Passing so close to those rooftops made me extremely nervous, especially in such an unreliable helicopter. Everywhere the scene was the same: wide, empty streets; here and there a vehicle lying across the road. Trash, broken glass and worm-eaten skeletons were everywhere.
Retiro Park, located in the heart of Madrid, had once been a showcase. Now it had become a jungle. Weeds had devoured its walking paths. Its little lake gleamed in the sun, almost buried under tons of algae that gave it a greenish cast. On the lake’s banks, the Crystal Palace was just a skeleton of steel beams and broken glass.
La Castellana, the main thoroughfare through the heart of the city, looked ghostly. Massive clouds of dirt rolled down that ten-lane road, rattling the few streetlights still standing. It was completely free of cars, since it had been closed to traffic right before the final collapse. A lone Volvo SUV with bars on its windows looked out of place on that deserted avenue. Why had its driver stopped in the middle of nowhere?
Here and there we spotted mounds of mummies and decaying skeletons where defense forces had taken a stand against the Undead. In every case, those mounds were surrounded by empty, shiny copper shell casings. Unfortunately, all those dead Undead were just a drop in the vast ocean of Undead that infested the streets.
It was a chilling sight. Sidewalks and roads were crawling with thousands of those creatures who were stopped in their tracks as if in a trance. It was like looking at an aerial photo of a street, frozen in a moment of normal city life. But the crowd’s torn, blood-stained clothes destroyed that illusion—those who still had clothes, that is.
Only when the noise of the propeller blades and the shadow of our helicopter passed over them did the Undead awaken out of their trances.
“Look over there!” Broto shouted in disbelief, pointing to a spot on the ground.
We were passing by Santiago Bernabeu Soccer Stadium. Heavy vehicles and huge, steel, industrial containers blocked all the entrances. The number of worm-eaten bodies littering the sidewalks around the stadium was even greater here. Scaffolding ran halfway up the south facade, connecting two open holes in the side of the stadium, but none of us understood why.
Clearly large crowds had mounted a resistance there, but the stadium was deserted now. Tumbled-down shacks lined the bleachers, and torn plastic bags were caught on rusted iron poles and floated in the air like ghosts. The grass playing field was a vast quagmire; dozens of small irregular lumps covered more than half of it. In a corner, where goal posts should’ve been, someone had spelled out HELP with seats ripped from the bleachers.
“What the hell’re those mounds?” I asked pointing to the lumps in the grass.
“Graves,” Marcelo muttered grimly. “It’s a graveyard.”
We were all speechless, in shock. I imagined the anguish of the people holed up there. As the months went by, their supplies ran out and no one answered their silent cries for help. They must have felt despair every time one of them died from hunger, disease, the Undead, or God knows what. For a moment I felt that suffocating panic. As time passed, they realized they were doomed. No one was coming to their aid.
“Look,” Pauli said. “The graves on the end are almost level with the ground.”
“Maybe at the end they didn’t have the strength to dig an actual grave,” someone muttered.
“Think there’s still someone there?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” said Marcelo. “Anyway, we can’t stop to find out.” He stared into my eyes. “You know as well as I do—this isn’t a rescue mission.”
I didn’t say another word. Marcelo was right, but I refused to accept it so coldly. I knew if I hadn’t left my house in Pontevedra, I’d have gone insane, wallowing in my misery, a prisoner in my own home. I imagined how I’d have felt seeing a helicopter overhead and not be rescued. I put that thought out of my head.
“Ready back there?” Tank’s voice boomed over the intercom. “We’re here.”
I craned my neck to see where we were and instantly regretted it. The massive buildings of the La Paz Hospital rose sharply on the horizon, like monoliths. Amid the shattered remains of what once had been Safe Haven Three, a roaring mass of Undead turned toward the noise that had awakened them out of their lethargy.
We waited. I couldn’t imagine how we would get through that crowd.
“How the hell can we land there?” Broto’s voice quavered. “They’ll make mincemeat out of us before we even get out of the helicopter!”
