The Pakistanis and the Slavs were ready to head out. They seemed to be a pretty competent and well-trained team, except for Viktor, who seemed lost in his own world and resigned. The way they handled their weapons told me they weren’t just sailors. Damn. Those guys were pros. Who the hell were they? What were they really doing here? And what was in that package? Was it worth risking the lives of seven people?
We’d landed at the far end of the Safe Haven, between some huge industrial warehouses and the gigantic lot where the Citroën factory parked its new vehicles. From there the cars would’ve been loaded on to the tankers and distributed all over the world. Now hundreds and hundreds of cars sat on the lot, abandoned in the dark.
Nearby I could make out a long row of brand-new Xsara Picasso luxury compact sedans, their seats still covered in plastic. They were dirty and neglected. I ran my hand over the nearest one, leaving a deep swath. After sitting there for weeks, it was covered in a thick layer of dust and more. With a shudder I realized they were covered with ashes from the fires. Maybe even human ashes. Jesus Christ!
I turned away from the thousands of vehicles that would never drive along a sunny highway. That was the past. Now all I could think about was being smart enough to survive until the next day.
The corner where we landed had a special feature: a small, squat building sitting next to a narrow esplanade entirely surrounded by a high brick-and-concrete wall. What had drawn us there wasn’t the wall or the esplanade. We were interested in the huge Seguritsa sign on the building. It was the headquarters of an armored truck company. With hundreds of businesses operating in that tariff-free zone, it was logical they’d have a branch there. The port’s fish market alone moved a million euros a day. Someone had to guard all that dough and drive it to the bank.
The building was a veritable fortress. Those monsters couldn’t have climbed over the wall. If I was wrong, we were fucked. But we had no other option.
With a sharp wave, I communicated to Viktor that we should approach. I whispered that we should check the perimeter of the building. Nodding, the little Ukrainian slipped like an eel into the group that was hiding in the increasingly thick shadows. He relayed what I said in Russian to Kritzinev, who in turn gave instructions in Urdu to the Pakistanis. Quick as deer, they ran past me and melted into the shadows.
I felt uneasy about how complicated it was to pass along orders. They had to be translated several times and could’ve been misinterpreted at any point. The slightest mistake could send all of us to our grave. That’s just great! We handful of survivors made the UN look like a bunch of neighbors.
After five torturous minutes, one of the Pakistanis materialized out of nowhere, right in front of us, signaling that everything was okay. As we moved stealthily toward the building, I studied those odd guys. They were all in their twenties, thin and sinewy, with huge black mustaches and copper skin. They were very good at what they did.
When we reached the wall, we stuck to it like leeches. It was dark as the mouth of a well.
Although none of those things was close by, I could hear the noise their dragging feet made. That sound gave me the creeps. Something like rasssssssss-thump, rasssssssssssss-thump, repeated over and over. I could feel my balls shrink in sheer panic. Those things were on the other side of the wall we were leaning against.
I walked quietly to the door of the building. As I expected, it was a huge steel doorway with slits on the sides. I grabbed the doorknob and turned. The door didn’t budge. It was locked up tight.
For a moment I didn’t know what to do. The possibility that that door would be locked hadn’t crossed my mind. We’d come to a fucking impasse. We couldn’t go back, we couldn’t get into the building, and we couldn’t move on.
All eyes were fixed on me. Turning to Viktor, I shrugged to say, “What do you think? I haven’t got a fucking clue.” Kritzinev stepped forward, raised the AK-47, cocked it loudly, and aimed at the lock. Before he could go on a shooting spree, I grabbed the muzzle of the gun, aimed it at the ground, and raised a finger to my lips. Shooting this door would only advertise our presence. I pointed to the corner of the building and the parking lot. It was our only option.
We walked along quietly, trying to melt into the wall, in complete darkness. I don’t remember if the moon was out, but the sky was clouded over. The starless night made the situation even more unnerving.
