. A couple of yards from us, beating on the armored glass window, were two undead, watching us with empty eyes, roaring with rage.
It was a gruesome sight. Since I’d offed my poor neighbor, I hadn’t had an opportunity to study those monsters up close when I wasn’t running or fighting for my life. I eased up to the glass, an arm’s length away. That drove them nuts. They wanted me. They wanted my life. My blood. Fucking bastards.
Something dawned on me. A newly transformed undead, my neighbor for example, had pallor mortis, thousands of burst veins visible on its skin, bloodshot, vacant eyes, and homicidal behavior. The two men outside, though covered in bumps, cuts, and scratches, looked exactly the same. Those guys showed no trace of putrefaction, unlike a normal corpse. No rigor mortis, no decomposition…nothing. Amazing. They were dead. No doubt of that. The terrible gash in the neck of one of them was proof. But something kept then moving…and stalking.
Clothes worn thin from months outdoors was all that indicated they’d been that way for a while. I was sure their appearance hadn’t changed one iota since they were attacked. That had some disturbing implications. Over the past few weeks, I’d entertained the hope that over time these bodies decayed or even “died.”
That didn’t seem to happen. The passage of time didn’t seem to affect those monsters. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe they stay that way for months, even years. Maybe they’re eternal. How the hell should I know? I’m no scientist. I don’t have any data on their condition. I just know they’re somewhere between life and death. If I didn’t want to end up like them, I had to keep on the run and not get caught.
A bitter taste rose in my throat. As a species, a race, a planet, we were really screwed. I punched the glass in rage, right on one of those monsters’ faces. He didn’t flinch.
Prit watched me in silence, guessing my thoughts. Finally he came over and tried to calm me down. He said that when we got his helicopter, we’d find a place the monsters hadn’t gotten to.
I shook my head bitterly. Nice words. We had a long way to go before I’d feel completely safe.
We parked the SUV in front of the gate. Prit checked the tire pressure while I took my first hot shower in many weeks. It was heaven. The jet of water hit my back and my head. Clouds of steam curled around my body. I stood there for about twenty minutes, enjoying that wonderful feeling. Then, with scissors and new razor blades I’d found in a bathroom drawer, I shaved the beard I’d had for weeks. I didn’t look like a bum anymore. Something so ordinary before the apocalypse was now a real treat. That’s how far things had slipped.
April 16, 10:24 a.m.
When I got out of the shower, I found Prit in the manager’s office, hard at work. He’d cleared off the desk and set the black Samsonite case on it. He’d discovered a ton of tools in the garage, including a battery-operated grinder and a blowtorch. The Ukrainian was determined to open the damn case come hell or high water.
With my hair still dripping wet, I joked that if he found smokes in that case, he’d better share them with me, or else he’d wake up dead the next morning. Prit laughed and threw a piece of red tape at me. He said to make myself useful and find some gas for the SUV.
I left the office, listening to Prit singing softly in Russian, his voice drowned out by the shriek of the grinder.
It took ten minutes to find a gas can and five more to find a rubber tube to siphon the gas into the tank. As the tank filled up, I petted Lucullus. Every time I’m out of his sight, he goes nuts. I think he’s afraid I’ll leave without him. My poor cat.
I was wiping off my hands when a violent explosion shook the dealership. A huge white flash came out of the office, followed by a cloud of smoke and a burning smell. For a moment my ears whistled. Then I heard screams of pain. Prit.
I raced into the office and saw Prit lying on the floor. His hands were badly burned, and he had wounds on his chest and face. He was writhing in pain, howling like a wounded wolf. I crouched beside him and took a look. The face and chest wounds were superficial, but his hands looked awful. They were completely burned. I could only see three fingers on his left hand; the right hand wasn’t much better. He was bleeding heavily. Blood also trickled from his ears.
I scanned the table for something to staunch the bleeding. My eye fell on the briefcase. Or what was left of it. That fucking case must’ve had a pyrotechnic device inside to keep any unauthorized person from gaining access. The device exploded when Prit forced the case open. He was lucky it didn’t blow him to bits.
I stared, absolutely helpless, as Prit’s cries of pain echoed in my ears. Whatever was in that case now burned with a fury, its valuable and mysterious contents quickly becoming a pile of ashes.
April 17, 6:37 p.m.
I was in shock and scared to death, more than at any other time during all this shit. Prit was hurt badly, and I didn’t know what to do. His hands looked terrible. All that was in our little first-aid kit were some mild painkillers, antibiotics, and sunblock.
I struggled to get him on his feet and to the bathroom, then washed his hands and forearms as best I could. What a fucking mess! His right hand was raw, burned all over. They looked like second-degree burns to me. His left hand was worse. He was missing his little finger and middle finger; the bones of the ring finger were sticking out. He also had a deep gash in his left palm that wouldn’t stop bleeding. Fuck. I rummaged through the dealership’s medicine cabinet and found some gauze and a gel for burns. I smeared his right hand with the cream and put a lot of bandages on both hands to stop the bleeding. It was a pretty sloppy job.
I had to do something fast. Soon all the undead in the area would be on top of us; they’d surely heard the blast hundreds of yards away. Plenty were groaning outside already.
I settled Prit in the SUV, between waves of pain. Dozens of undead were crowded around the dealership. I’d only have a few seconds to open the gate and climb in the SUV before those things swarmed all over me. I wouldn’t have time to close the gate. Those monsters would then invade the dealership. One less refuge.
I needed bandages, analgesics, and especially antibiotics. In the best-case scenario, I’d find a doctor to tend Prit’s wounds, but that wasn’t going to be easy.
Xeral Hospital was a mile or so away, in downtown Vigo. I didn’t really think anyone would still be there, but I hoped I’d at least find the medicine Prit needed.
I had no choice. I set off the alarm of one of the sports cars at the other end of the dealership. That cleared the door just enough so we could get out. Prit was losing blood by the minute and couldn’t bear the pain much longer. I had to get to that fucking hospital no matter what shape it was in.
April 18, 11:02 a.m.
I was an idiot. I let Prit suffer in pain for more than an hour before I remembered there were several injectable vials of morphine at the bottom of the soldier’s backpack. They were hard to miss. They were in a box with a red cross against a white background on one side and “Morphine” printed in big letters on the other. Any lamebrain could’ve figured out what that was. I completely forgot about it until I took a curve too fast. The backpack shot across the backseat, hit a window, and spilled out its contents. But I’m getting ahead of myself again.
We beat a quick retreat out of that dealership. Given the jam we were in, that was the best news. The car alarm drew most of the howling mass to the opposite end of the building. I knew the sound would attract many more of those things, but it was the price I had to pay. No matter what, we were getting the fuck out of there.
I walked up to the huge metal gate and pried open the door’s security latch. I pressed the red button to open it. Of course, nothing happened, since there was no electricity.
Pressure and stress were playing tricks with my mind. Cursing under my breath, I surveyed the device, looking for a manual switch. There it was! A small lever next to the coupling of the cable drew the door open.
When I activated it, it made a soft clank. When the counterweights in the door started to move and the huge gate folded back (faster than I’d expected), I ran like crazy for the SUV idling in front. As I climbed in, I realized that, with no electricity, the only way to close it was to drag it manually with a pole located somewhere at the top. I had no idea where the hell that was. Anyway, what did that matter now?
When I stepped on the gas, the GL leaped forward and burned rubber. I think I bumped against a couple of those things. I recall a middle-aged woman in a pearl necklace and big hair splayed out against the back of the SUV. Otherwise, the entrance to the highway was relatively trouble-free. I noticed that the broken-down van we’d come in was surrounded by a dozen undead; some had gotten inside.
What attracted them to the abandoned vehicle? Did they detect our scent or body heat in it? They may have lost “human” qualities, but they’ve compensated with more subtle senses. More dangerous to us.
After a couple of miles, I noticed that the GL had a small screen on the dashboard. I finally realized it was a GPS, standard in a high-end model like that. I pressed the button and prayed the thing still worked.
The screen lit up with a flashing blue light as it connected to satellites in geosynchronous orbit. I sighed with relief. Society had collapsed, and the undead had taken over, but satellites continued on their silent, unflappable paths in the solitude of space, indifferent to the chaos unleashed thousands of miles below. They were still working, and they’d go on working for a long time, until the lack of ground control or some other incident rendered them useless forever.
The GPS was an expensive model with a touch screen. Keeping one eye on the road, I quickly searched through the menu for nearby hospitals. From time to time, I had to swerve around a wreck or dodge some undead, but in general the road was clear.
With a beep, the GPS told me that the nearest medical center was Meixoeiro Hospital, not Xeral, and mapped out the shortest route. Fantastic! That saved me from having to reenter the rotting carcass that had once been the city of Vigo.
Engrossed in the screen, I almost didn’t see the pileup. Suddenly, rising up before me was a twisted mass of at least fifteen wrecked vehicles. I hit the brakes hard and desperately turned the wheel to the right, trying to avoid the inevitable.
Its tires screeching, the GL skidded sideways for a few yards and came to a stop just inches from the first vehicle. All of its flashers emitted a loud click-click. Everything else was silent.
I wiped off my sweat, grimacing. If it weren’t for all the safety features like minibrake assist and other technical marvels, I’d have plowed into that wall of twisted scrap metal. End of story.
I shuddered. We live on the razor’s edge, and we don’t know it. There’re no police, army, doctors, or anyone to help us if something happens.
We’re screwed.
We’re alone.
All alone.
I put the SUV in first gear, raced on to the shoulder, and drove off the highway. Engaging the four-wheel drive, I plowed through the low barrier at the outer edge of the highway that had kept animals off the road in the old days.
After ten minutes of violent bouncing off road through abandoned farms on weed-covered roads, I stopped under a clump of trees. It was cool, sheltered, and, above all, out of sight. There was not a soul around for hundreds of yards. Not human or undead.
A broken-down old washtub lay abandoned beside the road, almost hidden under blackberry bushes. A jet of cold water gushed from a pipe. I got out of the SUV and plunged my hands into the water. It was cool, almost cold, in contrast to the searing afternoon heat. It was delicious. I drank like a camel, filled up the canteen, then wet Prit’s dry lips. Half conscious, he wouldn’t or couldn’t drink.
I touched his forehead. He was burning up. Either he was suffering from shock or his wounds were starting to get infected. Whatever it was, he needed antibiotics immediately. I gave him a shot of morphine to ease the pain and got back in the car, leaving that brief moment of peace behind.
We peeled out in a huge cloud of dust. We still had a long way to go.
About thirty minutes later we had to cross a small stream. It wasn’t too deep, but the Mercedes, though luxurious, was not built to ford streams. I couldn’t keep water from coming in through the door seals and air vents. We were going to get a little wet.
The sky was clouding up, so we were going to get wet one way or another. After days and days of heat, we were due for a big storm. Lucullus was really agitated, something that only happens when there’s a storm.
We got on to a back highway about three miles from the hospital, according to the GPS. The muddy SUV skidded a little on the weeds growing on the shoulder, but thanks to its four-wheel drive, we made it back on to the deserted highway. I stopped to take a look at Prit. He was delirious on account of the morphine, fidgeting, half asleep. I looked up and down the highway. I didn’t see a single living being, not a fucking soul. Some weeds poked up through cracks in the pavement. No one had been down that highway for weeks. In a few months, the weeds would completely swallow it up.
I shifted into first and headed for the hospital. After a few minutes, I relented and turned on the lights. It was just six in the afternoon, but it was almost dark. A storm was on its way, and I couldn’t see for more than thirty or forty yards. Distant thunder rattled the SUV’s windows.
I concede I was spooked in the dim light, but the fright I got five hundred yards ahead still nearly gives me a heart attack. When I swerved around a small eucalyptus tree growing right out of the road, the headlights lit up a grinning skull, wrapped in a pile of rags, lying on the pavement. I was almost right on top of it, so I braked hard. I heard a crack under the front wheels as I drove over that pile of bones. I stopped the SUV and wiped the sweat off my face. The wind was rising. The first gusts of the storm were whistling through the trees. I was sure there was something huge right in front of the car, but in the dark night, I couldn’t see what it was. There was something sinister about that place.
I cocked the AK-47, painfully aware of how little I knew about firing it, and got out. The purring engine was the only sound except for the roar of the wind. I walked cautiously in the space lit up by the headlights. My shadow projected before me as I approached the black figure at the back.
I held the rifle tight. My hands were sweating, and my heart was pounding wildly. That shapeless mass took up nearly half of the road. I still couldn’t figure out what it was. The hot wind enveloped me like a blanket. Then the smell hit me. My God.
Stacked in front of me were dozens, maybe hundreds, of rotting corpses slowly decomposing, at the mercy of the weather and vermin. I leaned against the barrel of the AK-47 to keep from falling down. Oh, Jesus. My legs failed me, and I had to sit down. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from what I saw in the headlights.
The figure I’d spotted in the shadows was a pile of huge spools of reinforced concrete and some kind of metal container with barbed wire stretched in front. It was an abandoned checkpoint.
All the bodies had bullet wounds. The ground around the checkpoint was littered with shiny copper casings as far as the eye could see. It was a huge graveyard, reminiscent of Rwanda during their civil war in the 1990s.
I could guess what had happened. It was an army checkpoint in a strategic place, by the hospital. Suddenly hundreds of undead had converged on the road, attracted by human presence. Security forces fought them desperately, taking out hundreds of those creatures, frantically calling for reinforcements.
What happened next was clear. The dried blood splattered against the walls and a couple of assault rifles lying on the ground told me everything I needed to know about the fate of the checkpoint’s defenders. The undead had made it through. Just like in Pontevedra. And Vigo. And everywhere else.
I headed back to the SUV, tears streaming down my face. As I climbed into the car, lightning lit up the grim scene. In the space of a few seconds, the SUV crushed hundreds of rotting bones as I drove over that heap. I drove through the checkpoint and didn’t look back. We had to keep going.
April 19, 12:37 p.m.
The lightning was so bright that for a few seconds the whole horizon turned a sickly blue. Thunder rattled the SUV’s windows with a gruff, deep, terrifying rumble that lasted seven or eight seconds. Lightning and thunder followed each other about every minute and a half. The rain hadn’t broken yet, but the air had a strong smell of ozone. A helluva of a storm was coming.
Startled by the roar of the GL’s engine, a flock of crows and fat, glossy gulls flew up in the air. Over the months, I’ve learned to sort through all the haunting images, blocking out the ones that disturb me the most (too many, sadly). But I saw what those scavengers had been feeding on—another pile of lifeless bodies. The image of the half-decayed body of a little boy about three years old with empty eye sockets and pecked cheeks gut-punched me. I was fucking sick of being sick. True, all that bullshit is making me harder, but I can tell I’m getting crazier by the second.