“Take it easy, che,” said Marcelo, curiously calm. “Don’t worry. We’ve got it covered.” He nonchalantly lit a cigarette as he kept an eye on the crowd below.
I wanted to be as calm as he was, but in my heart I was convinced the computer guy was right. As Prit flew lap after lap over the hospital parking lot, the situation grew worse. A crowd of five or six thousand Undead milled around below us. More monsters converged upon the parking lot by the minute.
The main door looked like the exit of a stadium at the end of a match. Dozens of those beings were crammed together, staggering and stumbling, trying to get out.
I watched in horror as some of them fell out the shattered windows and plunged to the ground. When the swarming mass on the upper floors saw our helicopter hovering overhead, their desire to reach us was stronger than their sense of survival. Thirsting for our blood, they threw themselves out the windows in an attempt to grab us. They somersaulted in the air, like bags of dirty laundry and crashed to the ground with a thud, some twenty feet below.
“I don’t fucking believe that!” Pauli muttered, nudging Marcelo. “That bastard’s still moving after falling from the tenth floor!”
The Argentine craned his neck to see where she was pointing. The poor devil was a young guy, naked from the waist up. His spine must’ve broken in the fall, because he was stretched out on the ground, dark liquid oozing from his body, probably his internal organs that’d been crushed upon impact. He jerked around, struggling to stand up. Too bad he hadn’t broken his skull and ended that nightmare.
“Don’t worry, Paulita,” Marcelo said matter-of-factly. “His days are numbered.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. “What the hell’re you going to do?
My question was interrupted by Tank’s scratchy voice crackling over the intercom.
“That’s good! Most of them should be out of the building. Go ahead, Group Two!”
The helicopter traced a long ellipse, away from the plaza. Before I had time to wonder what the hell was going on, a raspy sound cut short all conversation in the cockpit. The helicopter leaned slightly as the entire crew moved to the windows, trying to spot the source of sound.
After a few seconds, I spotted two small dots in the sky heading right for us at top speed. As the dots grew larger, we could make out all the details of those planes that purred along, chewing up the distance between them and the plaza.
Totally amazed, I uttered a loud Fuuuuck. “What the hell are they?” I stammered. I felt like I was in a really weird dream.
“Buchones!” David Broto cheered, pressing his nose against the window. “Damn! Look at ‘em go! Incredible.” The computer guy bounced in his seat, pointing at the propeller planes as they made a graceful turn around the hospital tower.
“Will someone please tell me what the hell a Buchon is? Where did they come from?” I asked over the uproar in the helicopter. Everyone was talking and shouting at once. It was a madhouse.
“Those are Hispano Aviación HA-1112 M1L Buchones!” Broto shouted, not taking his eyes off those small fighter planes.
From the look on my face, he realized I didn’t understand. “After World War Two, Franco somehow secured the plans for some Nazi fighter planes and had them manufactured for the Spanish Air Force. But since the German factories were destroyed in the war, they outfitted them with Rolls-Royce Merlin engines. They patrolled Spain’s African colonies till the late fifties. Now there’re just a few in museums. Two Buchones! Amazing!” he blurted out, his eyes glued to the
planes.
Fucking Tank, I thought, marveling at the German’s audacity. In just a couple of hours, the other team had managed to start those relics that had been gathering dust in the Air Museum. The crowd of Undead was going wild because of the engine noise as those old birds hovered menacingly above them.
“Watch closely, che.” Marcelo made room for me beside him at the open window. “The show’s about to start.”
The Buchones made a final turn about a mile from us and headed straight for the plaza with a deafening roar. Only then did I notice that hanging underneath each plane’s wings were the red containers I’d seen the other team laboriously ferry on the airport bus. I suddenly realized what was going to happen.
“NAPALM!” I cried. I couldn’t contain myself. This was gonna be good!
The planes flew very low—around three hundred feet—over the parking lot. On cue, the red containers broke away, did a slow roll, and fell onto the crowd below.