I was beyond terrified, but in my defense, I wasn’t the only one. I felt some satisfaction when I saw the fear in their eyes. Fuck them. It’s one thing to watch the bullfight from the sidelines, quite another to jump into the ring.
When we reached the corner, I cautiously stuck my head out and saw absolutely nothing. The darkness was so thick I couldn’t see more than a few yards in front of us. We had to turn on a light, so I signaled for a flashlight. A huge Polar Torch flashlight, the kind the police use, appeared in my hand as if by magic. I grabbed it with sweaty palms and pointed its polarized lens into the blackness. For a moment, I panicked. What if I turned it on and spotted dozens of those monsters lurking around, with the light reflecting off their dead eyes? What if the light attracted hundreds of them? I hesitated. My finger was on the switch, and sweat was dripping down my back. Kritzinev nudged me. He whispered something Viktor didn’t have to translate. Something like, “What the fuck’re you waiting for?”
I was up shit creek. I pressed the switch, and a huge beam of light lit up the scene. All I saw was a huge, empty parking lot and a wall with a large metal gate on sliding tracks. It was still closed. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and realized I’d been holding my breath all that time.
We quickly crossed to the heavy gate. I looked at it in despair. Too large for us to force open. We’d come to a dead end. I stood there, stunned, staring at that huge gate, wondering what the hell to do. I knew the others behind me were waiting for me to make a decision. I had no idea what to say. Viktor walked up to the door and inspected it carefully. I just stood there, watching the Ukrainian in surprise. He ran his fingers along the edge closest to the wall. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, smiling, sweat beading on his forehead, and whispered a single word: “Broken.”
With a creak as loud as a gunshot, the door moved an inch. It wasn’t locked! I suddenly remembered I’d seen that kind of door when I visited a client in prison. It was a high-tech model that used electromagnetic locks. As long as there was electricity, it was impossible to force the lock. In a power outage, the battery could keep the operating system armed for days. But even the smartest manufacturer couldn’t have planned for a power outage that lasted several months. So the lock was turned off, and you could push it open with one finger.
How the hell had Viktor figured that out? Who was this guy?
The door slid smoothly on its tracks, and we got a look at the street outside the compound. The street. The outside. Where those things reigned unchallenged. But when we cautiously poked our heads out, we didn’t see any.
Feverishly I swung the light left and right, afraid I’d catch a glimpse of one of those monsters. I swear to God if I’d seen one close up, I’d have slammed the gate shut and never come out, not even at gunpoint. Now I almost regret that didn’t happen. We’d have been spared what came next.
Just when I thought I’d swept the whole street, I aimed the flashlight to the right and my heart almost stopped. A huge red eye, evil and bright, was staring at me, unblinking, less than three feet away. It was terrifying. I was suddenly mesmerized. When I snapped out of it, I jumped back and almost dropped the flashlight.
At least I didn’t scream. I was spared the embarrassment of explaining why I’d screamed like a girl over a beam of light bouncing off a piece of glass. What I’d taken for a huge eye was just the door reflector of a van parked partway up on the sidewalk.
The rest of the group hung back in the doorway, covering both ends of the street while I nervously approached that huge hunk of metal. Halfway there, I realized I was completely unarmed. If any undead wer
e inside that vehicle, my health would be seriously compromised in seconds.
It was a yellow armored van with SEGURITSA written in bold black letters on the side. The passenger door was open. The reflector on the door lit up when you opened the door. I’d mistaken that for an enormous eye. I definitely needed a huge bag of pot. And a vacation in the Caribbean.
I inched up to the van, the way Lucullus approached a dog, ready to run my ass off. It was a huge armored van and must’ve weighed several tons. I placed my hand on the hood. It was completely cold. It must have been sitting there for weeks, even months. I stuck my head into the driver’s side. Empty. I eased into the plush leather seat and tried to think.
