Dark Days az-2

by Manel Loureiro

  14

  Day after day for a month, as I lay on my bunk, I stared up at the shape on the ceiling made by peeling paint. Sighing, I stroked the beard I’d had for weeks; it reminded me how much time had passed. At first they gave me a razor and shaving cream, but, after the day I fought to keep Lucullus, they’d taken away everything sharp or pointed. I must’ve looked like a homeless guy or nut job in those ridiculous green hospital pajamas.

  My big furry cat sprang off the ground and made an elegant landing—right on my crotch. Wincing, I grabbed Lucullus around his fat belly and set him on the bunk next to me. He purred as I scratched behind his ears.

  In the beginning, I yelled my head off, demanding to speak to the person in charge. I threatened, begged, pleaded—all in vain. When my voice gave out, I collapsed against the wall of my six-foot-square cell. There were no windows and not much furniture, just some bunk beds, a small bench bolted to the wall, a sink (but no running water), and a toilet that was missing its lid. The walls were thick steel plates welded to the floor and ceiling. A vent in the middle of the ceiling looked like it had been added later. I had the feeling there were rooms like it on all sides, above and below me. They’d transformed the Galicia’s huge cargo bay into a hive of cells to accommodate all the refugees.

  I recalled a documentary I saw about that ship. The Galicia’s hold could be completely flooded with seawater through a huge gate located in the stern. Landing craft had been housed there. I shuddered when I realized that what I’d thought was an air vent on the ceiling was for letting water into the cell if necessary.

  Whoever had designed that quarantine facility had planned for everything, including a riot. With a flick of a switch, whoever was in charge could drown everyone in that hold. Fast, easy—and discreet. That thought dissuaded me from raising any more hell. From the silence, I guessed that the vessel was practically empty. My friends and I were probably the Galicia’s only guests.

  A tray of food was passed through a slot in the door three times a day. The food was tasteless but varied. There was a lot of rice, beans, freeze-dried food and, to my surprise, fresh vegetables, such as lettuce, carrots, and potatoes. It’d been nearly a year since I’d had fresh vegetables. If it weren’t for the vitamin C we took at Meixoeiro Hospital, we’d have become anemic or developed scurvy. I can’t describe the joy I felt when I saw a fresh tomato on the tray. That little tomato tasted better than any banquet I’d ever eaten. I’d closed my eyes and let its juice run down my throat.

  I fantasized that none of this was happening and that when I opened my eyes I’d be at home stretched out on the couch with Lucullus, watching a game on TV. Sadly, of course, when I opened my eyes, all I saw was the fucking chipped ceiling.

  Once a day, three doctors entered my cell and drew blood. They took my temperature, pulse, and blood pressure to verify I wasn’t becoming an Undead. In the beginning, they were escorted by a couple of armed soldiers who stood guard in the hall (they didn’t all fit in my tiny cell), but my submissive attitude soon gained their confidence and they conducted their checkup unescorted. Until two weeks ago.

  That morning, three medical personnel wearing red ID armbands entered my cell. Before they started, one of them said they had to take my cat for “a clinical trial.” Something in the guy’s tone of voice threw up a red flag. After years of practicing law, I could tell when someone was lying. And this guy was a lousy liar.

  My subconscious made the decision before I realized what I was doing. When Dr. Liar bent down to pick up Lucullus, who lay curled up at my feet, I pushed his neck down and slammed my knee against his nose.

  Dr. Liar screamed in pain. Bright blood streamed from his broken nose and coated the inside of his Plexiglas mask. As he writhed on the floor, I jumped on the other two guys who just stood there, paralyzed with surprise.

  I grabbed the tall guy’s arm and yanked him toward me. Dr. Tall tripped over Dr. Liar, writhing on the floor, and crashed into the sink. As Dr. Liar struggled to his feet, I kicked him in the back and sent him flying into Dr. Tall. His left arm had gotten wedged between the toilet and the sink, so when Dr. Liar collided with him, his shoulder bent at an unnatural angle with a crunch that sounded like a compound fracture.