According to the GPS, the county road abruptly intersected with a much wider and better-cared-for road half a mile from the hospital. The area was wooded; a dense mass of eucalyptus and pine trees was shaking wildly, whipped by the wind. The road was strewn with twigs, tree bark, and piles of rotting corpses. The undead had been through there in droves, but resistance must have been tough. I was coming to the scene of a disaster. I started to feel light-headed.
A half a dozen wobbly figures stepped out of the shadows, headed for our SUV. I couldn’t stay there any longer. I turned on to the main road and approached the hospital slowly, dodging fallen branches and the occasional passersby who tried unsuccessfully to claw the car.
Then, something caught my attention—a couple of undead wandering on the road, dressed in tattered hospital gowns. I shuddered with terror. If Meixoeiro Hospital was infested, we were really screwed.
I rounded the last bend in the road to the top of a small hill; from there I could see the hospital. I hit the brakes and stopped for a moment. I held my breath. Fuck.
Meixoeiro Hospital is a huge conglomeration of modern steel, glass, and cement, a gigantic maze built in several stages, with miles of corridors and rooms. It had been one of Galicia’s premier hospitals. It was cutting edge, equipped with the best, most modern human and technical resources. Thousands of people used that facility daily. A real temple of science, pride, and human health. Something to behold.
Now it looked like something out of a nightmare. Every window facing north was shattered. Torn, faded curtains stuck out of the dark recesses of those broken windows, flapping wildly in the wind. A sewer pipe on the fourth floor must have burst—dried, smelly black slime covered part of the wall.
What was really frightening was the total absence of light, sound, and movement. The huge building loomed up like a dark monolith, devoid of life. The tunnel to the emergency room was shrouded in shadows, like the entrance to a deep mine.
Around the building I could see evidence of hectic activity. Dozens of civilian cars, police cars, Civil Guard tanks, and ambulances sat abandoned every which way, many with their doors flung open. Some were covered with a rust-colored crust that could only be dried blood. Stretchers and medical equipment were scattered here and there, as if they’d set up a field hospital on the front lawn to take care of the overflow.
A city bus, its windows streaked with dried blood, was parked on the lawn, as if a drunk driver had left it there. On the rear doors of the bus you could see bloody palm prints. God only knows the story that bus could tell.
A double row of sandbags and concrete barriers surrounded the perimeter. Some places were reinforced, so I assumed they’d been checkpoints. As I’d seen on the road and so many places for miles around, shell casings and rotting corpses were everywhere. There were far fewer around the hospital than I expected, though.
I quickly corrected that thought. When the horde of undead arrived, the defenders must’ve been decimated, exhausted, almost out of ammunition. Those monsters easily overpowered them. Then came the carnage.
The bitter taste of bile filled my mouth. I pictured a hospital full of the wounded, refugees, medical personnel, women, children…then hundreds of these things broke in. Oh, blessed Christ.
The place was filled with pain, death, and despair. That dark, silent building was a huge grave…or worse. But we had to go in. Prit needed medical supplies.
I rolled the SUV up to the tunnel to the ER, virtually silently. Drenched in sweat, I looked in every direction, hesitating. On one hand, if I went in alone, I could move faster. If I ran into trouble, I could defend myself better. On the other hand, I didn’t dare leave Prit, semiconscious and alone, in the parking lot, at the mercy of those things, as I walked through the bowels of that building.
And besides, there was Lucullus. Fuck.
The ka-boooooom of a giant clap of thunder startled me out of my wits. Time was slipping away. A big raindrop splattered against the windshield with the force of a bullet. Then another and another, in quick succession. Scattered raindrops turned into a downpour. The storm had reached us. The thunder was drowned out by the roar of millions of drops hitting the ground.
I calculated we were no more than twenty yards from the tunnel. I couldn’t go any farther in the SUV. Reinforced concrete blocks and lots of sandbags lying across the road made it impassable. In better days, a guard would’ve waved me on from a entry box a few yards to my left, but now it was abandoned. That empty landscape, lit up by lightning, gave me the creeps.
I put the backpack on and cinched the straps tight. Between Prit and Lucullus, I wasn’t going to be very mobile, so I distributed the weight as evenly as I could. I didn’t want all that weight to drag me to the ground right under an undead’s nose.
I took Lucullus out of his carrier and cradled him in my arms for a moment before setting off. My little furry friend purred happily, comfortable, dry, and warm on my lap, watching the rain fall. I scratched behind his ears, gazing at him fondly. Since he was a tiny ball of fur, he’d liked to curl up on the radiator and watch the rain fall in the garden.
The memory of my house, my life, my whole world, pierced my heart like a dagger. I missed my home. I missed my job, my friends, my life—but most of all I missed my family. I hadn’t heard from them in months, not to mention the ton of friends I have (had) all across Galicia. I’ve tried to keep my mind occupied with my own survival and not think too much. Every time I thought about my past, I tried to tell myself they were comfortably holed up in a Safe Haven, somewhere those monsters hadn’t reached.
Now I know that’s all a lie. Those monsters from beyond the grave are everywhere. There’s no safe place, and no one’s safe. All the survivors are drowning in a sea of suffering that goes on forever.
I could feel tears flooding my eyes. I took a deep breath, rubbed my face, and shook my head, trying to blank it all out. If I started crying, I wouldn’t be able to stop. If I collapsed, I was screwed. The survival instinct kicked in again. Something deep in my hypothalamus secreted enough endorphins to get me going. Still, the pain was buried deep inside me, oozing emotional pus. Someday, I’d have to face it and wrench it out of my heart. But not now. Not yet.
I pushed the door open cautiously, making as little noise as possible. As I stepped out of the car, a violent gust of wind blew a curtain of water in my face. The thunder and lightning overlapped each another. It was almost completely dark. I closed the door behind me and crouched down for a moment, my back to the SUV.
I didn’t see anything that looked threatening, but instinct was telling me just the opposite. To be honest, instinct screamed at me to get the fuck out of there.
About six yards in front of me, I could make out the half-decayed body of a civil guardsman in riot gear. His distinctive blue uniform had faded in the sun. In places it was a blackish oxidized color from bloodstains and body fluids. From the waist up, the body was a pile of torn, stinking flesh. No trace of the head.
I shrank back. I didn’t know if scavengers or the undead had disfigured that body, but it looked like the work of a demented butcher. I gagged but didn’t vomit. Amazing…I was getting more macho or deranged, depending on how you look at it. None of this shit affected me anymore.
I approached the body. Holding my breath, I pulled a shiny black pistol from the holster on his right hip. It was larger and heavier than the Glock, but I didn’t have time to study it any more than that. I unlaced the guy’s combat boots. His feet were black and rotten from fluids that had pooled there. It smelled really foul, so I hurried as fast as I could. When I’d pulled out the shoelaces, I had a cord about six feet long.
With the gun and shoelaces, I went back to the SUV, soaked to the skin. I grabbed the surprised Lucullus by the belly and tied one end of the cord to his collar and one end to my wrist. Then I hung the AK-47 and the speargun across my chest and dragged Prit’s unconscious body out of the car.
The downpour brought the Ukrainian around. His groans signaled he was still alive but hurting like hell. Draping his arm over my shoulder, I started walking toward the access tunnel, holding the gun with my free hand and dragging Lucullus, who was indignant at being treated like a dog on a leash and at being soaking wet.
Our progress was painfully slow. Prit could hardly walk, and I was loaded down like a mule. Those few yards seemed like miles. The cat viciously yanked at the cord, trying to take cover from the rain. Every time he leaped forward, the bootlace dug into my wrist, sending waves of pain up my arm.
What a surreal picture we made! It occurred to me if an undead popped up, I’d have a hard time defending us, with both arms immobilized. That thought made me pick up the pace.
We reached the access tunnel in a matter of seconds. The glass roof over our heads amplified the heavy downpour. I twisted around, pulled the flashlight out of my pocket, and shone it toward the end of the corridor.
I leaned my shoulder against the emergency room door, and it opened with a soft hiss. I poked my head inside. The huge admitting room was in the shadows. A soft light filtered through large rectangular windows that ran all the way up to the ceiling. There were two bullet holes right in the middle of one of them.
The lobby looked like an abandoned slaughterhouse. Rust-colored blood was splattered across floor and walls. In some places it looked like someone had dumped large buckets of blood. The sweet, nauseating smell of dried blood mingled with the smell of decaying food…and stale sweat. It was subtle and faint but unmistakable. Human sweat. Someone had been sweating in that space, but I couldn’t determine whether it had been hours or months ago.
Everywhere, lying every which way, were cast-off clothes, used bandages, stretchers stained with dried fluids, and even a couple of defibrillators with their paddles dangling. It was not a welcoming sight, to say the least.
The most upsetting part was the dozens of bloody handprints and footprints crisscrossing every inch of that corridor. Many feet (and I mean a whole lot) had traipsed through pools of blood, leaving an erratic trail. There were large and small footprints, including children’s little steps, long strides, dragging feet…a complete collection. But no one was there. I couldn’t say for sure that the tracks were made by the living.
I settled a nearly unconscious Prit in a wheelchair and untied Lucullus from my wrist and tied him to a radiator. Tying him up like that hurt his feelings. He was dying to explore that new place, but I couldn’t turn him loose, not knowing what we’d find.
There were bodies on the floor, of course, but fewer than outside. By some miracle, I avoided stepping on a woman inflated by the gases of decomposition. Most of those unfortunate people weren’t undead, just innocent victims the monsters had maimed so savagely they were beyond resurrection. The lack of corpses there was surely because most of the patients were now part of the giant brotherhood of the undead.
A sudden, loud metallic sound paralyzed me. Someone had run into a filing cabinet or a cart, then let out a drawn-out groan. The sound seemed to come from a couple of floors up, close enough to give me chills.
We weren’t alone.
I wasn’t about to walk around a dark, deserted hospital full of corpses just to identify the source of a noise. Whoever or whatever it was could have the whole place to himself. I was scared shitless just standing at the entrance. I couldn’t imagine heading into the bowels of the building.
I walked by the nursing desk. A dust-covered stethoscope lay abandoned on a pile of medical records. I couldn’t resist hanging it around my neck. When I was little, I used to “borrow” my mother’s stethoscope. I loved those things.
Suddenly I could picture myself in an episode of ER. What the hell would those characters think if they saw a guy holding an AK-47, wearing a wetsuit and a stethoscope around his neck, prowling around the ER?
I giggled hysterically. My God, all that shit was starting to go to my head. Next stop: schizophrenia.
Beside the check-in desk, next to some cubicles with the curtains drawn, was the emergency medicine cabinet. The door was caved in. I entered cautiously, treading on the broken glass that covered the floor.
It looked like a bomb had exploded in there. The steel cabinet where they kept morphine and opiates was shredded into what looked like flower petals. Someone had opened it the hard way, with an explosive, maybe a grenade off a dead soldier. The explosion had reduced the jars, vials, and medical devices to smithereens. A botched job. The work of someone looking for morphine or, more likely, a junkie who knew where to find opiates. I’m not surprised. It must be hard to score some horse these days.
I rummaged through pieces of broken glass for a vial in good condition, mentally repeating the list: antiseptics, antibiotics, gauze, painkillers (no opiates, since Prit had already maxed out on morphine), sutures, bandages, sterile needles.
I felt a jabbing pain in my hand and yanked it back. I’d sliced my finger with a sliver of glass as thin as a knife. I swore under my breath and put my finger in my mouth. The salty blood ran down my throat. I wrapped my finger absentmindedly in a butterfly suture and went back to searching, in a worse mood, piling my booty on a shiny aluminum tray.
That tray saved my life. When I turned around to set down a roll of tape, I saw movement behind me reflected in the metal mirror. I turned around like a snake and clumsily raised the AK-47. The bitter taste of fear rose from my stomach.
A decrepit old man, completely naked, with some of his intestines hanging out, was rocking back and forth, less than two yards from me, the right sleeve of his hospital gown rolled up. He opened his mouth in a mute roar as he stumbled toward me, stepping on the glass barefooted, feeling no pain. I was paralyzed with horror. The old man had no eyes. Although his eye sockets were empty, and two bloody streams slid down his face, he knew exactly where I was.
Everything happened in slow motion. I raised the AK-47 to his face. Curiously relaxed, I pointed the gun at his neck to compensate for the kick, something I’d learned from the Pakistanis. I let him get barely a yard away and pulled the trigger.
The bullet left a gaping red hole in the old man’s forehead. Splinters of bone, brain, and blood splattered the wall behind him.
The old man collapsed like a sack with a wet, gurgling sound, dragging along a pile of folders as he fell. The smell of gunpowder stung my nostrils, and a piercing whistle rang in my ears from firing in such a tiny space. I’d have a headache in the hours to come.
Once again, I’d had a close call. But that shot would’ve been heard for more than a mile. Every being, living or not, in the hospital would know we were there. Jesus, what a day…
As I calmed my heartbeat, I cursed myself. How could I have been so stupid? The speargun hung over my left arm. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry and as scared as a hysterical old woman, I could have taken out the old man with a silent spear instead of the noisy AK-47.
I’d had to act fast. I hadn’t had the presence of mind to think about the speargun. The assault rifle was the first thing I got my hands on, and I acted instinctively.
Now I had other things to worry about. The shot triggered a wave of sound throughout the hospital. Doors banged, things crashed on top of each other, something fell noisily to the floor (a stretcher?), and there were dull, muffled thuds against the walls. It was one lethal symphony. And most of all, the fucking groaning. How could I forget that? It was an indistinct, deep echo, as if someone was trying to talk but had forgotten how to move his tongue. It was impossible to explain the sound if you’d never seen those monsters. It’s a chilling roar, human and inhuman at the same time.
I scooped up all the drugs on the metal tray and ran back to where I’d left Prit. He was awake, sitting bolt upright in the wheelchair, his right hand cradling his left hand, which was covered in bandages. He was dazed by the morphine and white as a sheet, but otherwise fully conscious and alert. And scared. As fucking scared as I was.
He asked me what had happened and where the hell we were. Quickly, I brought him up to speed from the time he had the “accident” until I’d left him sitting in that chair in the middle of a deserted, dark room. Then I realized the tremendous shock he must’ve felt when he regained consciousness, all alone, wounded, in the dark, in a strange place filled with terrifying noise. If it’d been me, I’d have had a heart attack.