That van wasn’t parked. It’d been abandoned on the sidewalk. The driver must have been in a hurry. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. The keys were still in the ignition. With a shudder, I pictured a couple of security guards in the backseat, turned into undead, closed up in that small space, their rotten teeth pressed to the dividing window that they smashed as they reached out to grab me...
I turned around, bracing myself, but the backseat was empty and dark. Shining the flashlight around, I saw bags with the company logo, covered in dust, tossed on the floor. I sighed with relief. False alarm. There was no one in the van but me. Those bags were filled with the euros people had coveted not long ago, before those monsters came on the scene.
On the floor was a folder on a metal clipboard. I picked it up and glanced over it. The guy’s last route was dated late January. Based on the number of bags and the markings on the side, the driver was near the end of his route when he saw something that made him shit bricks and race back to base. I could think of no other reason to leave behind a van loaded with millions of euros, its door ajar, in the middle of the street and the keys still in the ignition. I didn’t have to be psychic to know what that poor man saw. Where was he now...and in what condition?
That van just might get us across the city. There was plenty of room for all seven of us. It was armored, sturdy, and weighed enough to keep a pack of those things from overturning it. The more I thought about it, the more perfect it got. But one look at the ignition quashed my enthusiasm. The key was in the on position, but the motor was off. The driver had stopped the car so abruptly he’d left off the motor running. It idled for weeks until it ran out of gas and died. I had the perfect vehicle to cross a city of the undead, but not a drop of gasoline. And I didn’t know what shape the battery was in.
Just then, Kritzinev and Pritchenko stuck their heads inside the van, alarmed that I was taking so long. I almost fainted from shock. When I told them the van’s possibilities, they smiled.
ENTRY 62
March 10, 12:02 a.m.
* * *
False alarm. Those young guys out there have just been on edge a bit.
The situation couldn’t be any bleaker. We’re trapped in this shithole of a store, exhausted and hounded by those creatures. I tried to fly under the radar, but Kritzinev whispered a couple of times that this was all my fault and gave me looks that weren’t exactly reassuring. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
When we determined that the van was in good working condition, we got ready to set out. The more we thought about it, the better that vehicle sounded. An armored van is as close to a tank as you can get in civilian life. We had one parked right in front of us, with the keys in it, beckoning to us to get in. The problem was that its gas tank was dry as dried tuna. After idling for God knows how long, it was completely empty.
We came up with a solution, thanks to Shafiq, one of the Pakistanis. He’s a wiry guy, very dark skinned. His monstrous black mustache makes Viktor Pritchenko’s mustache look puny.
When we discovered the tank was dry, Kritzinev muttered a string of words in Urdu to this kid. While another Pakistani went back to the Seguritsa parking lot, Shafiq shrugged off all his gear and stripped down to his shirt and shorts with the ever-present Kalashnikov strapped across his back. Viktor and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, slightly amazed at the scene. The remaining Pakistanis kept an eye on the street through the half-open metal gate, watching for any unwanted visitors.
After a few minutes, the guy returned from the lot with a long piece of rubber tubing cut from a hose. Taking the rubber tube and a five-liter plastic jug, Shafiq headed back to the Zodiac, not saying another word. He untied the boat and paddled quietly toward the Citroën depot about fifty yards from us, disappearing into the black night. We could only hear his rhythmic paddling in the distance.
As I sat there, dying to light a cigarette, I could imagine the scene: Shafiq crouched down, running up and down the rows of cars ready to be shipped to the four corners of the world, the keys in the ignition and a couple of liters of gas in the tank, just enough to drive on to the boat and then the tractor-trailer. A trip they’d never make.
The plan was simple. He’d empty that gas into the jug and then fill the van’s tank. Since the jug only held five liters, he’d have to make at least a dozen trips. But we didn’t have any other containers, except for our canteens. The job would take a while. At least we’d have a vehicle to safely cross the city in. We wouldn’t have to walk. And we’d be setting out in daylight. Call me a coward, but I’d rather see what’s around me than head into a dark ghost town full of mutants.
