In the last millisecond of his existence, Jaime once again knew who he was. Before his life was extinguished forever, he finally felt a sense of relief.
And peace.
8
The tower was cool and dark inside, a welcome change from the suffocating heat on the runway. When I reached the double doors where Sister Cecilia and Lucia waited, I stopped to catch my breath. My lungs had felt like they would burst as I raced a thousand feet stuffed into a wetsuit like a sausage. All those sedentary months in the basement of Meixoeiro Hospital had taken a toll. Lucullus, meanwhile, was hopping all around me, clearly glad to be out of his jail cell.
I watched Prit advance slowly down the runway, his back to me, his eyes glued to the Undead closing in on him. Every few seconds, he stopped, took careful aim, and fired with amazing success. Bodies of the Undead dotted the runway like a string of pearls, as pools of their blood dried in the sun. But each time he stopped to shoot, he gave up a few feet of ground and the remaining horde was gaining on him.
Suddenly, Prit’s face creased with worry—he was out of ammunition. Enraged, he flung his HK at the Undead and took off as fast as his bowed legs could carry him.
I turned to the nun and Lucia, who were struggling to reset the metal doors that an explosion had ripped from their frame.
“Come on,” I cried. “We gotta get that door in place or we’re screwed!”
“Stop talking, Mr. Lawyer, and give us a fucking hand!” snapped Lucia.
Chastened, I lifted one of the warped doors and brushed off the debris covering it. I was sweating buckets, cursing under my breath, as I struggled to set the door in its frame and shore it up. Lucia and Sister Cecilia were urging Prit on at the top of their lungs, as he ran down the runway as if the devil were on his tail. You could probably hear their damn screams all over the island. When the monsters heard all that yelling, they moved faster despite their wobbly gate.
Pritchenko finally reached us and shot through the gap between the two doors as if he were a mortar round, crashing into a pile of rubble behind us.
“You hurt, Prit?” I shouted, as I braced the door with a concrete girder.
“Just my pride,” said the Ukrainian, laconic as ever. He brushed the dust off his pants and grabbed my HK off the ground. “Think it’ll hold?” he asked skeptically, as he studied the barricade holding up the doors.
“Doubt it. Not with that crowd pushing against them. But they’ll buy us some time,” I said, as I shoved the last beam in place.
We could barely hear each other over the roar of the helicopter as it circled the tower. I could see its crew taking stock of the scene below them. For a moment, I wondered what the pilot was thinking as he looked down on that multitude pressing against the tower and the Sokol abandoned at the far end of the runway.
“Head for the top of the tower!” Prit cried, as I loaded my spear gun.
The first few Undead had reached the doors and were pounding wildly on them. A mad jumble of moans exploded out of their throats. The chilling memory of that claustrophobic day cooped up in a dark crawl space in that store in Vigo came racing back. My hands started to shake and I was helpless to stop them.
Sister Cecilia and Lucia, with Lucullus in her arms, labored up the stairs behind Prit. From time to time he had to clear away a pile of rubble blocking the stairwell. The debris crashed to the floor below, where we’d just been standing, raising such huge dust clouds I could barely make out where the doors were.
I crouched down on the first flight of stairs, coughing uncontrollably from all the dust, and waited, looking down at the doors every time that roaring mass pushed especially hard. There was absolutely nothing I could do. That barricade wouldn’t hold for long.
I started up the stairs in the dark, till I came to the third floor landing, where I had to sit down and catch my breath. A huge bang, like an explosion, startled me. The groans of the Undead got twice as loud. The doors had fallen.
They were inside.
Their halting steps echoed on the metal stairs. I swallowed hard and waited. My sweaty hands gripped my spear gun even tighter as I leaned against the railing.
The first Undead suddenly appeared on the staircase, silhouetted in the light from a small window. He was a young guy, in his twenties, with long hair and a beard. His clothes were in tatters and he had two gaping bullet holes in his chest. A huge gash on his right leg made him limp but didn’t stop him from climbing the stairs. His face and clothes were covered in dried blood; his dead eyes glowed with hate. Cement dust had settled on his body, making him look even more diabolical.