I hesitated about whether to tell him about his injuries. Hell, he’s got eyes, he’s not an idiot. I told him he’d lost two fingers on his left hand, and the ring finger didn’t look good. The Ukrainian didn’t blink. He coldly asked if he still had his thumb. I nodded. He seemed to relax a little. He matter-of-factly said that wasn’t so bad, as long as he still had his thumb and two fingers to oppose it. “I’ve seen worse,” he added. “You should’ve seen my friend Misha in ninety-five after his helicopter was hit with a thirty-seven-millimeter grenade. Now, he had a problem. So I’m okay. I’ll make it. Now, pass me the AK-47 and stop making all that bloody racket, by God. Our ass is on the line here.”
My relief was so overwhelming I nearly cried. I knew Prit’s apparent calm was only a front, but just hearing his voice made me feel less alone. I handed him the heavy AK-47. The Ukrainian deftly crossed it over his wounded arm and felt for the magazine with his good hand. He seemed perfectly capable of defending himself with one hand.
I was already calmer. Knowing I didn’t have to keep one eye glued to an unconscious Pritchenko was a big relief. And knowing that he had my back again was an even bigger relief. But as much as he played the tough guy, I could read fear and anxiety in his eyes. Plus, I couldn’t forget that the guy needed urgent medical attention. More than I could give him. And he needed it now.
It was time to get the hell out of there before things got uglier. I left Lucullus in Prit’s care (my cat looked distressed to lose sight of me) and walked back down the hallway to the ER. I had to find out if the path was clear.
The hallway was even darker than when we got there, lit up by only the lightning. The worst of the thunderstorm had passed, and there were fewer lightning bolts. But the rain was far from stopping. Sheets of rushing water fell from a dark violet sky. The wind was gradually reaching hurricane speeds. Broken branches, bark, and dozens of unidentified objects whirled around the parking lot. Swirls of rain reduced visibility to a few yards. That was the least of our problems, by a long shot.
Outside dozens of undead staggered in the downpour, taking up the entire parking lot, moving slowly toward the hospital. I was stunned by the scene. I hadn’t seen such a concentration of those beasts since the early days of the plague.
There were men, women, and children of every age and condition. Some looked unscathed; others had terrible wounds that went far beyond what a normal human being could endure. The majority wore the clothes they’d had on when they mutated. Others were stark naked, or their clothes were in shreds due to the weather, accidents, or God knows what, making the sight doubly disturbing. A couple of them were scorched and blackened all over, as if they’d been set ablaze. The fire had disfigured their features to the point I couldn’t identify their sex or age. Others had ghastly amputations, as if those body parts had been blown off by an explosion. The variety of horrors was endless.
From the huge multitude rose a chorus of creepy groans. The scraping noise made by hundreds of feet, in shoes or barefoot, dragging across the ground, was drowned out by the boom of thunder. Spectral rays of lightning lit up the scene.
Water dripping off the edge of the tunnel rolled down my neck, but I didn’t feel it. Even hidden in shadows, I turned all my attention to the sea of humanity (not human, I corrected myself bitterly) that slowly encircled an area as far as I could see.
I racked my brain, trying to understand where such a crowd could have come from. The obvious answer popped into my head. The hospital environment, the scene of extensive carnage, must’ve had dozens, maybe hundreds, of those things. The roar of the engine as we approached had drawn them back here the way a light attracts moths. But instead of continuing our journey, we’d stopped, giving them time to catch up to us. And we were in no shape to get the hell out. Great.
April 20, 4:21 p.m.
The first monsters had already reached the SUV. I cursed my stupidity. When I got Prit out of the SUV, my arms had been full, and I’d forgotten to close the passenger door. Now, a couple of those things—a tall, thin man with a big gash down his back and a young boy about fifteen who was missing the calf of his right leg—had crawled inside. Maybe they were drawn by our scent.
It was just a matter of time till that multitude surrounded our SUV, making it completely inaccessible. And it would only take them a little while to figure out what path we’d taken into the hospital. There was no way we could shoot our way to the SUV and make our getaway. That’d be suicide. Even supposing all of our shots hit the target (doubtful in my case), it was too great a distance for Prit and me to cover at once. There were just too many of them.
I understood the pure terror the defenders of Safe Havens must have felt when they faced a flood of those monsters in even greater numbers. Trying to kill them is like trying to keep ants off your blanket at a picnic. You can step on dozens of them, but more keep coming…and coming. They’re fucking unstoppable.
Their overwhelming numbers and the fact that they’re dead make them a formidable foe. They don’t hesitate, don’t sleep, don’t rest; they have no fear, and nothing stops them. They have one goal: to capture anyone who isn’t one of them.
A huge weight lay on my heart. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was as dry as straw. I couldn’t make a sound or breathe or think clearly. I’d never felt so much like prey. And I’d never been so aware of how hopeless our situation was.
The world is no longer ours. It’s theirs. How long will this situation last?
A little jingling to my left me brought me out of my trance and back to reality. Pressed against the wall, propped up by one hand, a guy in his early twenties with long hair, wearing loose, baggy pants, inched along. A long silver chain with a bunch of keys hung from where his right pocket should’ve been. His keys dragged along behind him, bumping against his legs, making the jingling sound that had alerted me.
Like all these monsters, the boy’s skin was waxy and transparent. Myriad small burst veins traced a grotesque map on his skin. His left arm hung limp, and he had an ugly gash on his bicep. He was wearing a dirty, stiff shirt. I could clearly see three or four bullet holes in his chest. One of the bullets had entered his heart, and the other bullets were in his lower abdomen.
That sight made my head spin. That creature had already faced a survivor, who’d shot him in defense. But the guy was still on his feet, so I didn’t figure the gunman had survived. Now the guy was headed for me.
Instead of coming to the hospital by the access road, like most of those walking corpses, he’d entered through a side entrance. While the crowd was swarming over the sandbags, he was already inside the perimeter, and he’d found me.
A moan escaped his throat. He picked up his pace and rushed toward me. That time, I took things more calmly. When he was fifteen yards from me, I took the speargun off my shoulder and checked the bolt and the rubber band. I also checked the gun in case something went wrong. Then I leaned against an overflowing, smelly trash can to steady my aim. When he was just three yards from me, I pulled the trigger.
The spear entered above his upper lip, near his cheekbone. The tip went through his occipital bone, making a crunch like a dry branch breaking. The monster stopped suddenly. Putrid blood gushed from the wound as the guy wavered. The shaft of the spear was in his line of vision, and he tried to grab it. However, as with all the undead, his coordination left a lot to be desired. He swatted the air in front of the spear as black, smelly blood streamed down his face and chest, staining them a dark purple. His movements became slower and more erratic.
With a strange gurgle, he extended his good arm and fell forward. If it weren’t such a lurid scene, I would’ve laughed at the way he fell. But this wasn’t the time for joking around. I lunged toward the body to retrieve the bloody spear. Just as I was about to grab it, I froze. I remembered I had a cut on my finger, and I wasn’t wearing gloves. I looked helplessly at the spear that stuck out like a flagpole from the back of the guy’s head. So close, yet so far.
I vacillated. I only had three spears left in the quiver strapped to my leg. Leaving the spear behind was a huge loss.
I weighed the possibility of finding some latex gloves somewhere and coming back for the spear, but one glance at the crowd convinced me there was no time. Thirty or forty undead had broken through the defensive line and were headed in my direction. I stood out clearly against the white wall of the hospital. I had to get out of there.
After one last look outside, I ran full speed back down the dark corridor, my footsteps echoing in that cavernous tunnel.
A leak in the roof had formed a puddle in the middle of the hall. I’d seen the puddle before, but I was so crazed when I came back through, I forgot about it. I slipped and took one hell of a fall. I lay there for several seconds, the wind knocked out of me, trying to catch my breath. When I tried to get up, a sharp jab in my side made me scream in pain. I slumped back down, cursing a blue streak. Just what I needed—a broken rib. For sure I had a big, fat bruise. Fucking puddle! I was going to sue that fucking hospital.
Just the thought of a lawsuit, in this dire situation, made me double up with laughter, and that set off new spasms of pain. A lawsuit. What a joke! I struggled to my feet, whimpering in the pain, laughing hysterically, and kept going.
No doubt about it—my nerves were shot.
I pushed open the swinging doors with my good side and reloaded the speargun, still hiccuping with laughter. I took a quick look around me. Double doors opened in both directions. On one side of the doors were some steel hooks attached to two brackets on the walls. The hospital staff had used those hooks to prop open the doors to keep from having to constantly push them open.
I had a different use in mind for those hooks. Next to the door, on the floor, under a pile of discarded medical supplies, lay an IV pole with two empty IV bags hanging from it. I had to kick aside a mountain of gauze, boxes of tranquilizers, and used bandages to get to it. I slid that pole through the hooks to bar the door closed. I frowned, my heart heavy. It always worked so well in the movies. That pole wouldn’t withstand the pounding for long. That crowd would be through the door in two minutes.
I was breathing hard when I reached Prit. He studied me with a worried face as I leaned on his chair and caught my breath. I brought him up to speed with the huge problem we were facing. It was impossible to leave through that door. Besides, I was pretty sure the undead would make it into the lobby very soon. We had to find another way out. A big complex like the Meixoeiro Hospital must have dozens of entrances and exits. That hospital was a maze of rooms and corridors that confused even the personnel who worked there every day. We had to find one on a different side of the building. To get on the other side, we’d have to go down into the bowels of the building.
We had no choice. I asked Prit if he could walk. The Ukrainian struggled to get up. Very brave, but futile. His legs failed him in a few seconds, and he collapsed back in the chair. The morphine still in his system and his blood loss, coupled with fatigue and not enough food for weeks, held him back. I’d have to push him.
I set Lucullus in Prit’s lap. I held a flashlight in one hand and gripped the back of the wheelchair with the other, and off we went, just as we heard the first blows against the ER doors.
We set off down a corridor at the back of the room. I pushed open the door and paused. That hallway was dark as a well at midnight. Fluorescent tubes hung from the ceiling, covered in a thick coat of dust, useless junk without electricity. So little outside light filtered in, I could only guess where obstacles lay across the corridor.
I assumed that things would get worse, since we were headed deep into the bowels of the hospital. At least we were still fairly close to the outside. Some faint light from the lightning came in, and we could hear the rain. As soon as we stepped through the next door, we’d be in another world.
The smell, not the lack of light, stopped me in my tracks. The minute I opened that door, a pungent rotting odor smacked us in the face. Nowadays that putrid stench was everywhere, but I’d never smelled it that concentrated before.
That odor was heavy, like the smell that hung over the ruins of the Safe Haven, but ten times as strong, probably from being in a hot place with no ventilation. My eyes teared up, so I tied a handkerchief around my face. I coughed and tried to breathe through my mouth. I had a knot in my stomach and was getting more and more nauseated. Prit had screwed up his face, trying to keep from gagging. The hospital was full of dozens of bodies in an advanced state of decomposition. We were about to enter a mass grave.
We ventured into the hallway. Prit shone the flashlight into every corner while I pushed the wheelchair, veering around bodies. Our plan was simple. We’d cross the first floor, make a beeline for the front, and leave from there.
Before the pandemic, a nurse who knew the hospital could’ve made it down that long hallway in ten minutes, tops. In the dark, with no knowledge of that labyrinth, it would take us a lot longer.
For four or five minutes things went pretty well. As fast as we could, we got through several rooms and corridors, dodging tons of equipment and medical supplies. The hospital seemed to have been evacuated in a hurry, but the number of half-rotten bodies suggested the opposite. After evacuating the building, maybe the fugitives had retreated back into the building for some reason, and the undead had trapped them there.
Most of the bodies had bullet holes in their heads. Some of the remains were horribly disfigured and partially eaten beyond any possibility of resuscitation. Almost all of those bodies had on army boots: the defense forces making a last stand after everyone else had run off. Run where?
The jabbing pain in my side had gotten worse. White spots danced before my eyes, and my legs trembled. My breathing must’ve been labored, because Prit turned in his chair and looked at me with concern. “You’re in bad shape. We can’t go on like this. We’d better rest,” he said. I agreed. I needed to catch my breath; I was hyperventilating.
A plywood door to our right opened into a dressing room; lockers lined the walls, with rows of benches in the middle. In the back of the room were a couple of couches. A bulletin board covered with notes and posters took up the entire wall. A huge plastic rubber plant stood guard in the corner. A woman’s purse lay on the floor, its contents spilled out. In the light of the flashlight, I saw a lipstick, a wallet, and the handle of a hairbrush. A nurse’s dressing room. Not a bad place to take a rest.
I closed the door and collapsed on a bench. Prit stroked Lucullus’s head with his good hand, stoically enduring his pain. He’s one tough guy.
I took off the top of the wetsuit. I was so thin I could count my ribs. I hadn’t had a really nutritious meal for months in these subhuman conditions. My body was starting to pay the price. Vitamin C deficiency from a lack of fresh vegetables was the most dangerous. A huge bruise on my right side was slowly turning a dark purple. I touched it and choked back a howl of pain. I must have broken some ribs. That’s a bitch!
I forced down some metamizole sodium, a powerful analgesic I’d found earlier, and picked up the purse. I rummaged around inside. A mobile phone with no battery in a cloth case, a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes, a lighter, and a bent-up driver’s license with a picture of a very pretty blonde with green eyes. She was smiling at me. Laura Viz. There was no hospital ID or document in her wallet. Thanks for the smokes, Laura. I wonder who the hell you were and what the hell you were doing here.
I stuck a cigarette in Prit’s mouth, and he took a deep drag. Then I unwrapped the bandage so he could get a look at his wounds. The little finger was completely gone, and the middle finger was missing down to the second knuckle. There was a lengthwise gash in the ring finger that needed stitches. His palm had a deep cut, but fortunately it wasn’t bleeding very much.
Prit looked up and calmly said it wasn’t so bad, but he needed medical attention right away. He hadn’t lost too much blood yet, but there was the risk of blood poisoning. But I was the only person around to tend to his wounds. With a first-aid kit.
Suddenly, something punched the plywood door hard, making a huge hole at the top. Sticking through the hole was a cadaverous hand, covered in splinters.
The hand pulled back out and hit the door again, nearly ripping it off the frame. Damn, that bastard was strong! I took a few steps back, holding the flashlight tight, while Prit cocked the AK-47 and aimed at the door. I could see the undead guy through the hole. He was young, burly, with a beard and curly hair. All he was wearing was a funny cartoon T-shirt that was way too big for him. A thick bandage covered his right calf. I bet a million euros I knew how he got that wound.
With one last blow, the flimsy door split in two, and the creature lunged forward just as Prit pulled the trigger. Blood and bones gushed out the gaping red hole where his left eye had been.