  I turned to the third doctor, but he’d run into the corridor and sounded the alarm. Then it dawned on me what I’d done. I stood, frozen, in the middle of the cell. Groaning in pain, Liar and Tall stumbled out of the cell, leaning on each other. Someone closed the door and turned off the light. I was in complete darkness.

  Trembling, I grabbed Lucullus and curled up in my bunk, staring at the door. I muttered to myself, Now you’re really fucked. Any minute, someone’s going to open that door and then I’ll be screwed. You might’ve signed your death warrant, you stupid ass. At least they didn’t see me beg, I thought, trying to cheer myself up. Pride is a ridiculous thing, but when you’re in desperate straits and it’s all you have left, it becomes your most valuable asset.

  I crouched in the corner of my cell, tense as a lute string, expecting three or four goons to storm in at any moment and give me a much-deserved, world-class beating or a bullet in the head.

  But nothing happened. Not for the next hour. Or the next day. Nothing.

  The only change was that the medical exams stopped. Someone still shoved food through the slot every day. I’m sure they were studying me through the peephole in the door, but for two weeks, nobody came into my cell or talked to me. Being locked up in that tiny room, alone, drove me crazy. I’d read stories about prisoners who lost their minds serving life sentences in tiny cells in American maximum-security prisons. I wondered if that’d happen to me, too.

  I was lost in those thoughts one morning, scratching the stubble on my chin, when suddenly I heard footsteps in the corridor and voices I couldn’t identify. The footsteps stopped abruptly at my door. Then keys jingled loudly as someone turned the lock. I jumped out of bed, shoving Lucullus behind my back. They’ve finally come for me. I tensed every muscle in my body, ready for whatever came next.

  A female figure with her hands on her hips was outlined by the half-light coming through the door. I squinted, trying to adjust to the light. When the figure took a step into my cell, I could see her perfectly. For a moment, we just looked at each other in silence. Then the woman spoke.

  “I’m Commander Alicia Pons, head of the medical corps.” Her voice was firm but gentle at the same time. “Your quarantine has ended, but not without some problems.” I heard amused sarcasm in her voice that quickly became serious again. “You’re not the only member of this group who’s been involved in an incident. Anyway, let me say that you all passed. I officially welcome you to the Tenerife Secure Zone.”

  We stepped out into the corridor. After a month locked up in that cubicle, my first steps were a little shaky. With Lucullus in one arm, I braced myself against the wall with the other to get my balance. Only one guard accompanied us; he didn’t know how unnecessary he was. I was so weak I couldn’t have run a hundred feet, let alone escape from the ship or swim to shore.

  We came to a brightly lit room with large windows that looked out onto the flight deck. In the middle of the room, an army officer worked at a computer surrounded by several other machines, including a printer. It was the first computer I’d seen up and running for over a year. A friendly civilian took a couple of pictures, while a soldier politely took my fingerprints. I had the strange feeling that, after a year living as a fugitive in the Wild West, I was back in the system without the slightest idea what that system was.

  “We’ll have your documents ready in a few minutes, sir,” said the soldier, typing quickly at the computer. “ID, access passes, ration card—everything you’ll need to live in Tenerife. Meanwhile—”

  “We’ll talk,” Alicia Pons broke in, “and bring each other up to date. How’s that sound?”

  “Great idea,” I said, a bit sarcastically. “I’d love to know what the hell’s going on around here.”

  �
�Follow me,” said Pons. “In the next room, we can talk privately Plus, I think they’ve prepared some refreshments. That’ll help pass the time.”

  When we entered the next room, my eyes grew really wide. Neatly arranged on a table were trays of fresh fruit, sandwiches, fresh-baked bread, and a Spanish omelet. The heady aroma of steaming coffee filled the room. Back in Vigo, all I’d eaten was canned food, so that spread looked like it was from the fanciest restaurant in the world. It took all my willpower not to pounce on the table like a crazed Hun.

  “Please have a seat. Help yourself,” Alicia Pons said, as she filled a cup with strong, boiling-hot coffee. “You must be hungry. Take anything you want.”