A terrible sneer spread across his face when he saw me. As he took a few halting steps toward me, I took a deep breath and aimed the spear at his head. At less than five feet, I couldn’t miss. With a squishy chuff, the spear cleanly pierced his forehead, planting itself deep into that hellish creature’s brain.
He looked confused for a second and then crashed onto the concrete landing. I didn’t hang around to admire the landscape; I turned and ran to the top of the tower. The helicopter rumbled right above our heads.
A charred skull smiled down at me at the top of the last flight of stairs. With a shiver, I jumped over it and headed for the ladder to the trapdoor that opened onto the roof.
As I climbed up, I heard the Undead stream into the cupola of the tower. Prit grabbed the back of my wetsuit and pulled me up. Sister Cecilia quickly drew the ladder up behind me. I gasped when I looked back down through the trapdoor. Dozens of rabid Undead were crowded around below, trying to reach us.
I’d made it by a hair.
Relieved, I looked over at Pritchenko but his shocked expression made me turn around. I peered at the helicopter hovering overhead and was stunned by what I saw. And yet, there it was, right in front of my eyes: the helicopter, painted in camouflage, had tilted when they threw us a ladder. On the door, in big, bold letters were the words ARGENTINA AIR FORCE.
9
An army helicopter from Argentina.
In the Canary Islands.
Moroccan soldiers, Argentine helicopters… What the hell was going on? I hoped someone at the top of that ladder had the answer.
A gloved hand at the end of an arm in a drab olive uniform helped me into the cabin. When we were all on board, the helicopter flew off, circling the runway at full speed. I lay on the floor, panting, feeling the nausea that washed over me every time I had a brush with death. I sat up and tried to collect myself. I didn’t want the first impression that bunch of strangers had was me throwing up out the chopper’s door.
I turned to smile at the man with the gloved hand. He was tall and thin, in his thirties, wearing a flight suit, his face partially covered by a helmet and mirrored goggles. The guy spoke before I could get a word out.
“Up against the bulkhead, please,” said the voice, polite but firm with a distinct Argentine accent.
“Hello, my name is—” I stuck my hand out to my savior but stopped short when the guy pointed the barrel of his rifle at my stomach.
“Sir, up against the bulkhead… NOW!”
I raised my hands and, with my eyes glued to the rifle, moved to the aft bulkhead, where the rest of my “family” was lined up. Lucia looked terrified. Sister Cecilia wore an expression the Christians must’ve had when they faced the lions in Roman times. Stripped of his rifle, Prit shot fire from his eyes; his whole body boiled with rage. Given the slightest provocation, he’d break someone’s neck. I knew my friend was capable of that and more, so I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s see what’s going on here.”
I turned and faced the front. The cabin of this helicopter was a lot smaller than the Sokol’s, so we were just three feet from our new traveling companions, a man and a woman, both dressed in fatigues. Up front, the pilot and copilot had their hands full controlling the helicopter, which was shaking violently, caught in a stream of hot air. The copilot was t
alking to someone over the radio. I couldn’t hear what he was saying on account of the noise coming from the rotor, but the musical rhythm in his voice left no doubt he was from Buenos Aires.
Argentines, like the helicopter. But their flight suits had the Spanish Air Force insignia embroidered on the right sleeve. When the woman leaned over and said something to the man, her accent was unmistakably Catalan, from northern Spain.
“Sorry for the reception!” she shouted over the noise. “But rules are rules. Nothing personal, but until you pass the quarantine, we have to follow protocol.” She paused for a second and then looked at us curiously. “Are you Froilists?”
“Froilists?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s that?
With a wave of her hand, she said, “You’ll find out soon… if you live that long.”
That didn’t sound very promising.
