Prit knelt in the doorway, his HK pointed inside. Panting, I stood next to him, waiting for his next move. The Ukrainian handled situations like this much better than I did.
“It’s darker than a cricket’s ass in there,” he said softly.
“Wait,” I said, turning back. “Broto! Broto! Get your fucking ass up here, dammit!
As he trotted to our position, the computer guy dropped his rifle. Flustered, he stooped to pick it up, but in the process he swatted the legionnaire behind him with his backpack. A stream of curses trailed the poor geek.
“Hey, pal,” I laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Stay calm, okay?” Broto nodded, rolling his eyes, clearly wishing he were anywhere else in the world.
“Got a flashlight in your backpack?” I asked.
“Uhhhh… yeah…” Broto dug around in his backpack and finally pulled out a Polar Torch, like the one I’d had that day a lifetime ago when I had to leave my home in Pontevedra behind, or stick around there and starve.
I shook the flashlight and turned it on, aiming it into the building. The smoke and dust from the explosion hadn’t cleared completely. Millions of little specks danced wildly in the beam I shined in every direction.
Suddenly a loud explosion shook the air. The whole staircase trembled violently, followed by a heart-stopping rip, as if a giant sheet of paper had been torn in two.
“What was that?” I asked, alarmed.
“They must’ve blown up the stairs below us,” Prit replied, glancing over the railing. The rusty step he was on slumped under his feet with a groan, sending up a cloud of rust. He backed away carefully, casting a wary glance at the landing.
“The whole fucking staircase could come down at any time, even without explosives,” he said, dragging our backpacks to the door. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
Prit was right. The staircase had been on its last legs before we got there. Now it was at a breaking point. The explosion to cut off the Undead had been the last straw. That old structure could collapse any second from the intense heat of the napalm and the vibrations we made as we climbed up. It was creaking and shuddering; cement dust streamed down all around.
“Get a move on!” someone yelled behind us, spurring the legionnaires on. I recognized Tank and Marcelo’s voices hustling their men up the stairs.
The situation was growing worse by the minute. The foot-long bolts holding the staircase to the building became deadly projectiles as they flew out with a clang. A section at the very top came loose. With a loud bang it bounced down several floors then came to rest on the ground, hundreds of feet below. I heard a cry of pain when someone was hit by a piece of steel, but I couldn’t see who it was. A cloud of cement dust enveloped us and I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me.
I grabbed Broto by the sleeve and vaulted into the building. Prit followed, leaping like a gazelle. Right on his heels, a knot of two dozen terrified legionnaires rushed up the tottering structure. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be first inside.
It was pitch black inside, but wonderfully cool compared to outside. Even with the flashlight, I could barely see through the dust. Broto recoiled with a muffled shout; someone must’ve run into him. I turned, my arms outstretched, blindly feeling my way. I took a sharp jab to the groin and doubled over in pain, trying to breathe. A shadow knocked me down and a heavy boot tripped over my leg. All around, guys were shouting, cursing, and gasping for breath. We couldn’t see a thing with all the dust in the air. Just then, the ladder fell completely away with a monstrous roar that shook the building. A second later, we heard hundreds of tons of rusted steel crash onto the parking lot; the Undead answered with an enraged roar. The structure had crushed hundreds of those bastards. A drop in the bucket, but at least it was something.
Coughing, I tried to sit up. All around me the shouting multiplied. I heard Tank yelling orders and another voice shouting for a john, but everything else was gibberish.
Tank gradually regained control of the situation. Here and there flashlights gradually lit up the room with a dull glow. I looked around. The first image that came to mind was of the firefighters at the World Trade Center on 9-11. Covered in a thick layer of dust and ash, we all looked ghostly. When the staircase fell, the plaster ceiling in the room came down around our heads. The floor of that airless room was covered with a layer of ash nearly a foot thick. When we rushed in, we’d stirred it up. Through a crack in the door, I could make out the faint afternoon light falling on Madrid.
Tank called out our names. Each name was answered with a raspy “yes” or “present,” along with coughs and sneezes. But seven names didn’t answer. They must’ve been the guys who were bringing up the rear who now lay dead (one would hope) on the parking lot, felled by the twisted wreckage of the stairs.
Prit crawled to my side, his thick mustache completely white. “You okay?”
“Nothing’s broken,” I said, as I patted down my body.
“You’re bleeding.” Always a man of few words, the Ukrainian simply pointed to my forehead.
“Oh, man, that sucks!” I muttered. I touched my face and my hand came back bright red. Blood was streaming down my face, but I hadn’t noticed. In all the confusion, a piece of plaster must’ve gashed my scalp.
“I’m fine too, thank you. Don’t worry about me,” Broto said bitterly, sneezing hard.
“Lucia’ll kill me,” Prit said, ignoring the computer guy as he bandaged my head. “I promised her you’d come back in one piece. You’ve been trying to break your neck from the minute you climbed out of the helicopter. Your head looks like a cocoon,” he said, punching my shoulder.