  I thanked her then attacked the tray of sandwiches, while Ms. Pons sat back and studied me. I took that opportunity to steal a look at her, too. She was in her thirties, medium height, with auburn hair, slim, with delicate features. All in all, a good-looking woman. She was dressed in a navy uniform, but no hat; her thick hair was gathered in a bun at the nape of her neck. I spotted a gold wedding band as she unconsciously tapped a blue pen. She seemed fragile, but one look in her eyes told me that this woman was resolute and brave. All the soldiers, officers, and civilians treated her with the utmost respect. She clearly carried a lot of weight around there and knew how to command that respect.

  “So…” she began, reading a paper on her desk. “One physician with a fractured septum, and one with a fractured arm and dislocated shoulder. Care to explain what the devil was going through your head?”

  “It was an accident,” I said, my mouth half-full, as I grabbed another sandwich. “The arm, I mean. The nose, well… I didn’t think I’d hit him that hard.” I paused, a little embarrassed. Her bright, blue eyes drilled right through me.

  “You and your friends have told us an amazing story,” she said, leafing through a stack of papers on her desk. “A Russian ship, an exploding briefcase, a refuge in a hospital, a city in flames, a two-thousand-mile helicopter flight…” She looked up and smiled. “Your life certainly hasn’t been boring over the last few months.”

  “It’s been pretty rough,” I mumbled with my mouth full of sandwich. My eyes flitted over all the dishes on the table.

  “It’s been rough for everyone,” she replied, looking over more papers. Among the mountain of files, I spotted several photographs of me, Prit, Lucia, Sister Cecilia, and even Lucullus. In one aerial shot, we were running down the runway at the Lanzarote Airport, a mob of Undead on our heels.

  “Everyone here has a riveting story to tell. Some are funny; most are dramatic. Yours surpasses them all by a mile, believe me.”

  “Just trying to stay alive,” I said, reaching for the coffee pot. “Like everyone else.”

  “Believe me, you folks did remarkably well. In fact, you’re the first survivors from the Peninsula since Operation Judgment. That alone makes it even more amazing.”

  “Operation Judgment?”

  “The evacuation of the remaining Safe Havens on the Peninsula, ten months ago.” She looked at me strangely. “You don’t know what’s happened in that time?”

  “I haven’t bought any newspapers lately, Lieutenant Pons,” I answered as I bit into an apple, letting its juice run down my chin. “Where I’ve been, there weren’t any newsstands open.”

  “Captain.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Captain Pons, but most civilians call me Mrs. Pons. You were saying?”

  “Well, Captain Pons, I haven’t had access to any source of information for almost a year. I have no idea what’s going on in the world, what the fuck’s still standing and what’s gone to hell. I don’t know where I am, what my status is, where my friends are, who the hell you are or what you represent.” I talked faster and faster, not letting her get a word in edgewise. “All I know is, for a year we’ve been traveling around a landscape right out of hell, full of Undead. When we finally reached a place where those things weren’t wandering around everywhere, we were treated like criminals and locked up for a month. Now here I sit. I’ve been fingerprinted like a common criminal and you, Captain, haven’t had the decency to clarify the situation…sir,” I let fly all the anger bottled up inside me. “So no, I’m not up-to-date.”

  Alicia Pons froze. My outburst had taken her by surprise. Then she threw her head back and laughed uncontrollably. For a moment, her lack of respect pissed me off, but her laughter was such a breath of fresh air and so contagious, she finally got a smile out of me.

  “I’m really, really sorry. Please forgive me,” she said, her smile still shaky as she tried to regain her composure. “Our situation here is so complicated, sometimes I forget how ridiculous and drawn out the procedure is. I understand your anger, but please, relax. You’re among friends. Believe me. Let’s start again.” She reached her hand across the table. “I’m Captain Alicia Pons, but you can call me Alicia.”

  “Nice to meet you, Alicia.” I relaxed a bit. “You know my story. Would you mind telling me what the hell has happened in the world?”

  “Of course,” said Alicia, a more serious look on her face. “I warn you it’s not a pleasant story. Far from it. The world you knew is gone and now we have… Well, wait till you’ve heard everything.”