The fuses were activated as soon as the containers hit the ground. Two huge balls of fire and black smoke exploded almost simultaneously. The flames rose to a staggering height and a tremendous explosion echoed across the city.
The helicopter lurched suddenly, as if it’d been punched by a giant fist of air. Prit let out a long stream of Russian words. The fireballs changed into a single, gigantic, orange ball, streaked with dark smoke. Globs of the gelatinous Napalm splattered everywhere. I had to turn away from the window. Although we were several hundred feet from the fire, the unbridled heat rising from that hell was suffocating. The tall buildings surrounding the parking lot transformed the place into a giant stewpot, concentrating the effect of napalm. The swirling air generated by the heat fueled the flames.
Judging by Kurt Tank’s comments on the radio, he was thrilled with the outcome of the operation. He had every reason to be. There wouldn’t be much left down there.
Those few moments seemed to go on forever, but finally the fireball died down once all the fuel was consumed. The columns of black smoke combined into a single tall column visible from miles away.
“Look at that!” howled one of the legionnaires. “Not a single one is left standing!”
Excited shouts erupted in the helicopter. The huge crowd that had been knotted together in the parking lot just a moment before was now reduced to just a few hundred smoking torches that stumbled around and finally collapsed. The vile blue or green flames the smoldering bodies on the ground gave off blended with the black smoke that blanketed the entire parking lot. The pungent smell of burning flesh stung my nose and made my eyes water. Dante’s Inferno couldn’t have been worse.
“Why do they burn like that?” Broto asked Pauli, staring at the charred tapestry. “That’s fucking amazing! They burned to the bone in minutes. Jesus Fucking Christ!”
“Simple,” said the Catalan, as she tightened the straps of her bulletproof vest. “Most of those things have been dead—or undead—for over a year.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Broto was clueless.
“It means,” Pauli patiently explained, “they’re undergoing the process of putrefaction, albeit slowly. The process of decomposition generates—”
“Gases,” I blurted out, suddenly grasping what had just happened.
“Methane gas, mostly. The longer they’ve been in that state, the higher the concentration of gases saturating their body fat. The ones who burned like matches succumbed in the early days. The rest,” she nodded toward the few figures still staggering around, “have only been Undead for a few months.”
I looked down once more at the furiously burning bodies below. Jubilation flooded the cabin in waves, as the helicopter slowly descended. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the tense, worried faces of the crew. A few veterans made jokes to take their minds off their fear.
I was hard-pressed to describe what I felt. Fear, mostly. Anguish, thinking about the thousands of lives we’d just cut down. Those things weren’t just rag dolls; they’d been people who’d had a life and dreams and who didn’t deserve to end up like that. And I felt heartsick, thinking that if it weren’t for dumb luck I’d have ended up one of the horde of Undead.
Mostly I was scared.
Panicked.
In just a few moments, those soldiers, who were so young and should’ve had their whole lives ahead of them, would bravely head into that building. Viktor Pritchenko and I knew too well the horrors awaiting them.
28
TENERIFE
Basilio Irisarri was in a foul mood. The look on his face and in his narrow, vacant eyes was homicidal. Lately he’d snarled over and over, “Get my drift, pal?” Basilio didn’t know he had that tic, but it had gotten worse recently. As an idea took shape in his mind, that phrase became a mantra he said to anyone who’d listen.
Things had gotten complicated since that ugly business with the nun. Basilio was already in the hot seat with the higher-ups. He always had trouble with bosses, but this time he was really in the hot seat.
For starters, he was no longer stationed on the Galicia. During the internal investigation required by navy protocol, he’d been “temporarily relieved” of his duties. He didn’t mind that part. The Galicia was nearly empty these days. The flow of refugees had completely dried up. That damned nun and her pals were the last to be quarantined on that ship.
Basilio had resented standing guard in an empty boat anchored in the middle of the bay. He’d never admit it, but he got the creeps patrolling that gigantic ship in the dark, with only a flashlight, hearing the creaking and groaning of a thousand bulkheads.