Then he turned to Broto. “You sure you’re okay? Let me take a look.” He grabbed the computer guy by the arm and pulled him close. After giving him a thorough going-over, he handed him his canteen.
“Flush your nostrils first, then take a drink. Just one. Got it?” he said menacingly. “We’re not gonna find any water here, so we have to ration what we have.”
Broto wasn’t listening. He was in shock over the scene before us. In fact, it was a miracle he didn’t drop the canteen.
I whispered, “Prit, what the hell is all this?”
34
TENERIFE
Gasping for breath, Lucia dashed into a three-foot square cubicle. The floor and walls were covered with a smooth, springy material instead of tiles. At the back of the room was a door with a small window. Lucia shook it hard but it was locked tight. Bolted to one wall was a small metal bench. On another wall was a flashing red button.
Lucia didn’t think twice and pressed the button on the wall. A red light went on overhead and a small horn went off behind the door. Frightened, she stepped back but another door, concealed in the wall, locked behind her. She was trapped. Lucia’s ears plugged up when a blast of air sealed the room. Before she had time to wonder what was going on, she heard a fist pounding on the door behind her.
She turned quickly. On the other side of the small glass window, Basilio Irisarri peered in, red-faced, trying to catch his breath. The sailor shouted something Lucia couldn’t hear.
We’re completely cut off, she thought, fascinated. Not a sound coming in or out.
The sailor made it crystal clear he wanted her to open the door.
“Oh, sure, that’s just what I’m gonna do,” Lucia mouthed and flipped him the bird.
Basilio’s icy, shark-like gaze turned diabolical. He pointed at Lucia, stepped back, doubled-checked his HK, and aimed it at the door.
“Shit!” Lucia screamed and dropped to the floor.
The door was so thick all she could hear was the muffled patter of the bullets as they struck the airtight door. She looked up in amazement. That door was not only waterproof, it was bulletproof. The only damage she could see was a deep scratch on the window. Slowly and cautiously, she stood up. Just then, a fine mist that smelled like disinfectant started to fall from sprinklers in the ceiling. At the same time, another dense chemical
cloud wafted out of conduits in the wall, making Lucia’s eyes water and her throat burn.
That bastard is gassing me, she thought, but Basilio’s puzzled expression proved he’d had nothing to do with it.
She realized she was in a decontamination airlock. You idiot! What were you thinking? You activated the system when you pressed the red button.
The next thing she thought was that she wasn’t wearing a hazmat suit.
On top of that, she didn’t know if the gas would kill her.
On the other side of the glass, Basilio looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. The sailor hurled the empty HK at the door and turned to the red-haired guy.
The Belgian pressed his face to the window. At first all he could see was a lot of steam. He finally spotted Lucia, who stared back at him, helpless, huddled on a metal bench, her eyes red and raw from the chemicals.
Eric’s smile would’ve seemed loving and tender if it hadn’t been for the cold, dead look in his eyes. The Belgian rarely smiled, which was fortunate since people didn’t live long after seeing that creepy smile. But that afternoon he was having a damn good time. In the last ten minutes he’d racked up so many fantasies, he’d be jacking off for days as he relived them. Catching that chick would be a perfect end to a perfect day.
Excited, he licked the glass. A small sliver of glass pierced his tongue and left a trail of blood, but he didn’t notice; his eyes never left Lucia. She was mesmerized like a rabbit with a snake. Then she threw up from all the chemicals.
A siren wailed in the room and the sprinklers stopped spraying. Lucia’s eyes were red, puffy slits as she leaned against the bench to stand up. Her ears popped, telling her that the room was depressurized. One of the doors had opened, though thankfully it wasn’t the door she’d come through. The pressure between the room she was in and the adjacent room equalized. She staggered through the door and into the next room.
For the first time in that long day, she wondered how long she had to live.
35
MADRID
“What the hell is that?” Pauli muttered behind me, echoing my question to Prit.
The flickering beam of our flashlights lit up a room about forty square feet. Scattered across the floor lay the remains of the plaster ceiling. A thick layer of ash covered every inch of the room. I reached in and pulled some out. Burnt paper. Some of the paper was only half-burned, but it was still illegible.
“Looks like they burned half the National Library,” I muttered. My gaze wandered along the blackened walls to the metal drums stationed around the room. They must’ve done all that burning in those drums.
“Someone was in a big hurry to destroy all these documents,” Broto said, kicking a pile of ashes piled up in a corner. “Either they got very cold or they didn’t want to leave papers lying around for the next guy to find.”
“I doubt the Undead care what’s on these papers. Hell, those bastards can’t read,” I pointed out.
“Whoever burned those documents must’ve thought the Undead wouldn’t be the only ones stopping by,” Pauli replied as she got to her feet. “Obviously, he was right. We made it, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, we made it,” Prit nodded, then quietly added, “but we still have to get out in one piece.”
“Or find a way in there.” I pointed to the huge steel door at the back of the room.