The guy collapsed like a sack in front of me. I kicked him to make sure he wasn’t moving. There was something odd about the corpse. It took me a while to realize what it was. He was drenched. That thing had come in from outside not five minutes before. They’d found a way in. The front door had fallen, and they were on our trail.
April 21, 4:19 p.m.
I turned to Prit. Sweat ran down my back. The Ukrainian and I exchanged a look that said it all. Our situation had taken a turn for the worse. We were on the run—again.
After I’d wrapped his hand in a bandage I’d found in the first-aid kit, we crept out of the nurses’ quarters. The hallway was empty, but the shot Prit fired had unleashed a furious assault on the hospital. We heard more groans and blows, only much closer. Dull thuds were coming from the locked room across the hall. I placed my hand on the wall and felt the vibration of enraged fists beating against it. I stepped back, terrified. I prayed that thing didn’t find a way out of there.
Suddenly we heard the sound of breaking glass coming from a room we’d passed ten minutes before. Someone had tripped over a monitor, and it had shattered on the floor. The roaring was getting closer.
Prit placed Lucullus on his lap, clutched the cocked AK in his good hand, and motioned to me to head out with the other. I pushed his wheelchair faster. I had a huge knot in my stomach and cold sweat running down my back. I was scared, really scared, and I didn’t mind admitting it. Anybody in that situation would’ve been scared to death. And anyone who says different is either a liar or brain dead.
The hallway went through a broken door and into a slightly wider room. A large white sign overhead read PEDIATRICS in big blue letters. Children’s drawings of cows in meadows, clowns, and daisies hung on the walls, making the room look like a nursery school. I guess they’d made the young patients more comfortable. However, clumps of dried blood dotting the drawings ruined the decor. It looked like someone had turned on a giant meat grinder in the middle of the room. Prit gasped in anguish. I wiped the sweat off my forehead. It was oppressively hot in there.
Right in front of us was a drawing of huge clown with a big smile. He watched us from the wall, not realizing that a huge clot of dried blood streaked his face. He held a giant bouquet of balloons in a gloved hand. Blood had dripped down his yellow overalls, and dried brain matter was embedded in his teeth. He looked really evil. I shuddered. That sweet clown seemed poised to jump off the wall. With the bits of his victims in his mouth, he looked like a demented predator. That room was a nightmare.
We backed away from that scene and moved on, trying not to stare. You didn’t have to be a genius to realize that someone had barricaded himself in that room to fight. Not hard to guess how that ended. Bullet casings carpeted the floor. Piles of stinking bodies were silent witnesses to the desperately fought battle. The dreadful scene we saw next stopped us in our tracks: the body of a little boy, no more than a year or two, lying crosswise in the hallway, facedown, with a gaping hole in the back of his skull.
Prit wept silently, nervously fingering the safety on the AK-47. I didn’t say a word, remembering he had a son about the same age. The sight of that little body must’ve made him wonder about his family’s fate, somewhere in Central Europe. I couldn’t imagine the feelings torturing him.
A thud on our left got our attention. A plastic-and-glass partition sectioned off the Pediatric ICU. That was where the families of young patients could see them through the glass. Now, on the other side of the glass there was utter blackness.
I shone the flashlight on the partition, trying to light up the other side. The glass must’ve been polarized; the light bounced back off it, momentarily blinding us. I tried again, this time looking to the side, but got no better result. It was impossible to shine a light into the other side past that glass.
I was convinced I heard a sound coming from the other side. I pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands on either side of my eyes. When my eyes adjusted, I could make out a bed covered with a plastic bubble that was open on one side. Suddenly a bloodstained hand swatted the glass right in front of my face, accompanied by a long groan. The waxen, enraged face of a girl about six years old glared at me through the glass, less than an inch from my eyes.
I jumped back and landed on Prit’s lap. My heart nearly leaped out my mouth. She beat her palms on the glass and let out a monotone howl. A four- or five-year-old boy, dressed in hospital pajamas, joined her. They pounded harder and harder.
I stood up, white as a sheet. The glass trembled with each blow, but the kids didn’t seem to have enough strength to break it. I got a good look at them. The little boy’s bald head was as slick as a cue ball. He must have been undergoing radiation when this tidal wave of madness reached the hospital. I saw no wound on his body, but there must have been a cut or scratch somewhere. The little girl had a deep gash in her neck. Her attacker had severed her carotid artery with one bite, killing her almost instantly. Her little body was covered in dried blood. I prayed it was just her blood.
That devastating scene seemed to crush Prit. He stared glassy-eyed at the partition, his hand hanging limp on the AK-47. Out of his half-opened mouth came an unintelligible sound as he shook his head from side to side. The fur on Lucullus’s back bristled. He yowled angrily, adding his voice to that symphony of moans and thuds.
I leaned down and whispered some reassuring words to Prit. Then I cocked the gun and set off again. If those things got out of there, I’d be the one who’d have to deal with them. Prit couldn’t shoot a child, even one of those monsters.
That hallway seemed to stretch on forever. The two little monsters walked along beside us, behind the partition, howling and hitting the glass; fortunately it didn’t break. My attention was divided among the hallway, the glass, the undead, and Prit, who was still muttering under his breath. The Ukrainian’s nerves were starting to unravel.
At the end of the hall, I stopped a moment, unsure where to go next. The glass curved behind us, preventing the little creatures from continuing alongside us. They knew they couldn’t follow us and let out a string of frustrated howls. I was pretty sure the glass wouldn’t give, but I didn’t want to stick around to find out.
There were two doors in front of us: the one on our right had been kicked in, and there were bloodstains on the frame. The one on our left was closed and intact. The push bar was on our side and couldn’t be operated from the other side. A priori, the intact door offered greater security, but I had the feeling it led back to the main section of the hospital. Hoping I wasn’t all turned around, I decided on the shattered door, headed in the direction we’d just come from.
A slight breeze was coming through from the dark room behind the broken door. That tipped the balance. After flipping the bird to the raging little monsters, I opened the door on the left, hoping that would confuse our pursuers if they made it this far, and pushed the wheelchair through.
Again, I felt the breeze. Air was coming in from outside. We walked about ten minutes in total darkness. A couple of times we came to a dead end and had to retrace our steps. Prit was starting to worry me. He was now lethargic and indifferent to everything. At one point we passed a couple of steel fire doors that shook violently. A horde of undead was crowded on the other side, uselessly beating against the doors. Someone had nailed some wedges into the door frame to keep the doors from opening. Not even that aroused the slightest interest in the Ukrainian. He was struck dumb.
We rounded a couple more corners and reached an area with some light. The breeze was stronger, and we could hear the rain. My mood lifted. We had to be close. Damn close.
When I opened one last swinging door, I couldn’t contain myself—I shouted for joy. A huge lobby stretched out before us in the shadows, lit up by lightning we could see through a long glass wall. The room overlooked a huge park and weed-covered gardens, silent in the downpour. The lobby was deserted. A pole with a tattered, scorched Spanish flag stood guard next to an identical pole lying on the floor. I didn’t see a single creature in the rain, human or otherwise. I smiled with relief. We’d made it. We were saved.
The lobby floor was littered with papers, medical files, and flyers in every color. On one end was a closed café, waiting for employees who’d never open it up again for medical staff that no longer existed. At the other end was an empty reception desk crowded with phones. Some of the headsets were off the hook, hanging by their cords, mute and motionless.
In the middle of the lobby stood a newsstand, like an abandoned monolith. Stacked against it were magazines and newspapers still in bundles. Out of curiosity I picked up a copy of each publication. They were dated four months ago. Their front covers announced the creation of Safe Havens and asked the public’s cooperation in addressing “this crisis of epidemic proportion whose origin is still unknown.” Safe Havens. Yeah, right. And unknown origins. What a load of shit!
I’ve always been an avid reader of the press, so out of habit I began to flip through the pages. The international section was down to the bare minimum; the sports and business sections didn’t exist. Some newspapers had no more than thirteen or fourteen pages, all devoted to the pandemic. The articles must’ve been written by a skeleton team of journalists, the ones who dared to keep going to work.
I smiled at the foolish ideas and nonsense I read. The public was blind right up to the last minute. Arrogant, foolish sons of bitches.
I looked up to discover that Prit was not in his chair. Dropping the newspapers, with my soul on tenterhooks, I scanned the lobby and spotted the small figure of the Ukrainian, silhouetted against a wall by lightning. He was absorbed in something on that wall. When I figured out what had caught his attention, I felt my stomach shrink.
In a bright flash of lightning, I got a good look at that wall. It was covered with hundreds of messages and photos that had one thing in common. They were all notices of missing persons. Family or friends had stuck them up there, hoping for news of their loved ones. Photos of smiling people gazed down at me. Heartbreaking notes. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of Little Johnny, please call this number right away. Mr. So-and-So disappeared three days ago. Little Susie and her entire school bus vanished a day and a half ago. If anyone has seen our child, please contact us at this number. “Missing” was written in bold letters with a red marker below the picture of an older woman sitting at a table decorated for Christmas. The photograph of an entire family smiling in a garden, in summer, with “disappeared” written over it with a cell phone number. “Javier Piñon, we’re at your parents’ house. Meet us there.” “Luisa Sabajanes, if you see this note stay where you are. I’ll come by every day till I find you. I love you.” “If anyone has seen this man, please contact this number.” And on and on.
It was a sickening sight. I took a couple of steps back, stunned. Of course. A hospital was the logical place to look for a missing person. Thousands of missing people, in fact. You got a feel for the magnitude of this chaos. Fuck. It was chilling. I could feel pain and anguish oozing out of that wall. I was staring at pictures of thousands of people who were dead. Or worse.
I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into Prit’s infinitely sad eyes. “Let’s go,” he said. “Let’s get out of this place right now, or by God, I’ll go crazy. Doctor my wounds someplace else, anywhere, just not here. We gotta go. This place is bad, very bad. Come on. Please.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. The Ukrainian wasn’t the only one on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I wanted out of that macabre place, too.
I went to the door, with Prit leaning on my arm, limping, and a rather cowardly Lucullus tangled around my legs. As we approached the door, an alarm went off in my head. Something wasn’t right. What was wrong with this picture? I couldn’t figure out what until we were standing right in front of the door.
Of course. Those ultramodern glass doors slid open on rails. There must be a sensor nearby. With no electricity, the doors remained obstinately closed.
Yet there we stood, Prit and I, like fools, expecting the doors to open by magic. When it dawned on us that those doors wouldn’t open by themselves, we calmly thought through the problem. Pritchenko said that kind of door had an emergency backup system. There should be a lever located on the door frame that could be activated manually in case of a power outage.
Nervously I felt around the edge of the doors, until my fingers found a recessed compartment on the floor, next to the door. I pulled off the cover and froze. All I found was the symbol for emergency and a diagram explaining how to use the lever. That was it. That and bare wires. Someone had ripped off the lever.
Fearing the worst, I rushed to the other two doors, but those levers were ripped off too. Someone had turned that sector of the hospital into a fortress and wanted to make sure those doors couldn’t be opened, even by accident.
I felt Prit’s eyes boring into me. I had a look of shock on my face. I picked up a heavy red fire extinguisher. I reared back and threw it as hard as I could against the glass. A loud Bam! echoed through the lobby, sending a million more echoes throughout the building, but the glass held fast. Only a slight scratch marked the spot I’d hit with the fire extinguisher.
Seeing red, I threw the container against the glass again and got the same result. Choked up, unable to swallow, I cocked the pistol and, holding it with both hands, shot into the glass. The weapon kicked savagely and almost jumped out of my hand. A tiny hole opened two feet above where I’d aimed. I fired again. And again.
Prit rested his hand on my arm, forcing the barrel down. “It’s useless. That’s security glass, nearly three inches thick. It wouldn’t break if you ran a truck into it.”
I punched the glass, enraged. So close, yet so far. We were just a few inches from getting out of there. We could see the way out…and we were still trapped. Damn it to hell!
Calm down, I told myself, think for a moment. On the way there, we’d felt a breeze, right? That gust of air came in somewhere. I just had to find where.
I dashed across the lobby and stood in the middle of the room, on top of the Galician Health Service shield engraved in the floor. I closed my eyes and stretched out my arms, trying to detect any puff of air. A slight breeze ruffled my hair. I opened my eyes. It was coming from the left, behind the reception desk.
I hooked my arm through Prit’s and dragged him over to that point. The Ukrainian seemed to draw strength out of weakness and despair. He contemptuously refused to use the wheelchair anymore. “If we’re fucked,” he said very seriously, looking into my eyes, “I want to die like a man, standing up, not sitting in a fucking chair.”
Despite his brave words, I noticed that the glow in the Ukrainian’s eyes had faded. Something had broken inside him when we walked through that room with all the children’s bodies. Seeing that boy’s body lying in the hallway had been the last straw. Under so much emotional pressure for months, he’d snapped. His nerves were shot. That tough soldier who’d survived the slaughter at the Safe Haven, the cold-blooded guy who slowly hacked off a woman’s neck without blinking, was falling apart. I’m sure any psychiatrist would’ve diagnosed PTSD. What good would that diagnosis do now?
There was a narrow corridor behind the front desk. Large metal cabinets were lined up silently against the walls, half-hidden in the shadows. Internet servers, I concluded, when I noticed the huge bundle of wires that ran along the baseboard.
The corridor led to a square room. At the back of the room was a big red door with EMERGENCY EXIT painted on it. Thick chains crisscrossed the two push bars. I rattled the door but couldn’t open it with my bare hands. I’d need an acetylene torch (before all this happened, I wouldn’t have even known what that was). Since I didn’t have one in my backpack, we were screwed.
A staircase disappeared into the shadows to the floor above. The flashlight’s beam reached the next landing, but no farther. I could only speculate where those stairs went, but that’s definitely where the breeze was coming from.
Cautiously, we started up the steps. Prit carried the AK-47 across his chest, strapped to his belt. I held the gun with one hand and the flashlight with the other. Lucullus skittered along, half-strangled by the cord tied to my wrist, glued to my ankles.
We had to climb three more sets of stairs before we reached the next floor. Before us was a cavernous, gloomy room. A row of overturned beds formed a bunker. Someone had tried to mount a defense there, but it mustn’t have worked. The left half of the row was completely pushed to one side.
A strange, watery slurping sound coming from behind one of the overturned beds put us on alert. We approached quietly, Prit on one side and me on the other, trying not to make any noise. I tied Lucullus to the leg of a chair so I had both arms free. Then I swapped the pistol for the speargun. We’d made so much noise on the ground floor, I didn’t want to make any more noise here.
