Dark Days (Apocalypse Z) (25 page)

The back door opened into another laboratory similar to the first. Her heart pounding wildly, Lucia realized that that last door had a lock on the inside. She pushed with all her strength, closed the door behind her, and bolted it.

She quickly backed away from the door and tripped over a chair that a technician had left in the middle of the room. She tried to keep her balance and for a second she thought she was going to stay on her feet, but she was falling too fast. She threw out her left hand in desperation to grab hold of a control panel, but her fingers slid over the buttons, pressing them randomly as she fell. The razor-sharp scalpel in her right hand
cut a wide arc on her leg. The thin slit in her white nurse’s uniform was immediately stained red. That cut was thin and shallow but it was bleeding profusely.

“Awwww fuck!” she cried out in pain and cursed her clumsiness.

There was a thud on the other side of the door. Dragging her leg and cursing, Lucia braced herself on the control panel and got to her feet. Her eyes fell on the buttons she’d accidentally pressed. Horrified, she read the label on the panel:
CELL OPENING SYSTEM
. The muffled groan she heard outside the door told her exactly which cells she’d stupidly opened.

39

MADRID

My cry of horror faded as my lungs run out of air. I was so overcome, I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. The room was a huge mausoleum, a scene from a movie that ends tragically.

Dozens of bodies were scattered everywhere in twos and threes. Most were swollen like the body I’d tripped over, but a few were dried out like thousand-year-old mummies. There were an equal number of men and women, mostly civilians, but a few wore military uniforms. Everybody clasped the same kind of crumpled paper cup.

“There you are!” I heard Prit’s familiar voice behind me as he rocketed into the room. “How the hell’d you get in here?” he asked, when he was sure I was in one piece. “If I hadn’t heard you screaming like a madman, I’d never…” Prit’s last words hung in the air.

The two legionnaires behind him stopped short when they got a look at the scene. “What the hell…” one of them mumbled.

A terrible thought occurred to me. I stepped carefully around a body and walked over to a table in the middle of the room. An enormous pan sat on a camp stove. Dozens of empty soft drink bottles were scattered around it, along with two smaller bottles. I picked one up and shined my flashlight on it. A skull and crossbones printed on an orange
label smiled at me. Below it were a chemical formula and the hospital’s logo. Across the label, someone had scrawled “hydrocyanic acid.”

“Mass suicide,” I muttered, letting the bottle fall into the pan.

Any liquid left in that pan had evaporated long ago. No doubt it was once filled to the brim with soft drinks laced with that powerful poison.

“Who are they? Why’d they do that?” Prit asked.

“They are the last survivors of the Autonomous Government of Greater Madrid,” Tank said, “the ones whose evacuation convoy never made it to Barajas Airport.” My gaze wandered over those dirty, thin bodies dressed in suits and ties.

One of the legionnaires whistled through his teeth. “That must’ve been a fucking bitch to discover all convoys had left.”

“They must’ve felt so safe in this bunker that it didn’t occur to them to look outside until days later.” I looked down at the body of a middle-aged woman sitting in an expensive leather chair, her head resting on her chin, her arms limp at her side. She was elegantly dressed. Her very pricey pearl necklace was partially covered by her dirty, matted blonde hair. I shuddered when I realized who she was. Before the Apocalypse, I’d seen her at a number of press conferences.

“They were stranded with no provisions or weapons,” Prit said as he picked up my train of thought. “They had two choices: throw their lot in with the Undead or slowly starve. The bravest ones probably tried to leave.” The Ukrainian clicked his tongue at the thought. “Those who stayed behind chose a faster, less painful way to escape.”

“They had radios,” objected another legionnaire, pointing to a huge military radio lying between two bodies. “Why didn’t they radio for help?”

“No power, kid.” Prit shined his flashlight on the dark lights in the ceiling. “They must’ve realized how bad things were when the generators ran out of fuel and died.”

We were silent for a moment, imagining the anguish those people felt in their final moments. Tank and seven other members of the team walked in and broke the gloomy spell.

“We found the stairs!” said Tank. For a moment he was speechless as he looked around. Even with all his Germanic stoicism, he paled. Then he blinked and shook his head wearily. “Come on, gentlemen, we still have to go down two floors. Our job is only half done.”

Tank turned and walked out, not saying another word. We followed him, dragging our feet. That oppressive place was getting everyone down.

The staircase was located at the end of the ventilation duct. The door to the stairs was crisscrossed with thick chains. My eyes met Prit’s. It was the same system they’d used to seal off the doors at Meixoeiro Hospital in Vigo. I pictured some military pencil-pusher drafting protocol for what to do if you were entrenched in a building during an invasion of Undead. I’d love tell that genius how well his brilliant plan had worked.

Marcelo walked up with heavy-duty clippers and cut the chain with ease. He stepped aside and a group of soldiers crossed through the door. A second later, I heard a single shot, followed by, “Clear.” Then we all headed through the door. At the foot of those stairs lay the body of an Undead, bleeding from a shot to the head. I swallowed and eased past him.

If there was one Undead on that side of the door, there’d be more. A lot more.

40

TENERIFE

For want of a nail… the kingdom was lost.

On account of a stupid accident caused by a panicked, terrified girl trying to save her life, Chaos escaped from Pandora’s box again. But at that moment, no one knew. Not even the heroes of this story. And they never would.