“Where’re you from?” asked the tall Argentine. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, he didn’t take his eye off us, especially Pritchenko. The finger resting on the trigger of his rifle said Don’t do anything stupid. This guy knew what he was doing.
“Pontevedra… I mean Vigo, in Galicia,” said Lucia.
“You’re from the Peninsula?” Clearly he didn’t believe us.
“Yeah! So?” His smartass tone had pissed me off. “We flew to the Canaries along the African coast. Then one last jump to Lanzarote, where we ran out of fuel and now… you guys…” I left my words hanging in the air.
I shot our interrogators a challenging look. It was their turn. They looked at each other and relaxed a bit.
“Hey! Take it easy!” The Argentine said, more to Pritchenko than to me. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from or if you’re telling the truth. The most important thing is we don’t know if you’re infected or not. Until we know for sure, we have to take precautions, okay?”
I finally got it. This was one of the last outposts of survivors; of course they’d take every precaution and quarantine us. Our saviors didn’t know if we were infected with the virus that created the Undead. With a shiver, I realized that if they had the slightest doubt, all the welcome we’d get was some lead to the head.
“You’re serious… you’re from Galicia?” The Catalan girl turned to Lucia, with the same doubt in her voice.
“Of course we are!” Lucia exploded. “I flew over two thousand miles in that fucking Russian blender, crossed the Peninsula and the Sahara desert. I’ve had it up to here! Got it? I want a hot meal, a long shower, and I want to sleep for three days in a real bed! So don’t ask me if I’m serious, because I don’t feel like fucking around! Okay?” The pressure was too much. She broke down and sobbed.
I threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, stroking her hair. For all her tough-girl posturing, she was just a seventeen-year-old kid, robbed of her entire world. She had every right to explode.
“Where’re we headed?” I asked.
“Tenerife,” the Argentine guy replied, calmer. “One of the last safe places on the face of the earth.” He looked deep into my eyes. “We’re going home.”
10
The searing midday sun glinted off the Atlantic Ocean in a million flashes of silver. The silence was broken only by the cries from flocks of gannets and the clatter of the helicopter flying low. The salt-laden wind whistled through the open side doors and tore through our hair.
“How’re things in Tenerife?” I asked loudly, to be heard in the cabin.
“Sorry. Can’t say,” said the tall Argentine tersely. “Until the authorities make a ruling on you, the less you know, the better.”
The petite, thirty-something woman with the Catalan accent chimed in, “Even if you pass the quarantine, immigration services’ll have to approve you. It’s not up to us.”
“Immigration Services? What’re you talking about? I’m a Spanish citizen. So are the two ladies. And Prit’s papers are in order. We don’t need permission to be on European soil… at least we didn’t used to.”
The woman’s intelligent eyes glistened and she shook her head. I was puzzled to see her pull on latex gloves. “Things have changed a lot since the Apocalypse. The situation is very complicated. Rules, regulations, and laws from before have gone out the window. The Canary Islands are no paradise—they’re the Wild West.” There was a thick silence in the helicopter as her words sank in. “But we’re always thrilled to come across humans in the midst of all this shit,” she said with a broad, sincere smile, as she stuck out her latex-clad hand. “My name’s Paula Maria, but everyone calls me Pauli!” she exclaimed in a lively voice. “Welcome back to civilization!”
“Thank you, Pauli.” I shook her friendly but prudently gloved hand. “This is Lucia. In the corner is Sister Cecilia, and the charming guy with the dashing mustache is Viktor Pritchenko, from the Ukraine.”
“Well, the scowling guy next to me is Marcelo. As you’ve probably guessed from his accent, he’s Porteño, from Buenos Aires.” She gave the guy a friendly nudge with her rifle.
Marcelo gave a quick nod, his grim expression unchanged. He was as stern as Pauli was congenial. They made a very odd couple.
“What’s the procedure?” Pritchenko spoke for the first time.
