Dark Days (Apocalypse Z) (20 page)

BANG
! The shot was amplified a million times in that huge room, startling Basilio out of his thoughts. He whipped around to face Eric, who’d gone down on one knee and fired the beretta three times in rapid sequence. At the back of the room, a doctor stopped in his tracks, as if
he’d hit a concrete wall, then collapsed as a fountain of blood spurted out his neck. A nurse lay sprawled on the floor at his feet. The nurse who’d had her back turned was now draped over her patient in a strange, deadly embrace awash in blood and brains.

“Eric! What the hell’re you doing?” Basilio roared.

“That nurse saw us,” replied the Belgian, in a strangely slow voice. A demented smile drew up the corners of his mouth. “They were going to set off the alarm, Bas! What else could I do?” He shrugged as if to say
Don’t blame me
.

Basilio’s anger was oozing out every pore, but he didn’t lose control. Two thoughts fired through his cold, dark mind. First, he shouldn’t have brought that maniac Belgian along. Second, they had to get out of there—fast. People were yelling and screaming all over the hospital, and he could hear an alarm blaring in the distance.

“You’ve fucked things up real good, pal!” Basilio growled, as he finished emptying the contents of the syringe into the nun’s IV. He spent a few seconds of the little time they had to escape making sure every drop entered the old woman’s body. He wouldn’t have time to calmly smoke a cigarette and watch the old woman die the way he’d planned. He wanted to be sure the morphine was in her body and there was nothing they could do to save her, especially in all that confusion.

“Done.” He put the syringe in his pocket, cast a last glance at Sister Cecilia’s pale face and barreled out the door. “Let’s go before…”

Basilio’s words froze in the air. The old sailor’s eyes opened wide as saucers and he zeroed in on the two figures silhouetted in the doorway. One was a short nurse wearing a lot of makeup and a plunging neckline, but the other nurse… Basilio would’ve recognized that figure and those green eyes anywhere. They’d haunted his dreams for weeks.

“It’s her,” he muttered in disbelief. Then overcome by his rage, he yelled, “It’s the other bitch! Kill her!”

With a twisted smile that would’ve struck fear in the devil himself, the Belgian raised his pistol and licked his lips.

Two shots rang out.

29

MADRID

The SuperPuma landed with a jolt on the parking lot, its blades sending up swirls of smoke. As soon as it touched down, there was the sound of tearing metal. Instantly alarms went off and red lights lit up the dashboard.

“Jesus Christ, Prit! What’s that?” I shouted, my voice shrill with fear.

“Don’t know…” The Ukrainian mumbled as he focused on controlling the plane. With just its two front wheels on the ground, it was spinning out of control, like a top. Everything that wasn’t tied down or screwed into the wall went flying, amid shouts from the passengers, who clutched their seats, white-knuckled.

After one very long minute, the spinning slowed down and the SuperPuma finally came to a complete stop. For a moment there was complete silence in the cabin.

“Everyone okay?” someone finally asked. A chorus of grunts answered as we stood up cautiously, afraid Prit might treat us to another crazed ride. We were bruised, but in one piece.

“Can somebody tell me what the hell happened?” Tank asked.

“Ask the pilot, sir,” a sergeant replied acidly. “I’m still trying to find my stomach.”

But Tank couldn’t ask the pilot. Prit had unbuckled his harness, bolted outside and headed for the back of the helicopter, leaping over charred bodies. After a few seconds, the Ukrainian hopped back in the cockpit.

“The tail rotor came loose,” he said calmly, as he unscrewed the top of his flask. “We can’t take off.”

“Whadda ya mean we can’t take off?” one soldier asked in a hushed voice. “How long till we
can
take off?”

“Never.” Prit answered, matter-of-factly, the way you’d talk about the game on Sunday, and scratched his head thoughtfully. “The napalm explosion or debris knocked the tail rotor rennet loose. Or maybe it just fell off. This Puma has been sitting out in the open for months, so it’s hard to say. I do know this bird is
kaput
. Dead.”

“Can’t you fix it?” Tank asked.

“Maybe… if I had a new propeller, a complete set of differentials, a case of beer, a couple of expert mechanics to help me, and twenty hours to do it. So, no, I can’t.”

“Whadda we do?” asked a voice that couldn’t hide the fear. “How do we get back?”

“Find other transportation,” Pritchenko said with a shrug. “What choice do we have?”

A chill ran through the plane. You didn’t have to be a genius to realize that our chances of survival were severely reduced.

“Prit,” I said in a frightened voice. “That means we have to go with them… in there.”

“I know,” he said casually, as if we were talking about a walk on the beach.

“How the hell can you be so calm!” I exploded.

“
Fatalism
,” he said with a sad smile.

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

He took a long swig from his flask. “Well, the helicopter is damaged and can’t take off. But, staying here won’t fix it. It’s fate,
kapish
? It is what it is. Getting upset won’t do any good.
Niet
?”

I glared at him. “Sometimes you really piss me off! The way you think is too damn Russian for me!”

“Ukrainian,” Prit corrected me with an unflappable smile. “
Ukrainian
thinking. The Russians are farther north.”

“Whatever you say, Prit,” I answered, my spirits deflated. That guy was impossible. Times like these brought out Prit’s Slavic peasant soul. He accepted hard times with resignation, like his ancestors had done for centuries. He just gritted his teeth and kept moving because there was no way to turn back.