  For a moment, I thought back, a little amused. Just a few months ago, I’d had a similar conversation on another boat with another “captain,” a conversation that started me on a journey that took me to the brink of death. I hoped this conversation would take me to some place more pleasant.

  “At first no one took it seriously.” Alicia poured herself another cup of coffee. “During the first week, there wasn’t any reliable information. Putin let himself be swept away by the predictable Russian paranoia and declared a total blackout on the matter. You probably remember that the news was full of… nothing. Governments around the world were in pretty much the same boat. No one knew a thing. The Russians had a stranglehold on information and Western governments knew more or less the same as CNN.”

  “How’s that possible? There’re satellites…”

  “Satellites are only machines that take pictures. Humans ‘look’ at those pictures and interpret them. But before you can find something, you first have to know what you’re looking for. Back then, no one was looking for Undead in satellite photos, since almost no one thought they existed. Don’t forget that Dagestan was—is—a very remote place. Not much information was getting out at the time. Finally, eight days later, the U.S. government got a full report through a CIA source inside the Kremlin.”

  “Eight days? It took longer than that for things to get ugly. Why didn’t someone do something in the meantime?”

  “Simple. They didn’t believe the report,” she said staring into her coffee cup. “After 9-11 and the nonexistent weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, U.S. officials questioned the accuracy of CIA reports. So when someone reported that the dead were rising from their graves and attacking the living, it sounded like a bad B-movie. No one took it seriously. They wasted some very crucial weeks.

  “But the Americans knew something was brewing. And not the Ebola or Marburg or West Nile viruses—or any of the excuses the Russians gave that first week. And that something was biological. It had the Kremlin scared shitless, so scared they finally allowed a team from the World Health Organization and the CDC into Dagestan. European governments, Japan, and Australia also sent medical teams to control what they thought was an epidemic—”

  “I remember it well,” I cut in. “Army medical battalions were supposed to collaborate with the Russians to control the situation.”

  “And in the process, snoop around and find out what the hell was going on.” She shook her head, gazing into space. “Of all the bad decisions made back then, that was definitely the worst. Teams of hundreds of people converged upon the area just when the situation was critical. The infection was already out of control. Dagestan was a ‘hot spot.’ Thousands of Undead were swarming all over the place. Looking back, it’s so obvious
, but at the time we knew almost none of what we found out later.”

  Alicia Pons was silent for a moment, as she mindlessly rifled through the neat stack of papers in my file. Then she continued her story.

  “Three or four days after the medical teams arrived, the situation became clear to everyone. Those medical teams quickly realized what they desperately needed in Dagestan was combat troops to kill those vermin. Unfortunately, they realized that after several doctors had been attacked by patients they’d thought were in shock.”

  “Undead,” I ventured.

  “Yes, that’s right. Teams deployed to the area were ordered to return to their home countries as fast as they could. Of course, they took their wounded with them. The Japanese may have transported a few ‘patients’ back so they could study the virus.”

  “Good God,” I whispered running my hands through my hair. “Those medical teams helped spread the chaos.”

  “Within forty-eight hours, a number of ‘patients zero’ turned up in virtually every corner of the world. Only isolated places like the Canary Islands were free of infection. The few cases reported here were quickly dealt with. By then we had a pretty clear idea of what was happening. In all honesty, at first, no one knew what the hell the infection vector was. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long to find out.”

  “How’s that possible? Anyone with eyes could see the cause-and-effect relationship between being bitten by an Undead and becoming one of them! What were they thinking, taking infected people back to Europe, Asia, and America?”

  “As I said, nobody in his right mind believed the strange account of the dead coming back to life. It was too crazy to be true, like all the other wild theories circulating in those days. That theory turned out to be true, but nobody knew that at the time. Let me show you something.”

  Coffee cup in hand, she rummaged through a black folder, took out some papers, and spread them out in front of me. They were pictures taken through a microscope, enlarged several thousand times. The first was of a strange cell culture. The cell walls were dotted with dozens of small volcano-shaped fissures. Part of the cellular material had been projected through those fissures and scattered every which way, while other areas looked charred, as if a tiny torch had scorched them.