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.
ENTRY 83
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 tab
le. 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.
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