Prit was already alongside the bed, waiting for me, looking disconcerted. He nodded. For so long, he’d seemed to be in another world. Now he was ready.
I took a deep breath and shone the light on the other side of the bed. Crouched on the floor, an orderly or a nurse (I couldn’t tell which, but it was wearing a hospital uniform) was bent over something I couldn’t see. I focused the flashlight on the thing’s head. When he noticed the light, he whipped around, and I saw two things. First, his face was covered with burst veins, his skin was a dead, yellow color, and fresh blood trickled down his chin. Second, a huge black rat lay on the floor, ripped open, its guts spilling out. The monster glared at me with bloodshot eyes. He’d been so engaged in his prey, we’d taken him by surprise.
I squeezed the trigger about eight inches from his forehead. The spear pierced his skull cleanly, splashing putrid blood all over my face. Sick to my stomach, I set the flashlight and the unloaded speargun on a bed and frantically began to wipe myself off with the sheet.
I was so absorbed in what I was doing, I didn’t see the second undead guy rush me from behind. He was a young guy with a horrible haircut that reminded me of an ashtray. He wore lots of gold chains around his neck like a Latin Kings gang member.
A weak cry from Prit, who watched the scene, glassy-eyed, warned me, but it was too late. Ashtray Hair grabbed me by the armpit as I turned around and sank his teeth into my shoulder. His bite couldn’t penetrate the thick neoprene, but I got a close look at those teeth. I needed to keep him from scratching me with his bloody hands.
I held tight to the undead’s waist and tried to push away from him, but the beast was very strong. We spun around the room, colliding into everything in our path. I screamed for help, but Prit was curled up on the floor, moaning, rocking back and forth.
The undead guy and I struggled furiously, linked together. We looked like a couple dancing cheek to cheek, all the while trying to rip each other’s throats out. I was in trouble. If I let go to grab the pistol hanging from my waist, that monster would overpower me and finish me off. If I didn’t, sooner or later he’d succeed in biting me, and that would be the end of me.
I don’t know when we bumped into the flashlight, but it smashed to bits on the floor and plunged us into total darkness. That’s when the situation became really desperate. We were now wrestling in silence. The beast kept trying to bite me through my wetsuit. I tried to wrap one arm around his hands, grab his neck, and immobilize his head with the other hand.
We stumbled against something hard and lost our balance. I teetered around like a drunk, desperately waving my leg around to regain my balance, but inertia was unstoppable. I realized we were falling, still cheek to cheek. A sharp edge drove into my bruised side. I screamed in pain, but that was all I had time for. Our mortal dance had brought us to the edge of the staircase, and we tumbled down those stairs at top speed.
For several minutes, I didn’t know what happened. I don’t even know how much time elapsed. I just know I woke up in a haze. Pain spread over every inch of my body. I had a salty taste in my mouth. Blood. I gingerly touched my lips and found I’d bitten my tongue. I tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain on my bruised side coursed through me like an electric shock. The pain was bad before, but now I was on fire.
Gradually my mind cleared. I remembered Ashtray Hair. Where the hell was that bastard? I groped around in the holster strapped to my leg and pulled out the Bic lighter I’d found in the nurse’s purse. That lighter felt like it was running low on fluid. When I clicked it, a faint blue flame weakly lit the scene. The creature was lying on the landing, his head smashed against the wall. At my feet lay his body in the throes of strange seizures. Between bursts of pain, I managed to sit up so I could take a look.
That son of a bitch had gotten the worst of it in the fall. I surmised his spine was broken, since he couldn’t move his arms or legs. The bastard jerked his head from side to side, his teeth snapping like a trap. He looked at me with hatred in his dead eyes. Fuck you, you dumbshit, I thought. You’re no threat to me now.
I kicked him hard and sent him rolling down the next flight of stairs, hoping his head would split open on a sharp corner. Sore and exhausted, I stood up. My right ankle was swollen to a size that didn’t bode well. Every time I breathed, I felt a knife in my side. My mouth was bleeding, and I had a colossal headache. I was a mess.
I hobbled up the stairs, leaning on the railing to steady myself. The lighter was burning my hand, and the blue flame was fading. My backpack lay on the ground, right where I’d left it to switch the pistol for the speargun. I dug down in it and found the spare flashlight.
I swept the beam across the cavernous room. It looked like a tornado had hit it. Prit was curled up right where I’d left him, unscathed. Suddenly, my heart sank. The chair I’d tied my cat to was upside down. Lucullus had disappeared.
I shook Prit’s trembling body. The Ukrainian shrugged me off, muttering gibberish in Russian. He couldn’t take the stress any longer. I draped one of his arms around my shoulders and helped him stand up. My mind was racing. I couldn’t leave without Lucullus, of course, but finding the cat with Prit in tow would be really difficult. I had to find a safe place to leave him while I looked for my cat. Then I’d come back for him, and we’d get the hell out of that hospital.
I spotted a huge, heavy, carved wooden door at one end of the room. Its intricate engravings and huge brass handles looked like something from a Rococo mansion, not a supermodern hospital that was all angles and straight lines.
Intrigued, I nudged the door carefully with my foot. It was locked, but a heavy old key dangled from the keyhole. After a couple of noisy turns, the lock opened and the door swung open wide.
Soft light filtered through tall, narrow windows, covering the floor with green, blue, and red dots. At one end was a small nave with a double row of wooden benches on each side and an altar on a raised platform. Above that was a large wooden cross, hanging on thick steel cables. We were in the hospital chapel. It was too ironic.
I let Prit collapse on to one of the pews. I was exhausted, so I rested for a second, then prowled around the chapel, peering into every dark corner, making sure we didn’t have any company. I braced myself and then kicked open a confessional. The disgusting image of an undead priest leaping out terrified me. But I breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing in it or the adjoining sacristy.
Out of a little closet built into the wall, I grabbed a couple of stoles worn to celebrate mass. I draped them over Prit, who’d fallen into a deep, restless sleep. Bundled up in those warm robes, the Ukrainian made a strange picture. I shook him by the shoulders. I needed twenty seconds of his attention. He stretched, a lost, glazed look in his eyes. A tremor shook his left hand uncontrollably.
“Prit, I need you to listen for a minute. I have to leave you alone for a while. Lucullus has disappeared, and I have to find him. Understand?”
The Ukrainian nodded without saying a word. He was almost catatonic. I tucked the stoles around him and wiped his forehead. I unclipped the canteen, which had gotten dented up in my fall, gave him a sip, and set it beside him.
I had to sit there for a good twenty minutes till my legs stopped shaking. The twenty minutes turned into almost an hour. Every time I thought about going back out the door, an uncontrollable panic screwed my feet to the floor with the force of a hydraulic drill. I knew I had to control that fear. I was a goner if I let panic get the best of me. And Prit along with me.
For a moment, I weighed the idea of abandoning Lucullus to his fate, but I discarded the idea faster than it took to write that. Lucullus was not just my pet and constant companion. That cat was the last link to my former life. If I lost him, I’d lose part of my soul. The memory of that life would scatter like sand in the wind. I had to find Lucullus. The poor guy must be scared shitless, hiding under a pile of trash.
As I stood up, my knee cracked ominously. That wasn’t a good sign. I was beaten up worse than I thought. I’d take the speargun, the remaining two spears, and the pistol with the seven rounds we had left. I took the flashlight, too. Enough light was filtering into the chapel so that Prit could see without it.
Prit sank back into a restless sleep as I ventured back out of the large room in the dark. I closed the chapel door behind me. Those massive, heavy oak doors were probably the most solid ones in the entire hospital. It was the safest place to leave my friend. I studied the huge key in the lock. Then I gave the key a couple of turns and hung it around my neck. I’d be back in a few minutes, I thought.
I didn’t have the faintest idea where to start looking for Lucullus. He must have been scared to death by the fight. He probably took shelter in some quiet corner. At home, during a storm, he’d burrow into the back of the linen closet until the worst had passed. I realized that finding my cat in that vast hospital with thousands of dark corners could be a desperate mission, made worse because my frightened cat might not want to be found.
I had to try. I know it sounds crazy. He’s just a cat, but I felt a moral obligation to find him. After all the time we’d spent together, losing him would break my heart. Anyone with a pet understands what I’m saying. Whispering his name, I crossed the room till I came to another very steep stairway, heading deeper into the darkness.
I shone the flashlight on the ground. A huge puddle of water spilled down the stairs. The steady dripping echoed everywhere in the dark.
A couple of drops fell on my head, startling me. I looked up at the ceiling. Seven or eight stories above my head was a huge skylight that had originally flooded those stairs with light. I was standing on a staircase that connected all the floors. Liters of rainwater filtered through that shattered skylight and trickled down the stairs, soaking everything.
Again I felt a gust of wind whipping across my face. My heart sank when I realized the wind was blowing from the broken skylight. That was not a way out. I was starting to think I’d never find a way out.
A soft whine, faint but unmistakable, pulled me out of those bitter thoughts. My ears perked up. There it was again. It sounded like a crying child—or a meowing cat. It was coming from the bottom of the stairs, which were shrouded in shadows.
I cursed under my breath. The hospital basement was the last place I wanted to go. For some reason that escaped me, Lucullus had hidden there. I had no choice. I screwed my courage and started down the stairs.
April 22, 3:30 p.m.
The pool of water at the foot of the stairs spread out like a lake. I stood on one of the last steps on “dry land” and scanned the area with the flashlight. Its beam lit up the water that stretched out to the end of the dark hallway. Rainwater had poured in through the broken skylight and accumulated down there. Iridescent oil spots and some empty boxes floated in the water like swimmers on a pond.
It was highly unlikely Lucullus had gone down there. Aside from the deep-seated hatred all cats have for water, there was no way my Lucullus would have deigned to stick his aristocratic paws into this dark, murky pond.
I started to head back up the stairs. Then I heard that whine again, and I froze. The sound had been faint at the top of the stairs; now it was crystal clear. It was a cat’s meow. MY cat’s meow. My Lucullus. I was 100 percent sure. After two years listening to that furry playboy yowl at the neighborhood cats night after night, I knew his voice.
The meow quivered with fear. It sounded like it was coming from directly across that dark expanse of water. It was growing weaker, as if he were going in the opposite direction. I had no time to consider how Lucullus got across that little lake. I descended the remaining steps to ground level.
The water was up to my waist. Part of my brain told me that a cat wouldn’t go through that lake on his own. Something or someone was dragging Lucullus along. Normally fear would’ve made me head back the way I came. But another part of my brain turned a deaf ear.
I splashed noisily as I waded down the long corridor. There were piles of water-logged stuff as far as the eye could see. I spotted a sheet of black plastic floating along with all the other trash. I hooked it with the tip of my spear and shone a light on it. When I discovered it was a body bag, I shuddered out of fear and disgust. I took a deep breath, trying to control my fear, and made sure the bag was empty. It looked like it had never been used. But finding it there could only mean I was dangerously close to the morgue. Not exactly the best place to prowl around in the dark.
The slamming of a metal door echoed like a cannon through the basement. I gripped the speargun with sweaty hands, thinking it would be great to have a flashlight on the end of the gun. Duct tape would have done the trick, but the only roll I had was in the backpack in the chapel with Prit.
I cursed under my breath. My mobility was limited, since I had to shine the flashlight with one hand and fire a gun with the other. The speargun wasn’t the problem. When you’re under water, you usually shoot it one-handed. But the pistol was a different story. I needed both hands to control the weapon’s powerful kick and aim with some accuracy. It’d be no laughing matter to shoot a hole in the roof trying to kill a hungry undead monster ten feet from my face.
I missed a step and nearly fell face-first into the water. The flashlight swung wildly in every direction, sending iridescent glimmers across the oil-slick water. I leaned against the wall to get my balance. The pungent smell of oil saturated the air.
That step was the top of another short flight of stairs up to where the water only came up to my ankles. Splashing down the hallway, I walked the last few yards to a completely dry room. A heavy steel door in the back of that room stopped me in my tracks. The door had no handle or doorknob. The dark keyhole was recessed, with no screws to remove it with. It stared at me mockingly. I furiously kicked the door. Without the key, I’d come to a dead end. Devastated, I punched the door over and over, muttering a string of curses, heaping shit on the heads of all the saints.
My angry outburst stopped abruptly when I spied damp footprints glistening near the door. There were two sets: one set was my size, and the other set was much smaller and looked like tennis shoes. The smaller footprints came up to the door and turned left.
In the flashlight’s beam, I followed the stranger’s footprints, speargun in hand, ready to beat a hasty retreat if I discovered that one of those beasts had left those footprints. The tracks turned a corner behind a janitor’s closet and trailed off to the end of the hallway. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins as I plunged into the darkness. Beads of sweat slid down my temples. My mouth was dry as a desert.
I swept the light across the footprints, which were growing fainter. Suddenly, the light shone on a pair of bright red sneakers. I slowly raised the light. Dirty, faded jeans, a wool sweater—a young girl, barely more than a teenager. Huge green eyes framed in a perfect oval face. A scared but determined look on her face.
Glowing, smooth skin.
Living skin.
A living human being.
I was speechless. I blinked a few times to make sure she wasn’t an optical illusion. No, she was a real girl. Right in front of me. If I stretched out my arm, I could almost touch her face. Her breath kept time with mine. A huge sense of relief washed over me. I felt like screaming for joy. But, I didn’t. The barrel of a gun was aimed at my chest. I’d have to keep my shouts of joy in check.
She squinted, trying to see me better in the shadows. I realized the light from my flashlight was blinding her. Cautiously I set it on a table. I raised my hands from the speargun and showed her my empty palms. The girl swallowed hard.
“Hello,” I greeted her.
The girl jumped when she heard my voice. For one horrifying second I thought she’d shoot me.
“Hello,” I repeated. “What’s your name?”
The girl hesitated. Her gaze swung nervously between my face and the narrow corridor to my right, toward the metal door. She was scared. Of me, I thought with a shock. I tried a third time.
“Take it easy. I won’t hurt you,” I said, soothingly. “My name’s—”
The roar of the girl’s rifle drowned out my words.
Something white-hot passed close to my face, crashing into the wall behind me. Plaster rained down on me. The bullet left a gaping hole in the wall.
I cringed, terrified. That lunatic was going to kill me. “What the fuck’re you doing?” I shouted in a panicked voice. “Don’t shoot me, damn it! I’m alive!”
The girl was trembling like a leaf. The huge army-issue assault rifle looked like a cannon in her hands. Judging from the way she held it, she’d fired by accident.
I stretched my hand toward the gun and pushed it aside. The green-eyed beauty didn’t put up a struggle. Chalk one up for me, I thought. Just don’t screw up.