Some of the team members had already slid open the door and were about to jump out. I hesitated. Suddenly I felt very cold, even though sweat was pouring down my back. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry as a desert. I patted my pockets in search of a cigarette, but my hand was trembling so hard I couldn’t unbutton the pocket flap. Anxiety squeezed my heart like an invisible hand. In that state I’d screw up before I took two steps outside. A thought flashed before me—I was going to die there. My vision got blurry, my head started spinning… Dear God!

“Hey! Take it easy.” Pritchenko’s familiar, reassuring voice brought me back to reality. The Ukrainian rested a hand on my shoulder and stared at me, a couple of inches from my face. With measured calm, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, lit one, and stuck it between my lips.

“Prit, I can’t go out there.” My voice cracked. “They’ll kill me. They’ll catch me in the blink of an eye. Fuck! What the hell’re we doing here?”

“You’ll be okay.” The Slav helped me to my feet with one hand and slung his rifle over his shoulder with the other. “You did great before and you’ll do great this time, too. Don’t worry. We’ve been in tighter spots, you and me, and we got out okay, right?”

I nodded hesitantly. Everyone else had climbed out of the helicopter. Tank was shouting our names as the rest of the team divided into their groups.

“Remember the little store in Vigo, with the Pakistanis?” A smile spread across Prit’s face. “We were in deep shit, alone, unarmed, no vehicles, surrounded by those monsters, crammed into that fucking crawl space. If we could get out of that, this is—how do you say it—a piece of cake!”

I nodded, with a shaky smile. Pritchenko was right. I thought being classified as “veterans” was strange, but few people had spent as much time among the Undead as we had and had lived to tell the tale.

I let out a long, deflated sigh. If we were the best hope the human race had for its salvation, things were more fucked up than I’d thought.

I took a deep drag on my cigarette and watched the Argentine attach the MG3 to its tripod with the tired look of an expert who’s done that a million times. Okay, so we were back in the middle of that shit, but at least this time we had a plan, and we were surrounded by people who were really good at what they did. Plus, Prit and I had each other and that was no small thing. Maybe those guys with the napalm would take another pass to clear the area. Maybe we’d get out of this with our hide still intact.

“Ready?” The Ukrainian cocked his HK.

“Ready, comrade,” I replied, cautiously pulling out my Glock. “Stick close, okay?”

“Okay. Lucia’ll kill me if anything happens to you and I have no desire to lug your cat around.” He gave me a sly grin. “Let’s go.”

When we jumped down onto what I thought was the surface of the parking lot, one of my legs sunk into what felt like a hole, and a putrid stench flew up my nose. Pauli watched me, half-worried, half-amused.

“Careful. You just stepped in that poor devil’s lungs,” she said with a smirk.

What I’d taken as the parking lot’s scorched surface was a carpet of charred, smoldering bodies. When I jumped out of the helicopter, my right leg sunk into the chest of a burned corpse, shredded its ribs, and came to rest on what was left of its spine. Grossed out, I stepped back and pulled my boot free, nearly losing my balance.

Tank’s steel grip on my arm stopped me from falling onto the charred remains.

“Stick with your team,” he said dryly, his shark eyes glaring at me. “Protect the computer guy. Without him, this entire mission is pointless.”

I shrugged him off, wondering what was so special about that fucker Broto and walked over to Prit, carefully stepping over all the charred bodies.

“We go with them,” Prit said pointing to Pauli and Marcelo. “Apparently we have to babysit that freaked-out computer hot shot.”

“Any idea why?”

“Not a clue,” Prit said with a sigh. “But surely in a few minutes—look out!”

The Ukrainian jumped back like he’d seen a snake and he shoved me out of his line of fire. I turned just in time to see two horribly charred Undead less than five feet away from us. They were burned so badly you couldn’t tell their ages or sex, but they moved pretty well, considering their condition.

Prit raised his HK and opened fire at the one on the right. In a split second the rattle of his rifle merged with bursts from other weapons. All the Undead still standing in that parking lot were headed right for us.

The napalm had killed most of those monsters, but three or four dozen still ringed the helicopter and were closing in. The roar of HKs mixed with the bark of the Glocks, and in the background you could hear short, rhythmic bursts from the Argentine’s MG3.

Our two Undead were awfully close and Prit and I faced them alone. The rest of the team was hurriedly shooting in other directions, focusing on their immediate area. The deafening noise drew more and more Undead. They just kept coming.

Pritchenko’s first shot ripped a hole in the Undead’s chest. It staggered back, shaken by the impact for a moment, but kept coming toward us. The Ukrainian corrected his aim and fired again, this time at its head, transforming it into viscous pulp that splattered in every direction. That Undead collapsed in a heap, but Prit and I didn’t have time to watch. He calmly aimed at the other Undead, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. His gun emitted a horrifying metallic
clank
. We froze, as the Undead approached, unstoppable.

“It’s jammed!” Prit shouted. “Fuck! It’s jammed! Shoot at that one, fast!”

As if in a dream, I raised the Glock. I watched my thumb free the safety the way the instructor had taught me in Tenerife. I focused all my attention on the creature advancing toward us. I shut out the rest of the world. All that existed was that charred monster, the sight on that heavy Glock, and me.

I heard myself breathing. I felt my finger slowly press the trigger—and fired.

But the hammer made just a muffled
clank
.

30

TENERIFE

The gunshots got Lucia’s attention first. As she pushed through the heavy fire doors, she was struck by the eerie silence in that room. Next, her gaze flew to the burly orderly bent over Sister Cecilia, his head pressed against the nun’s head as if he were telling her a secret. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a red-haired guy sliding along the wall to her right with his hand behind his back.