As I settled down for a break, thousands of paranoid thoughts raced through my mind. What if he mixed regular gas with diesel? What if the cars only used regular gas? (The van, of course, took diesel.) What if the cars had already been cannibalized by the Safe Haven survivors? What if a former employee of the factory, now changed into the living dead, was wandering around? What if it snuck up on Shafiq as he worked? More and more fatal errors went through my mind. With each new terrifying thought, I felt less and less confident and sweated more and more.
All my fears were unfounded. Shafiq returned with a jug of amber diesel gas, wearing a huge smile. He didn’t make a mistake. He only got fuel from the diesel vans. Yeah, someone had already emptied a lot of the vehicles, but there were dozens more that still had gas. He’d have to go a little farther, but that was no problem. The area was empty.
I relaxed and leaned back against the wall as Shafiq set off again. It was strange. For those guys, being in complete darkness, an assault weapon in their hands, risking their lives, was the most normal thing in the world. It was their daily bread.
It occurred to me that the epidemic had hit the more advanced countries harder. In Spain only the army, security forces, and a few thousand people had guns. That’s how advanced Europe used to impose order, law, and comfort. In places like Pakistan, Liberia, Somalia, or God knows where else, even a child at his mother’s tit had a gun hanging around his neck or something more serious at the front door. There, you shoot first and ask questions later. There, having no electricity or running water has never been a problem.
Now the most advanced parts of the civilized world are defenseless, devoured by their own citizens. Maybe the undead haven’t had as much luck in more remote, primitive, isolated areas. Maybe they haven’t even made it that far.
It’s ironic. The poorest, most underdeveloped areas of the world are now humanity’s last hope. The rest of the world is one huge hell where a handful of scattered survivors are trying to escape.
The sun was slowly rising. The tank was filled just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Poor Shafiq, drenched and exhausted, was starting to stumble with the jug. Another Pakistani, Usman, ventured to the end of the street, where a Volkswagen Beetle with two flat tires was parked. He looked around the corner and came back to inform us that a few of those mutants were walking back and forth about ten yards away, unaware of our presence. The guy looked terrified. That was the first time he’d seen those things up close. I knew only too well that it was not a pretty sight. Hard to believe I was the veteran of the group.
When the tank was full, we got in the van. I was surprised when they gave me the driver’s seat. I guessed I wa
s supposed to lead them in everything. With a sigh I got in and closed the heavy door. Kritzinev, Shafiq, and I crammed into the front seat, while Pritchenko and three other Pakistanis climbed into the compartment in back. I adjusted the seat and mirror and turned the key.
The starter didn’t even turn over. I tried again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. Kritzinev’s face told the whole story. Mine too. I leaned back, my mind racing. What the hell was wrong? My eyes swept across the dashboard for a clue. I looked down at the dashboard. The light indicator was on. Shit. The driver had not only left the motor running, he’d left the lights on too. They’d been on for weeks. The battery was dead.
I imagined the scene: the yellow flashing headlights all that lit up that dark street. The battery dying as hundreds of undead surrounded that van, abandoned on the road to the Safe Haven.
I had to think of something. I focused on the Volkswagen at the end of the street. It was less than three years old, so its battery was probably in good condition. I considered telling Kritzinev to send Shafiq back to the Citroën parking lot to look for a brand-new battery, but I was sure he’d say no. The sun was getting higher, we were behind schedule, and the Ukrainian was getting impatient. Besides, in daylight the Citroën parking lot might be too dangerous. And he wouldn’t want to waste any more time dragging the van next to the Volkswagen. There was nothing to do except get the battery out of that little round German car.
I turned to Viktor and whispered through the little window in the barrier what to tell Kritzinev. After a quick exchange in Russian, Viktor turned pale and looked at me with despair. I understood instantly. Kritzinev had ordered him to get the battery.
He quickly corrected me. He’d ordered both of us to go. Shit.
Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End Page 16