A long, plaintive howl broke the silence. The pack hanging on the girl’s back started moving frantically. Something inside was struggling to get out. A half-closed zipper gave way, and out peeked a furry orange head with bristling whiskers and a very angry look on its face. A look I’ve come to know so well over the years.
“Lucullus!” I cried excitedly. I breathed happily. I’d found my lost pet.
My cat struggled to get his fat body through the broken zipper. He kicked like crazy till he hung out of the pouch like a sack of potatoes. His rear end and tail were still trapped inside the backpack. He launched himself forward one more time and got completely free, leaving behind tufts of orange fur. Once on the floor, he licked his sides for a few seconds and recovered some of his feline dignity.
A huge smile spread across my face. Same old Lucullus. A leopard never changes his spots. I should’ve known where I’d find him—in the company of some female, even in this nightmare!
Lost in thought, I stroked my cat and then looked long and hard at his new friend. The astonished girl just stood there, still speechless, her rifle pointed at the floor.
Now I could study her calmly. She was sixteen or seventeen, at the most, but she was very tall. Her startling, catlike green eyes shone brightly now. A few freckles decorated the harmonious features of her face. Thick, dark hair spilled over her shoulders. Her slim body looked supple as a reed. I detected perky breasts under the enormous faded sweater she was wearing. Her entire body was tensed as she watched every move I made. She looked like a panther about to bolt.
“My name’s Lucia.” Her voice was warm but shaky. She was clearly frightened. “What’s yours?”
I repeated my name and introduced her to Lucullus. I added sarcastically, “But you two’ve already met.”
A deep blush spread across Lucia’s cheeks. “I thought he’d been abandoned. I heard gunfire and went up to investigate. I found your cat in the hall and picked him up without thinking. I wasn’t stealing him,” she added defensively.
“I believe you,” I answered with my best smile, as I scratched Lucullus’s ears. “What the hell’re you doing here?”
A dark shadow veiled Lucia’s eyes, and her whole body shivered. “I shouldn’t be here,” she shook her head and repeated in a monotone. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I shouldn’t be here either.” I wheezed as I struggled to stand up. “None of us should be here.”
“Is someone else with you?” There was terror in her voice.
“Well, I left a Ukrainian pilot resting in the chapel. He’s missing two fingers on one hand, and all this is starting to get him down.” I saw the surprised look on her face, so I added, a bit cocky, “But he’s a good guy. I’m taking care of him. He just needs some sleep.”
I couldn’t believe what I was saying. Five minutes before, I’d been scared to death in a dark hallway, praying to find a way out of there. Now I sounded like a teenager strutting around like a peacock in front of that gorgeous girl. Granted, it’s been months since I’ve seen a live woman, but the way I was acting was over the top.
Lucia didn’t seem to notice of any of that. She laughed delightedly, relieved like me not to be face-to-face with the undead. And, like me, pleased to have some company.
“Where were you?” I asked. “How long have you been here?”
“Nearly three months.” She looked me up and down, taking stock. “You’re not part of the rescue team, are you?” she asked skeptically.
Imagine the picture I made: a rail-thin guy in a filthy, ripped wetsuit, a speargun slung across his back and a pistol at his waist, Pancho Villa style. The stethoscope around my neck added a surreal touch. At least I’d shaved at the Mercedes dealership before we left. I may have looked like a beaten-up, crazy bum, but at least I was clean shaven.
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable under such intense scrutiny. I asked her what she meant by “rescue team.”
“The army rescue team, of course!” She must’ve thought I was touched in the head. “One of these days, they’ll assemble a team from the Safe Havens and rescue those of us who stayed behind. Sister Cecilia says it won’t be long.”
I shook my head with a heavy heart. Three months cooped up there, cut off from the outside world. She didn’t have a clue.
“No one’s coming,” I muttered. “There’re no more Safe Havens. Everything’s gone to hell. You’re one of only a handful of survivors I’ve come across in three months.”
Lucia looked at me, dumbfounded. I think if I’d said we’d eaten roasted baby for dinner, she couldn’t have had a more horrified expression.
“What?” She wrung her hands nervously. “That can’t be.” She was talking more to herself than to me. “Someone has to come. There’s got to be someone in charge!”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “I’ve roamed around the entire area for several weeks. I’ve only come across a handful of survivors.” I lit a cigarette. “And they weren’t very nice people. The Safe Havens are a graveyard. Lack of food and disease weakened all the refugees. And,” I added, noting how the color drained out of her face, “those monsters overpowered the defense forces and finished everyone off.”
Lucia’s legs buckled. She fell back against the wall and slid to the floor, staring into space, in shock. “No one left,” she murmured. “No one…what’ll happen to us?”
“Us?” I looked at her, puzzled. Then I remembered she’d said something about a Sister Cecilia. “Is there someone else with you?”
She nodded as tears welled up in her eyes. She pointed to the metal door I’d kicked a minute before.
I helped her to her feet. Her skin was soft. For a split second, I got a whiff of her scent. It wasn’t perfume. It was a soft, warm human fragrance with a pungent female undertone. She smelled like a woman. Six months of abstinence had made my sense of smell very keen.
Lucia looked me in the face. For a moment I thought I’d drown in her eyes. They were like vast green lakes. My head was buzzing. I felt dizzy. Lucullus’s scratches brought me back to reality. My cat was trying to get my attention. He was determined to climb my pant leg, pissed off that we weren’t paying any attention to him.
We retraced our steps across that expanse of water from the basement to the foot of the stairs. Although we’d just met (or maybe because of that), we splashed along side by side without saying a word. Occasionally one of us tripped on something hidden underwater and leaned on the other to get our balance, muttering “Thanks” or “Watch out.” That was it.
Funny. I was convinced that if I found another survivor, someone besides the laconic Ukrainian, I’d talk up a storm. But now I didn’t know what to say. I was as tongue-tied as a teenager on a first date. Maybe she felt the same way.
Actually, I think it’s easy to explain what happened. After months of isolation and silence, after all the stress and danger, we’d painfully learned the value of silence. There were things we didn’t need to talk about. The presence of another living being was one of them. We were enjoying that rediscovered experience so intensely we thought (or at least I thought) talking might break the spell.
We made it back to the chapel in just a few minutes. What had seemed to take an eternity was surprisingly brief on the return trip. It helped that we hadn’t run into a single undead. The monsters had the run of the place, but this girl knew the building very well. We moved down closed-off corridors where no one had walked in months. It was all a blur to me. I was still in shock at finding a survivor who spoke my language, who didn’t try to put a bullet in me, and who seemed even more freaked out than I was. I needed some time to reflect.
With the key I’d hung around my neck, I unlocked the chapel. My first thought was—Prit’s dead. His head hung down at an unnatural angle, and he didn’t move a muscle. He was slumped over on the pew where I’d left him. His body was as limp as if he’d been in that chapel for a million years.
I rushed down the aisle, braced for the worst, sure the stress had gotten the best of the Ukrainian. All those months on the edge had taken their toll. I realized I was crying. No, Prit, please. Please.
When I got to his side, I found that the Ukrainian was breathing. A huge sigh of relief emptied my lungs. I cradled his head against my chest. Not yet, old friend, not yet. Hold on a little longer.
Pritchenko may not have been not dead, but his condition was alarming. His glazed eyes peered off into space. Drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, making him look helpless and fragile. I said his name over and over but got no answer. Prit was catatonic. Completely gone.
Lucia stood a few steps behind me, watching me with a puzzled expression. She just had to take one look at him to wonder how on earth I got there, dragging along an invalid—a short guy with a big mustache, one arm in a blood-soaked sling and a thousand small cuts on his face, who seemed to be on a different planet.
I felt her questioning gaze on my back. I got really mad. How the hell could I explain everything Prit had been through? How did I explain the horrors he’d braved to reach that lousy abandoned room?
Lucia didn’t ask any questions. She just spoke in a soft voice as she slipped an arm under Prit and helped him sit up. I was surprised how tenderly she treated him. She looked like a little girl nursing a baby duck with a broken wing.
We headed slowly back down to the metal door in the basement. Clearly Prit was in no condition to leave. Oh sure, I could go it alone (that is, Lucullus and I could). We’d probably make it, but I ruled out that option.
I couldn’t leave Prit behind. Not that girl either. And just thinking about going back out there alone made my stomach churn. No, for better or worse I’d stay with them. If I could endure all those ordeals, I could deal with whatever lay ahead.
When we reached the metal door with no lock, Lucia knocked a few times (two quick, three spaced apart, and finally a loud kick) and waited. After a few seconds, someone turned the lock from inside, and the door opened. Light streamed out through the open door, blinding us for a second.
Light.
Electricity. Somehow they had electricity.
I took a couple of steps toward the door. I smelled something really delicious cooking. I glanced back at the gloomy, damp tunnel and hesitated. I’d had bad experiences with other survivors. I didn’t know who or what I’d find on the other side of that door. Under the circumstances, I decided it was worth finding out. Bottom line, I had no choice. Not hesitating any longer, I stepped through the doorway. The heavy metal door closed behind us with a thud, leaving the hallway dark again.
Whatever came next, we were part of it.
Mid-July, 3:40 p.m.
I’ve spent four magical months recovering my sanity and putting some distance between me and the cornered animal I was becoming. Those months helped me remember I’m a human being, not just prey fighting to survive.
I’ve recovered physically, too, thanks to the rest, good food, and attentive care of my new friends. I’m back to the shape I was in before all hell broke loose. But not everything has healed. Part of me has grown hard and bitter, like a war veteran. My values and my idea of what’s important have changed. That shouldn’t be a surprise. The whole fucking world has changed.
Now we’re a group of four, not counting Lucullus. Prit and I have joined forces with Lucia and Sister Cecilia. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A fucking nun in the middle of this madness. As I write this, they’re working away at the stove, their backs to me. It’s great to have a hot meal every day.
Our refuge is fantastic. Behind the metal door and up a short flight of stairs is a subbasement that’s completely closed off from the rest of the hospital. This was the hospital’s huge kitchen, which turned out thousands of meals for staff and patients daily.
There are only three ways to gain access to the place: the freight elevator that carried supplies to the top floor, the stairs that connect to the rest of the hospital, and the emergency staircase we used to get in. The elevator was disabled by a piece of metal that held the doors open. The main staircase is cut off from the next floor by thick doors that are chained shut. The only possible way into the basement is down the emergency stairs. A single entrance and exit, protected by a fire door. Completely safe and impossible to get through.
But that’s not the best part. To our relief, the hospital’s emergency generators are still running, supplying power to this sector. The giant freezers in the kitchen, filled with enough food to feed an army, are still operating. Since there’re only four of us (and a cat who eats enough for two), I calculate we have enough frozen food for two years.
The hospital has its own water supply. Years ago, when they were digging the building’s foundations, they discovered a huge aquifer. So water’s not a problem.
All we have to worry about is the generators failing or running out of fuel. We don’t know exactly where they’re located or where the control panel is. We ration energy as much as we can, but we know that the generators’ reserves of diesel fuel aren’t infinite. Sooner or later we’ll have to face that situation.
Sister Cecilia Iglesias is an exceptional human being. She’s a small woman in her fifties, bubbly and plump with an intelligent twinkle in her eyes, from a remote village in Avila, like Spain’s patron saint, Saint Teresa. For the last fifteen years, she’d worked in a hospital run by her order a hundred or so miles from Nairobi, Kenya. She’d come to Vigo to give lectures at several religious schools but got trapped by the turmoil of the pandemic at the airport. At first she was housed in a crowded hotel in town, waiting for things to blow over. When it was clear that the situation was out of control, this energetic woman refused to be a passive refugee.
She learned that Meixoeiro Hospital was still caring for hundreds of people, but had an acute shortage of medical personnel. Most had fled or were dead. She didn’t hesitate to show up at its door, offering her services as a nurse. She spent the final weeks of civilization in a whirlwind of exhausting work that kept her from learning news of the outside world. While I was comfortably holed up in my house, Sister Cecilia was tending to a constant, heart-wrenching stream of wounded refugees.
Meixoeiro Hospital was the only medical center that was operational until almost the end. That’s why so many ambulances and cars kept making their way to its door to drop off dozens and dozens of injured people.
Sister Cecilia told me that a couple of army doctors sorted through the wounded at the entrance of to the ER. Those who had bites or scratches or had had some contact with the infected creatures were escorted by a platoon of soldiers to another “specialized medical center” nearby.
I didn’t have the heart to tell that pious woman that that “specialized” center never existed. The overwhelmed military must have applied their own brand of “final solution” to the injured for whom there was no hope. In some field nearby, there’re probably hundreds of dead with a bullet in their head, slowly rotting in a mass grave. That’s how terrible the situation had gotten.
Not counting those unfortunate people, there were still hundreds of sick and wounded that the overloaded hospital staff struggled to administer to. Traffic accidents, people injured in rioting and looting, stroke victims, patients with appendicitis…the whole spectrum of illnesses and accidents poured in. Meixoeiro Hospital reached crisis mode as the situation outside unraveled.
One day, the order came to evacuate everyone to the Vigo Safe Haven. Authorities could no longer secure the perimeter. Out of all the ambulances that responded to emergency calls, only half returned. The rest were mysteriously swallowed up.
A BRILAT armored unit appeared one morning to organize the evacuation convoy. Hundreds of sick and wounded were crammed on to the open beds of army trucks and into ambulances, taxis, private cars—anything with four wheels—along with tons of drugs and most of the medical staff. They had to leave behind about a hundred patients who were too sick to be moved. A small group of volunteers, Sister Cecilia among them, chose to stay to care for those poor doomed people so they didn’t have to suffer a slow, painful death alone. Maybe it would’ve been better if they had.
The group included three doctors and five nurses, counting Sister Cecilia. A small conglomeration of soldiers and policemen were stationed there as protection. Their mission was to hunker down in the hospital and wait for a larger rescue team that would come “at a later date.” Obviously, the rescue team never came.
While the medical team struggled to keep their critically ill patients alive, the soldiers systematically fortified the entrances. That accounts for the locked doors we encountered. The basement we’re in was christened “Numantia” by a sergeant with a macabre sense of humor, a place to reenact the Spaniards’ famous resistance to a Roman siege in the second century. If the defenses fell, everyone was to take refuge in this sector. The generators were set on automatic. They cut the power to the entire building except the kitchens. Once they’d done that, all they could do was wait.