On the plus side, he was the first to get wind of any new “business opportunities” in the port. Everyone knew that all the best deals in the black market were cooked up on the docks under the watchful eye of inspectors and officers. Pull out a few packs of smokes or gold earrings at the right time and a guard would suddenly need to take a piss or the harbor patrol boat would develop engine failure that mysteriously fixed itself a couple of hours later. In that world, Basilio was like a fish in water, a true genius with an innate talent for discovering some juicy deal.
For the first time in his life, things were going well, very well, for Basilio. His contacts were coming through after weeks of “negotiating.” He was raking in the booty, gold especially.
The lack of legal tender on the islands was a real pain in the ass, even for the black market, but it was inevitable. With a continent in shambles, there were billions of euros lying around, free for the taking—if anyone dared face the Undead to get them. Many refugees arrived clutching millions of dollars, euros, and pounds they’d found strewn across their home countries. They flooded the local market with useless currency that no government backed. Gold, silver, and precious stones—those were the real currency and Basilio knew how to get them.
But a few weeks before, things had gotten fucked up again. First there was that damned raid that cost him a huge shipment of bootleg rum. Then he got the news that that damn nun was still alive!
Basilio’s methods were crude, but he was nobody’s fool. If the nun was alive, it was just a matter of time before she woke up and told the real story about what happened. Then he wouldn’t have jack shit—no bright future, no black market deals, just a one-way ticket to the cranes in the port and a quick hanging.
So, when he learned through one of his customers (a doctor hooked on the dwindling supply of cocaine), that that old bitch was clinging to life, he realized he needed to come up with a plan.
Basilio was no coward. He had no problem bumping someone off in a dark alley, but sneaking into a hospital full of guards, in broad daylight, to knock off an old woman lying in a crowded hospital room would be tricky. Basilio would have to tread lightly. If the old bitch died in a dramatic way, he’d be the first person they’d suspect.
For several days Basilio considered letting the situation play out. According to his contact, the old hag was in a coma and there was a good chance she’d never wake up. He could
get lucky and the nun would kick the bucket.
But the day before, a team had left for the Peninsula in search of medicine. They might bring back some drug that would revive the old bat. On the other hand, with all the Undead around, there was a good chance they wouldn’t make it back. But Basilio couldn’t take that chance.
He finally made up his mind: He’d take care of the nun himself. That thought made him feel a whole lot better.
So the next morning, he disguised himself as an orderly, pushing a wheelchair. In it was Eric Desauss, a wiry, red-haired, freckle-faced Belgian, with a convincing cough. Under a blanket, he gripped a nine-millimeter beretta he’d insisted on bringing “just in case.”
Getting the uniform and the pass was simple, although he’d had to pay Dr. Addict a fortune in white powder. Getting Eric to collaborate was easy, too. An old acquaintance from Basilio’s little world, he’d been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Just the thought of killing the nun gave him a morbid thrill and a painful erection he had to hide under the blanket.
Basilio was having a hard time getting his bearings in that fucking madhouse. Dr. Addict had told him how to get to the nun’s hospital room but had refused to go with him, saying, “I don’t want to know what the fuck you’re up to. I don’t even want to know you.”
Basilio and Eric roamed around the hospital for nearly twenty minutes. Basilio’s bad mood was quickly approaching the red zone, like mercury in a thermometer left on a hot stove. They couldn’t keep wandering around aimlessly. Sooner or later, someone would notice that the same orderly with the same patient had passed that same spot three times—and then they’d be in deep shit.
“Eric, I think we have a problem. Get my drift, pal?”
“You’re telling me. We’ve been in this hallway twice. That guard looked us over real good. Maybe we should come back another day.”
“No fucking way,” Basilio whispered. “I’ve got enough morphine in my pocket to bring down an elephant. They frisk everyone leaving the hospital, including staff. What do you think they’d say if they found the piece you’re hiding under that blanket?”
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