“It’s a no-brainer,” Marcelo said with a dismissive shrug. “We leave you on the quarantine ship. Once medical tests verify you’re clean, immigration officers will take care of all the paperwork. Quick and easy.”
“Marcelo makes it sound so cold-hearted, but we can’t be too careful,” intervened Pauli. “I imagine Alicia will oversee your case.”
“Alicia?” All those names were making my head spin after being cut off from the world for so long.
“Commander Alicia Pons is the head of transit and immigration services in Tenerife.”
“Oh! The Commander! To what do we owe the honor?”
“Very simple,” Marcelo replied. “If your story is true, you’re the first living beings to make it here from Europe in over eight months.”
A heavy silence filled the cabin, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio. The silhouette of Mount Teide appeared on the horizon. We’d reached Tenerife.
We were returning to civilization.
Whatever that was.
11
The conversation died out. We were mentally and physically exhausted after what we’d been through over the last several hours. Most of our new countrymen weren’t very talkative either. Pauli babbled nonstop but Marcelo glared at us, mute and deeply suspicious. A glum silence soon spread through the tense atmosphere in the cabin.
In a matter of minutes, we were flying over land: the island of Tenerife. The crew on the helicopter said it was totally free of Undead, but after fighting those monsters for so long, I found that hard to digest.
The first buildings on the outskirts of Santa Cruz de Tenerife came into view. The sun was sinking slowly, casting the first shadows of night. The air had cooled considerably; heavy yellow clouds were forming in the distance. The drone of a half dozen conversations over the radio broke the silence in the cabin. Most were military transmissions, but chatter occasionally came over the airwaves, too.
Suddenly, over the loud speakers came a catchy song that had been popular about a year before. The radio operator must’ve liked it, since he let it play for a while before switching over to a military frequency for landing instructions.
“What’s wrong?” Lucia asked, alarmed, grabbing my arm.
“With me? Nothing. Why?”
“You can’t fool me.” She took my head in her hands. “You’re crying.”
Embarrassed, I wiped my hand across my eyes. Fat tears were rolling down my cheeks, leaving long streaks in the cement dust that still covered my face.
“It’s nothing. It’s just that that song…” My voice broke.
“Makes you think of someone, right? That happens to me a lot.” Lucia’s face darkened. “We all lost loved ones.”
I slipped my arm around her shoulder and pulled h
er close. I stroked her hair, inhaling its sweet scent.
“That’s not it. For the first time in nearly a year, I’m listening to music. I’d forgotten what that was like.”
Prit broke in. “You’re right. I hadn’t realized that until just now. A year without music. That’s strange… really strange,” he murmured to himself.
And it’s a good sign, I thought. Here’s a place where a radio station can broadcast music, any kind of music, a place that isn’t plagued with those monsters, where people live normal lives, where they want some entertainment. A good place, all things considered.
Just then, I detected movement on the ground below. My hand instinctively reached for the sheath strapped to my leg. Then I remembered they’d confiscated my spears when I got onboard.
I peered into the fading light and tried to make out the scene below. A group of about fifteen people was walking slowly up a hilly, winding road. That was all I saw since the helicopter was flying at full speed. I did notice that they were all armed.
As we rounded one last hill, the port of Tenerife appeared before us. The helicopter flew swiftly over city streets, where thousands of people were going about their daily lives. Ecstatic, we crowded around the helicopter doors, gazing down at a scene that was rare in the world now.
“Look, Prit! People! People as far as the eye can see!”
The Ukrainian laughed loudly and a smile spread across his face beneath his immense mustache. “We did it! We did it!” A childlike joy lit up his face as his eyes darted from one place to another.
Sister Cecilia laughed like a little girl, giving thanks to God and to a long list of saints. Lucia pointed out everything, trying to absorb the images forever.
After a few minutes, we had left that urban sprawl behind. My anxious eyes refused to relinquish that image of vitality, which fell away too soon.
Dark Days az-2 Page 5