That was when Lucia showed up. She’s a baby, just seventeen years old (“almost eighteen,” she never tires of saying), but she has a sexy, grown-up body. She lived with her parents in Bayona, a small tourist town about twelve miles from Vigo. When the order came to evacuate their town to a number of Safe Havens, the authorities attempted to carry it out in an orderly fashion. Somewhere they found a fleet of buses to move the people. While thousands of people waited at an inn on a small peninsula, buses tirelessly made the short trip over and over between Bayona and the Safe Havens.
In all the confusion, Lucia got on one bus and her parents got on another. Trusting she would easily find them at the Safe Haven, she made the trip without protest, overwhelmed by the situation like everyone else. However, the bus Lucia’s parents were on never reached its destination. Along the way, it mysteriously disappeared. Everyone feared the worst. Back then, attacks on the Safe Haven were getting worse as the undead swarmed everywhere.
Lucia nearly went crazy with despair. Alone, not knowing her parents’ fate, she was enveloped by the quagmire at the Safe Haven, crammed into a frozen-food warehouse along with three hundred other people. She decided to find her family. She reasoned that if they weren’t at the Safe Haven, the only other place they could be was Meixoeiro Hospital. So as rations dwindled and they recruited volunteers for reconnaissance groups, she was one of the first to sign up.
They issued her a camouflage jacket several sizes too big and heavy combat boots, but no weapons. There weren’t enough to go around, ammunition was getting scarce, and her frail appearance didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in the officer in charge. So she served as a porter. When the team reached its objective, one group secured the perimeter while another group raided the place. The porters had to drag out many pounds of nonperishable food and any other useful items they came across.
Lucia spent three grueling weeks cheating death on every outing. She saw half a dozen members of her team die. She was nearly caught once by an undead crouched down in a warehouse. But she still went out, day after day, waiting for her chance.
Finally, she got that chance. When she calculated that that day’s objective was relatively close to Meixoeiro Hospital, she slipped away from the group and started walking down the road toward the hospital. That was the most frightening forty-eight hours of her life. At night she hid anywhere that was high and inaccessible. At first light she started out again, dodging the undead, forced to spend long stretches of time in hiding, waiting for her predators to move on.
When she finally reached the hospital, the soldiers were dumbfounded. For weeks they hadn’t seen a single soul in the area, apart from the throngs of undead that wandered their way. The sight of that young girl, dressed like a soldier, walking up in search of her parents was disconcerting.
That brave girl was devastated to learn the hospital had no record of her parents. She realized she was completely alone. She didn’t know what to do next.
But the worst was yet to come. The presence of a pretty young girl among a group of isolated, brutalized young men created sexual tension. More and more fights broke out among those soldiers, whose nerves were on edge. One night, one of the soldiers got drunk off his ass and tried to rape her. Fortunately, one of the doctors stopped the guy just in time with a well-aimed blow to the head, but the situation was out of control.
The lieutenant in charge ordered Lucia and Sister Cecilia to remain in Numantia. They weren’t to leave for any reason. Outraged protests from the sister and Lucia did no good. The lieutenant was old school. He didn’t want women fraternizing with the men under his command. End of story. For a couple of weeks, they worked as cooks and helped out the doctors on the upper floors. Meanwhile patients died one by one of their grave illnesses, since the doctors lacked specialized drugs and couldn’t perform any kind of surgery. All the defensive team could do was wait.
But not for long. A couple of nights later, they lost radio contact with the Safe Haven. Hundreds of undead began to gather around the hospital. Instead of trying to fly under the radar, the lieutenant, an empty-headed, power-hungry idiot, ordered the soldiers to fire at will. The clackety-clack of automatic weapons drew an even larger crowd of those creatures like a magnet.
In the end, the undead managed to get in. Neither Sister Cecilia nor Lucia could explain how. They were entrenched in the basement as the drama unfolded above their heads. All they knew was that one of the soldiers, a very young, scared boy with a strong Andalusian accent, stuck his head in to Numantia and warned them to lock the door from inside.
For a couple of hours they heard shooting outside, explosions around the hospital complex, and then a bomb. The shooting soon ringed the interior corridors of the hospital. Then it stopped altogether. For two hours, the nun and the girl waited for someone to come tell them the fighting was over. No one ever showed up.
Steeling herself, Lucia took a risk and left Numantia to find out what had happened to the soldiers. She saw what Pritchenko and I found months later. Empty corridors, evidence of fighting everywhere, and not a single living being.
Since then, the two women have lived in that basement, protected from the outside. They had light, water, and food, and were safe from the undead. What they didn’t have was a clear idea of what the devil to do next. They knew the odds were not in their favor on the outside. On their own, they wouldn’t get very far. They concluded that their best option was to wait for the rescue party.
But all that showed up were two tired, injured, hungry, disoriented survivors. And a cat. Our arrival and the news from outside brought a mixture of horror and hope—horror at discovering there was nothing left of the civilization they knew; hope that, because of us, there was finally a solution to this complex situation.
Prit is a whole lot better. The minute we walked through the door, Sister Cecilia took him under her wing like a mother hen shelters her chick. Not only did she mend his shattered left hand with remarkable skill (although there was nothing she could do about his missing fingers), she also drew the Ukrainian out of the debilitating depression he’d sunk into. She diagnosed both of us as being shell shocked. It’s curable. Normally, a couple of weeks in a safe, quiet, stress-free environment alleviates it, but sometimes the sufferer never recovers.
Fortunately, Prit wasn’t one of those cases. His zest for life is too strong for a little thing like a nervous breakdown to get the best of him. I’ve seen his outlook slowly grow more positive. I’m sure the long talks he’s had with Sister Cecilia well into the night have contributed to his recovery. The nun and the Ukrainian have forged a close friendship based on trust.
Like many Slavs, Prit’s a devout Christian. Although Sister Cecilia’s Catholic and he’s Orthodox, her presence has comforted him deeply. During those long talks, he must have tried to make sense of this hell. Why did he lose his wife and child? Why did God unleash this catastrophe? I don’t know if he found any answers, but his search has been a balm for his wounded soul. Something inside his heart is broken forever, that’s for sure. Now at least he’s learning to live with the pain.
For my part, I prefer not to ponder it. Every minute of the day, I wonder what happened to my family. Damn, I never thought I could miss anyone in such an intense, hopeless way. It’s highly likely they’re mutants, I know, but I refuse to accept it.
I’ve had the same nightmare for weeks. I’m walking down a dark corridor. I can hear the sea splashing against one wall, but it doesn’t smell like the sea. It smells like something rotting. The corridor is littered with trash and shell casings. The walls are stained with something that looks like shit, but I know it’s dried blood. Suddenly, my sister and my parents come out of a door. They’ve been turned into those things. They walk toward me with blind eyes, after my blood. I’m armed in my dream, but I can’t raise my gun, and then…then I wake up, deeply upset, with an urge to throw up.
Undoubtedly, those who have changed into those creatures are in hell, but we survivors are living pretty close to that hell.
Mid-September, 9:45 a.m.
Yesterday afternoon, Prit and I were standing in the elevator shaft, discussing the fastest way to reach the SUV. We agreed we should drive it around to our exit in case we needed it in an emergency. Moving it from time to time it would also keep it in running condition. Winter was coming, and I was afraid the cold weather would damage the starter.
In the middle of our conversation, the Ukrainian straightened up suddenly, sniffing the air nervously like a retriever, with an intensely focused look on his face.
“Smell that?” he asked.
“Smell what?” I said. After nine months surrounded by trash and slowly rotting corpses, my sense of smell wasn’t as keen as it used to be.
“Fire,” Prit said as he closed his eyes and sniffed the air eagerly. His eyes flew open, boring into me.
“Fire? A fire? Here in the hospital?”
“Not in the hospital. A fire out there! In the forest! I’m sure of this.” Prit’s voice caught in his throat.
I trusted my pilot friend. After years of fighting wildfires, he could detect the faintest hint of a fire, fires the average person wouldn’t notice. I didn’t smell anything, but if the Ukrainian said he smelled smoke, that was the end of the discussion. The question was how it would affect us.
“It’s blowing in on the wind. Come here,” the Ukrainian continued.
“We should go take a look.”
“Yes.”
We stared at each other. The Ukrainian shook his head, and I cussed under my breath. We both knew what came next.
Shit, I thought. We had to get back out there. We had to stick our nose out of our little hole, whether we liked it or not.
After we’d made that decision, we headed back to Numantia to bring Sister Cecilia and Lucia up to speed. The look of dread on Lucia’s face when she heard what we were planning was almost comical.
As she helped me get into my patched wetsuit, she nervously chattered away nonstop, reminding me of a thousand things not to do. “Don’t take any chances, don’t go into dark places, don’t go near anything suspicious, don’t wander too far from Prit…”
I tried to calm her down, for my sake as well as hers. I was getting more nervous by the minute. Lucia isn’t a hysterical person, but the possibility that something would happen to us outside that refuge really got to her.
Finally, Prit and I were ready. We were armed with assault rifles the army had left behind. I was also carrying the speargun across my back, with a spear loaded and two more strapped to my right calf. The Ukrainian, decked out in an awful fuchsia tracksuit so bright it hurt your eyes, had a huge hunting knife tucked in a holster. He chewed some gum mechanically and was surprisingly calm.
We agreed that the best way out was through the elevator shaft. We wouldn’t have to go back through the dark hospital, plus it was the fastest way out. Once we were in the storeroom on the top floor, all we had to do was open a window to get a view of the entire valley surrounding the hospital.
We soon discovered that climbing up the elevator cables was harder than it looks in the movies. They were covered in grease, and the noise we made as we climbed should’ve attracted a legion of those monsters. But as far as we could tell, things were going our way. At least for a while.
After struggling to the top floor, Prit eased the elevator door open, ready to duck back inside at the first sign of danger. I kept the cable as taut as possible. If there was trouble, we could slide back down to the ground floor.
Prit slithered behind the door like an eel and disappeared out on to the upper floor. For fifteen long seconds, I didn’t hear a sound. Just when I thought my nerves would snap, the Ukrainian slipped back behind the door and signaled that the coast was clear. Strangely clear.
For the first time in months, I felt sunlight directly on my skin. It felt so good that I stood stock still for a moment, enjoying that wonderful sensation. We were standing in a warehouse on the top floor. From there we’d ventured out into the ambulance garage. Sunlight was streaming in the heavy metal gate trucks used to drive through, which had been left wide open during the evacuation. That discovery made my stomach clench. With that door open, there was nothing to keep the undead from wandering around this huge room. But there wasn’t any sign of them.
Prit and I peered out. It was a beautiful late summer day. Although the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky, the windchill from a strong north wind made it very cold. That wind also carried the strong smell of burning wood. Even I could smell it now.
My gaze swept nervously from side to side as I tried to detect any suspicious activity, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. Only dozens of birds darting everywhere, completely disoriented. The air was so charged with electricity it almost crackled.
Suddenly Pritchenko elbowed me in the ribs. I looked in the direction he was pointing. Over the hills at the end of the valley, about a mile away, rose a thick column of smoke. Enormous black spirals twisted and turned with a fury. An evil glow dyed the horizon orange, adding a sinister, surreal touch to the landscape.
I stood there, horrified at what I saw. A fire. A huge, uncontrollable forest fire. A couple of days before, a strong storm with a lot of thunder and lightning but no rain had hit in the area. Maybe lightning from that storm started that fire. Or a gas cylinder left out in the sun for months. Or a hundred other damn things I could come up with. No way to say for sure.
All I knew was that with no one to fight that fire it was reaching terrifying proportions, destroying everything in its path. As if someone had read my thoughts, a powerful explosion shook the air. A huge orange fireball rose over the horizon. The fire had just devoured a car, probably more than one, given the size of the explosion. That fire was becoming a monster.
Then I suddenly remembered the strange lack of undead in the area. I wondered if something had warned them to escape the flames. Wouldn’t surprise me. Those creatures seemed to be driven by the same basic instincts as animals. One of the most basic impulses of nature is self-preservation.
Somehow the undead had perceived the danger and left for safer areas. Or maybe the flames had trapped hundreds, maybe thousands, of them. Even so, there’d still be millions of those lost souls wandering around. No, the fire wasn’t the solution to the problem. It posed an even greater problem. And we survivors certainly didn’t need any more problems. We could hardly keep our heads above water as it was.
A couple of wild boars ran out of the tangled patch of weeds the front garden had become and raced across the deserted parking lot, fleeing the wall of flame. Prit and I looked at each other. The animals were following their instincts and getting the hell out. We should follow their example. You didn’t need finely honed instincts to figure that out. One look at the edge of the fire and the direction the wind was blowing told us that the hospital would be engulfed in a couple of hours, four at the most. There was no time to lose.
We quickly rounded the southern wall of the hospital toward the parking lot, where we’d left the SUV months ago. I remembered I’d left the passenger door wide open, and a couple of those things had gotten inside. We didn’t know what we’d find, but we were pretty sure the SUV’s battery would be completely dead. I wasn’t sure I’d turned off the headlights when I dragged Prit out of the car. Just in case, at the bottom of my backpack was a brand-new battery we’d scavenged from the ambulance repair shop.
As we rushed around, switching the new battery for the old one, I felt a strong sense of déjà vu. It was the same situation we’d lived through months before, when we landed at the port of Vigo. Only now we weren’t flying blind like before. And we didn’t have a bunch of armed Pakistanis hovering over us. That made a huge difference. I wondered what became of the crew of Zaren Kibish. As far as I was concerned, they could burn in hell.
The motor coughed a couple of times, hesitated, then started up. Just then, the first flames broke over the hills near the hospital. The sky was bright orange, and the smell of smoke was getting stronger. The wind had picked up, and the temperature had risen a couple of degrees. The situation was getting uglier by the minute.
We drove around the building without seeing a single one of those monsters. Crunching on the dry gravel, we pulled the SUV up to the tunnel leading to the storeroom. Prit waited in the car with the engine running while I shot down the greased elevator cable to the bottom floor.
Sister Cecilia and Lucia were waiting near the elevator car, looking really worried. You could smell the smoke in the basement now. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I saw wisps of smoke floating in the light of the magnesium lamps.
I quickly brought them up to speed. A huge fire was approaching the hospital. There was no way to contain it; it would reach us in about an hour and would burn the place to the ground. Even the undead had fled as fast as their battered bodies would take them. We had to get out now, or we’d be burned to a crisp.
Their reaction was more serene than I’d imagined. I’d had a mental image of a meltdown or even an outright refusal to leave the safety of the basement, but they took the news in stride. Lucia went to retrieve the emergency backpacks we’d packed. The nun asked if there was a way to unlock the elevator and get it back in operation. “There are many things this nun can do,” she said, “but climbing up a cable covered in grease is not one of them. So move your butt, my son, or you’ll have to take me out the long way, and that would take too much time.”