Eric and Basilio quickly checked out every inch of the lab. Basilio stepped to the door and motioned for Eric to stand in front of it. With a nod, the redhead took his position, ten feet in front of the door, gripping his beretta with both hands. Basilio slowly reached for the doorknob and flattened himself against the wall. If that damned girl was crouched on the other side, waiting to jump them, she’d be sadly disappointed.

He looked up at the Belgian, counted off three seconds on his fingers, yanked the door open, then jumped to the side.

A lot happened in a few short seconds. First someone completely naked barreled through the open door.
Something, not someone
, Eric thought, terrified by the Undead headed for him. The warm, sexual arousal the Belgian felt changed to cold, clammy fear. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head, he raised his beretta and shot the Undead twice at close range.

The first bullet pierced the creature’s neck, releasing a jet of thick, black blood. The second bullet hit him in the face, leaving a gaping hole where his nose had been. The thing collapsed in a heap, but Eric couldn’t relax as three more creatures rushed in.

Cursing in French, the redhead retreated a few feet from the creatures, firing his weapon as he went. Blood spewed like a fountain out of the gaping head of the next Undead, an African man, over six feet tall, and splashed all across Eric’s visor. Eric ran his gloved hand over the visor, which blurred his view completely and made matters worse.

A claw-like hand gripped his arm. Blindly, the Belgian elbowed someone—or something—hard and he fired blindly into another bulky shape coming at him. At that moment, he felt something grab his knee and then a burning pain shot up his calf.

The Belgian turned and fired twice at the Undead that had circled the table and ambushed him. Sweat poured down his face. It felt like a million degrees inside that damn hazmat suit. Through his blood-streaked visor, he could only see a narrow wedge right in front of him. That’s how the bastard had gotten the jump on him.

A piercing howl made his blood run cold. Backed into a corner and unarmed, Basilio faced two Undead at once. His eyes bloodshot, the sailor threw a right uppercut at the Undead that would’ve brought down an ox. The Undead didn’t dodge Basilio’s fist, and that sledgehammer punch didn’t even slow him down. The creature’s jaws snapped together like a rusty trap and broken teeth flew through the air. The other Undead seized that moment to sink its teeth into Basilio’s outstretched forearm, its fangs easily piercing the plastic hazmat suit and the thin cotton uniform underneath.

Basilio spun around like a tornado and let fly devastating kicks that would’ve made Chuck Norris proud. The creature dropped onto his back like a turtle, then struggled to stand up, chewing on that hunk of Basilio’s arm.

“Eric!” Basilio cried out in a ragged voice. “Fucking help me!

The Belgian’s face drained of all emotion as he shot the Undead on the ground. The creature died instantly, with Basilio’s flesh sticking out of his mouth, like a playful, little pink tongue. A sadistic smile spread across Eric’s face, even in that grisly situation.

The last two Undead had piled on top of Basilio. One of them had ripped off his headgear. The Belgian fired twice at one of them, who collapsed like a rag doll, but the other one was faster and clamped down on Basilio’s neck. With a muffled roar, Basilio made a last ditch effort and launched his assailant’s body over the table, sending test tubes, beakers, and microscopes crashing to the floor.

Eric fired his last two bullets into the Undead’s twisted body. He whipped around like a cobra, but he was the last man standing. Six Undead lay on the ground, their heads blown off.

Basilio Irisarri had slid to the floor and sat propped up against the wall. Eric watched in fascination as blood pulsed out of the wound in Basilio’s neck in time to the beat of his heart.

“Eric…” Basilio’s voice sounded strangely waterlogged. A clot of blood slid out the corner of his mouth, then down his neck and joined the river flowing between his clenched fingers. “Eric, help me the fuck up. Eric, I can’t…”

The Belgian pointed to his headgear and gestured that he couldn’t hear him. Then he shook his head and waved good-bye.

“No… you bastard…” Basilio gurgled. “Get me out of here…”

“Can’t hear you, Basilio. I don’t know if you can hear me, but this isn’t fun anymore. I’m hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I’d be willing to bet those beasts devoured your little slut. And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re dying.”

The burly sailor stared up at him, speechless. With each heartbeat, a little bit of life slipped away, out the terrible wound on his neck.

Eric pursed his lips and shook his head. “Gotta go, buddy.” He chattered away happily as he bent down and placed the empty beretta in Basilio’s free hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m deserting you or that I don’t care about you. I really do. So here’s a little souvenir. The authorities’ll think
you’re
responsible for this mess, not me.”

He looked around, with the pained look of someone whose yard was torn up in a night of crazy partying.

“Say hello to Satan for me, old pal,” he said. He looked at Basilio one last time, then headed back to the airlock. As he pressed the button to open the door, he heard the click of the beretta’s hammer. He turned and saw Basilio pointing it at him with his last ounce of strength. The
old boatswain looked at the empty pistol in defeat, realizing he’d been scammed.

“We’re rabid beasts, Basilio,” Eric muttered, knowing the dying sailor couldn’t hear him. “We turn on each other every chance we get. We can’t help ourselves! Take these shitty islands. What’s the first thing the survivors did? Kill each other! We’re on the brink of goddamn civil war, if you believe the media! Those monsters took away the little humanity we had left. At least die with some fucking dignity!”

The door opened behind him. He gave a mock salute and stepped into the little room. Although clouded by death, Basilio’s eyes followed him, his vision growing more and more blurred. His brain was dying, but coursing through his veins were thousands of tiny beings that were multiplying like crazy in his warm body. In a few hours, a new Basilio would arise. But Eric Desauss wouldn’t be around to see that.