I smiled, shaking my head, too impressed to speak. Those two were made of strong stuff. They had to be to have survived on their own for so long and endured that hell without getting devoured. Where big, hairy-chested men had collapsed like a broken spring in the face of difficulties, those women just gritted their teeth and kept on going. They were definitely not delicate, prim, and proper ladies. Just the opposite.
Just then, Lucia came back around the corner, piled high with two huge army backpacks and another one in tow. We’d packed everything we thought we’d need when it came time to leave—dozens of freeze-dried army ration packets, a huge first-aid kit that could treat a regiment, ammunition, flares, my shortwave radio (with no batteries, since a sailor on the Zaren Kibish had decided he needed them), liters of water, and God knows what else.
I heaved the heaviest backpack on to my back and helped Lucia put hers on. Despite Sister Cecilia’s indignant protests, I didn’t let her carry the third backpack. Lucia and I dragged it and the box with Lucullus in it. Things hadn’t gotten so bad that a woman her age had to carry a backpack that weighed as much as she did.
Before we got in the elevator, I took one last look around and felt a twinge of nostalgia. I’d lived an almost normal life there for months. It might’ve been the only safe place with electricity, water, food, and comfort for many miles. Not only did we have to leave, but it would be engulfed in flames in minutes, and there was nothing we could do about it. The thought that such a wonderful place was going to vanish made my heart sink. I smiled, bitterly aware of the strange irony underlying that thought. To us a dark, locked basement, full of food smells, the walls covered in damp condensation, seemed wonderful. That was fucked up.
I stuck the ivory rosary the nun had left on a table into my pocket and walked slowly to the elevator, where the women were waiting for me. I didn’t bother to turn the lights off. What did it matter? The Titanic had gone down with all its lights on too. And the orchestra playing on the deck.
After a quick inspection, I realized the elevator would be surprisingly easy to unblock. I just had to remove a huge soup ladle someone had wedged into the gap that allowed the door to close. When I pulled it out, the door snapped shut with a deafening metallic screech. Almost immediately, the cabin started to rise slowly, with very unsettling jolts.
Our ascent was slow and tense. Smoke filtered through the vents, drying our throats. Its acrid smell became more intense. I kept picturing dozens of those things waiting patiently at the top for the special of the day. I pictured dozens of eager mouths, outstretched arms reaching into the elevator to tear us apart and devour us.
I squeezed my eyes shut; I was breathing really fast. I couldn’t do a thing, not a damn thing…
A hand rested on my arm. I opened my eyes and saw the calm look on Lucia’s face. She squeezed my arm affectionately and whispered warmly in my ear, “Take it easy. Everything’ll be all right.” Then she gave my earlobe a playful, not-so-innocent nibble that almost sent me through the roof of the elevator. Naughty girl.
The elevator came to a stop with an even stronger jolt. The door was stuck, after not being used for so long. It wouldn’t open all the way, so we had to push on it. Once outside, we stopped, overwhelmed by what we saw.
Clouds of smoke enveloped the grounds and the parking lot, reducing visibility to about an eighth of a mile. Everything glowed an unhealthy red, like a scene out of hell. We could clearly see the flames moving over the hills. When the fire breached the hills, it flew downhill, devouring everything in its path. A huge stand of eucalyptus trees was engulfed by the flames. The heat was so intense, they exploded like matches thrown into a fireplace. Thousands of sparks flew everywhere, carried by the wind whipped up by the fire. Some of those sparks fell on highly combustible dry underbrush, starting new fires. The situation was much more chaotic than we’d foreseen. The gusting wind had pushed the fire along even faster than we anticipated. In less than fifteen minutes, it would be licking the hospital’s walls.
Our eyes tearing from the smoke, we reached the SUV. Even though its lights were on, it was almost invisible in all the ash and fire. A restless Prit was waiting for us next to the SUV, beckoning for us to hurry, all the while monitoring the entire area. I noticed he’d taken the safety off his rifle, something that hadn’t occurred to me. Once a soldier, always a soldier. Those precautions must be etched into his subconscious.
While everyone stuffed packages into the trunk, I slipped into the driver’s seat. In this situation, I preferred to take the wheel. I’d had enough of the Ukrainian driving experience—the last thing we needed was an accident.
When everyone was aboard, we sped away in a cloud of dust, sending gravel flying in all directions. The scene was right out of Dante’s Inferno. A huge red cloud enveloped everything as far as the eye could see, which wasn’t very far, just forty or fifty yards ahead of the headlights. The roar of the flames was punctuated by explosions and the crackle of burning dry wood. I crossed the parking lot in the dark. At the last second, I dodged the abandoned wreck of a bloodstained Peugeot.
I finally found the exit, framed by two monstrous pieces of concrete, and then crossed through fifty yards of barbed wire fence. With a jolt that drew shouts of protest from all my passengers, we ran over a rotting corpse crawling with maggots that lay in the middle of the road.
We’d only been on the road for a mile or so when a huge explosion reverberated in the air, shaking our vehicle. The flames must’ve reached the oxygen tanks stored on the hospital grounds. The explosion was so violent I was sure it brought down half of the front wall. For the next fifteen minutes, we heard a series of explosions, one right after another, as flames devoured abandoned vehicles in the parking lot.
Finally, a massive explosion, considerably more powerful than the rest, made us jump out of our skin. It was either the fuel for the generators or the furnace. The flames had made it into the building.
Blessed Christ. We were on the road again, with no shelter, but with two more people. What next?
We drove the rest of the way in silence. Lucia and Sister Cecilia must’ve wondered where the hell we were going, but they refrained from asking. Maybe they were thinking that the first order of business was outrunning the fire. We’d decide our fate once we reached safety.
Nothing was further from reality.
Prit and I hadn’t forgotten the little metal part in the Cyrillic-covered package, stashed in the pocket of the Ukrainian’s backpack. That part was all that ensured that the helicopter would still be there, waiting for us.
The helicopter. A temporary solution to our problems. Prit and I had talked about it so often over those long, wonderful months. The forestry heliport where Pritchenko had parked his helicopter was less than eight miles as the crow flies from Meixoeiro Hospital. We’d plotted the best way to get there on a road map, combining the Ukrainian’s and my memories of the area. It was feasible to get there via secondary roads and abandoned firewalls that didn’t appear on maps. We wouldn’t be in much danger, since we’d be traveling through unpopulated areas. We’d planned to make a run to the helipad in October, when the rain would hide our movements from the undead, and then fly the helicopter to the hospital and fill it up with supplies. But that fucking fire had forced us to move up our plans.
In theory our plan didn’t seem too complicated, especially since the fire wasn’t moving in that direction. But a sudden shift in the wind could change all that. For now, we were driving in an area that seemed safe. Meanwhile the fire was devouring the huge hospital complex, reducing it to rubble that glowed in the distance as flames leaped out the windows on the upper floors. That fire was moving through the valley at an amazing speed. I could make out the backlit shapes of the buildings on the outskirts of Vigo. If the fire wasn’t stopped, it would devour the city, burning it to the ground in hours. And the only thing that would stop it was a heavy downpour.
The old world of mankind was definitely over. The new world, the world of the undead, the Cadaver World, had taken its place, gradually destroying every trace of our presence on earth. I had a terrifying thought. We scattered survivors were the last of our race.
There weren’t any obstacles in our path until the last mile, where a landslide had blocked the road. We traveled the rest of the way along an old firebreak that ended near the boulder where I’m sitting now, writing this. From the top of the hill, about two thousand feet above sea level, we have a rare view of the entire Ria Vigo, part of the Ria Pontevedra, and several miles inland. There are no signs of life anywhere. Human life, that is.
The base was completely deserted and had been for several months, judging by the thick weeds growing up to the door. It took a good five minutes to hack our way to the fenced-off area.
Three Hours Later
To our relief, Prit’s helicopter was still at the base. It’s an enormous PZL W-3A Sokól with an elongated nose. Its body is painted red and white, its blades black and white. It rested on its oversize tires with all the doors open. On top of the cabin was a huge hump in which, Prit explained, were located the two monstrous turbines that drive the thing. The interior is spacious and wide. In addition to the pilot and copilot, it could fit ten people, although usually the fire brigades had only nine members, to give them more leg room.
Using a small tractor, we rolled the huge machine on to the tarmac. From where I’m sitting now, I can see Prit perched between the blades. He’s got the turbine housing open and is tuning up one of the motors. I’m glad the Ukrainian’s here. Not only has he proven to be a great companion, but thanks to him, we can get out of here.
The fire is now devouring the area north of Vigo. With high-powered binoculars, I’ve spent the last three hours scanning the horizon all the way to the city limits, about ten miles away. I can’t see many details through the thick black smoke. There are frequent explosions as the fire devours vehicles, service stations, gas pipes, and the thousands of flammable things in a city that size. I’m so glad I’m not there.
Smoke also keeps me from getting a look at the port, which is wrapped in a dense cloud of ash and soot. I wonder if the Zaren Kibish is still anchored in the bay or if they managed to get out.
Wherever I point the binoculars, I can see them. The undead. Thousands of them, swarming everywhere. I imagine the fire will force them out of the city, and they’ll roam the fields and small towns and suburbs, looking for something to sink their teeth into. God knows what they’ll find. I’m sure the fire trapped many of them in the maze of Vigo’s streets, but from what I can tell, most got out in time. On the way, we passed a few of them at a safe distance, but it’s only a matter of time before they make their way here.
So we’d better get the hell out of here. And go far, far away.
We’ve chosen a destination—Tenerife in the Canary Islands. It’s the logical choice. Anywhere on the European continent, we’ll have the same problems as here. These days, this part of the world is no place for humans. We’re sick of it. I’m tired of living like a cornered animal. We need a place where there’s peace, food, electricity, and, most importantly, people. Man is a social animal; he needs to be around other humans. We’ll go crazy if we don’t have new faces, new people, new ideas. If we don’t find a bigger group of people, I’m afraid we’ll lose part of our humanity.
On the helicopter’s radio, we picked up some very weak transmissions, full of static. We’re sure they’re military transmissions regarding air traffic at Los Rodeos Airport in Tenerife. That airport is still operational, so we assume there’s an enclave of people. Lucia reminded us that the sea and airspace around the islands had been closed to keep more people from fleeing there. But that was months ago. They might welcome a new group of survivors now.
I kept going over the one problem I foresaw: the enormous distance we’ll have to travel. Over a thousand miles from this part of the peninsula to the Canary Islands. The range of a helicopter like the Sokól is around 250 miles, so we ruled out flying in a straight line. Our only alternative is to fly over the peninsula, across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tarfaya, Morocco, the town closest to the islands. Then, just a couple of hours’ flying time separate us from the island of Fuerteventura.
Refueling along the way will be a problem, to say the least. We have no idea what to expect at airports and airfields along the way, or even if they’ll still be there. You can’t get helicopter fuel at a gas station. It has to be the kind of fuel you can only get in refineries and airports. I’ve racked my brain, but haven’t come up with a solution.
This morning, Prit and I pored over the map and debated all the possibilities our limited range allowed. The Ukrainian was in favor of flying south along the Portuguese coast, refueling in Oporto, Lisbon, Huelva, Tangier, Rabat, and Casablanca, and then heading for the islands.
After our experience in Vigo, landing on the outskirts of a metropolis like Oporto that once had hundreds of thousands of inhabitants sounded like a nightmare. I was in favor of heading for the interior, to unpopulated areas, filling up at heliports and small airports like this one. I realized that the chances of finding “dry” airfields without a drop of fuel were considerably higher than in a large airport. Even so, I thought my plan was preferable to negotiating a big city.
Either option involved a lot of risks. To put it bluntly, a journey full of horrors.
The solution, once again, came from Lucia. While Prit and I went on and on about the plan, she was listening, gazing thoughtfully at the bottom of the helicopter. Suddenly, she interrupted us.
“Prit, what’s that?” she asked, pointing to a strange basket bolted on to the belly of the giant Sokól.
“That?” said the Ukrainian. “That’s the bambi.”
When he saw the strange look on our faces, he explained. “The bambi is what we call the bag we fill with water to put out fires. I usually carried crews to the fire and then unfolded the bambi, filled it in a nearby river, and emptied it on the flames. I repeated the process over and over.” He smiled. “It was my job, you know?”
“How much does it hold?” Lucia asked, with an intelligent gleam in her eyes.
“About five hundred gallons. I don’t see what the hell difference that makes,” Pritchenko snapped.
“Wait! I think I know where she’s going with this,” I chimed in. “Five hundred gallons are—”
“Of course! Two tons! Instead of carrying water, we carry fuel. Our range would be…”
Lucia looked inquiringly at Pritchenko, but he’d already turned his back on us, grabbed some paper, and made some quick calculations. After a few minutes, he gave a couple of satisfied grunts, turned, smiled, and winked.
“I think it’ll work. We fill the tank to the brim. With a five-hundred-gallon tank of fuel hanging below, we could get there without refueling anywhere. It’d be close, especially if we run into a headwind. But we just might make it.” He stopped and stared into space and did more calculations in his head. “We just might make it,” he repeated with a sparkle in his excited eyes. “Yes, it might work.”
My chest swelled with joy. We were getting out of here. I couldn’t believe it.
So now, while Prit puts the finishing touches on the Sokól’s turbines, a shiny mountain of barrels filled to the top with helicopter fuel are stacked neatly on the edge of the track, inside a huge, superstrong transport net. The plan is to hang that huge bag from the belly of the helicopter, where the bambi would normally be. Each time we need to refuel, Prit’ll land the helicopter in a clearing and pour some of those barrels into the helicopter’s tank. A piece of cake after all we’ve been through.
The helicopter is loaded with our belongings, and everyone’s ready to leave at first light. Lucia and Sister Cecilia are resting inside the hangar. Prit just closed the hood of the turbines, looking very satisfied.
I’m sitting on this huge rock at the end of the heliport. Lucullus is curled up at my feet, chewing on my shoelaces. The sun is setting over the river, casting golden sparkles on the water. It feels strange to think I may never see this landscape again.
We’re the last train leaving the station. If there’s anyone left in this area, I’m afraid his chances are slim to none.
Chances are slim that someone will come here in the future. But just in case, I’m leaving a copy of my journal in a plastic envelope on a table in the hangar. What if everything goes to hell and something happens to us along the way? At least if someone reads this, he’ll know that for nine long months a group of people fought hard for their lives. We never surrendered. We always kept in our hearts the most noble, beautiful feeling that sets human beings apart: hope.
Okay. I’m going to take a nap. Tomorrow will be a crazy day.