It was about eight feet by eight feet, reinforced by steel bars. It looked like someone had ripped the door off a fucking bank vault and planted it in the middle of that concrete wall. Several bags of cement and wooden beams lay tossed in the corner. Someone had hurriedly built a concrete wall before installing the door.
“They turned this building into a fortress. I’d bet my last euro that every access to the building was either walled up or has a door like this one.”
Across from the door, standing guard, surrounded by sandbags, were two machine gun nests with MG3 mounts identical to Marcelo’s. They were lined up perfectly with the door we’d entered through. It would’ve been next to impossible to get in that door.
Tank was kneeling on the floor, holding a flashlight, with the building’s floor plan spread out in front of him. He looked tense, but seemed to have the situation under control.
“We’re here,” he told two sergeants who listened attentively. “According to the Safe Haven’s records, the pharmacy’s supply room is two floors below. Access ladders are here, here, and here.” His finger danced across the map. “Two of them are closed off by half a ton of concrete, but the other has only one door.”
“Which one, sir?” asked one of the sergeants.
“No idea. Nobody who worked in this sector of the building survived.”
“What was here?” another sergeant asked, pointing over his shoulder at the huge steel door.
“On this floor, what was left of the Madrid’s government joined units from the army’s Second Regiment of Communications,” said Tank, reviewing notations on the map. “Supposedly, they were evacuated three days before this Safe Haven fell, but their convoy never reached Barajas Airport. I’m sure they’re all dead.”
“While they were here, they really protected their asses,” replied one of the sergeants, a seasoned veteran who seemed to have a lot of confidence in Tank. “How’re we gonna get through that damned door, sir?”
“That’s what this guy’s for.” Tank pointed to the computer whiz. “Mr. Broto! That door isn’t going to open by itself. Get started ASAP.”
David Broto gulped and got to his feet, breathing heavily. He ran a trembling hand over his eyes, leaving a trail of ash that made him look like a raccoon. He pulled a laptop, a long cable, and a toolbox out of his backpack. With a small drill, he expertly removed a cover fitted into the base of the door and attached the cable that was plugged into his laptop.
A series of characters ran across the screen when Broto activated the hard drive. To my surprise, an image of the mechanism inside the door suddenly appeared in a corner of the screen.
“A fiber optic camera,” I muttered, stunned, as I watched our computer whiz handle it with remarkable skill.
“Who is this guy?” I asked Marcelo. He shrugged, as stunned as I was.
Tank’s voice, dripping with irony, boomed out behind us. “Mr. Broto’s an expert in opening doors and breaking into impenetrable systems. We were pretty sure we’d come up against something like this.” He pointed to the armored door with a casual wave. “So, we ‘invited’ him along. Good thing you were living in Tenerife, Mr. Broto.”
David turned bright red and ducked behind the computer screen. He looked like a huge bird about to lay a giant egg.
“What exactly did you do in Tenerife, Broto?” Prit asked, innocently. He had an amazing knack for asking uncomfortable questions as if he were just making conversation. To the casual observer, he was just curious or tactless, but I knew the Ukrainian took note of every detail. He was a sly old dog.
“Mr. Broto has been living in Tenerife for two and a half years…in Tenerife Prison II, to be exact,” Tank said in a slow, deliberate voice. “Mr. Broto’s last job didn’t turn out the way he’d planned and… I’ll let him tell you the rest.”
David Broto hung his head and mumbled something incomprehensible, his eyes glued to the computer screen. Prit and I weren’t the only “volunteers” on that mission.
After fifteen tense minutes, during which Broto only got up to attach a second cable, our “computer guy” finally gave a satisfied grunt and struggled to his feet. With his right hand he disconnected the cables; with his left he typed a rapid succession of codes into the keypad on the armored door. Then he stepped back.
“It’s open.” His voice sounded calm, but with an artist’s pride in a job well done.
“That was fast!” Tank stood up. “Great! Díez, Huerga, open that door. The rest of you, cover us. We’re going in.”
The two soldiers ran up, grabbed the door’s huge wheels and turned them simultaneously. Gently, with just a slight
purr, the heavy door turned on its oiled hinges and opened onto the last stronghold of Madrid Safe Haven Three.
36
TENERIFE
“Goddamn it! I can’t see that bitch!” Basilio peered through the window, trying to make out his prey. “Where the hell’d she go?” he snapped, his mind racing. He was furious that his careful plan was falling apart.
They hadn’t heard any shots fired on the upper floors for a few minutes. Someone must’ve finally brought order to the chaos and calmed nervous trigger fingers. You didn’t have to be a genius to realize that it was just a matter of time before guards came down to take a look, and then they’d be trapped. The light above the door turned green, accompanied by a long beep. Basilio grabbed one of the hazmat suits hanging beside the door and threw one to Eric.
“Here, put this on and help me fasten mine. Let’s go after her.”
“Do we really need these?” Eric eyed them suspiciously. “What the hell’s in there?”
“Flu vaccines and shit like that,” ventured Basilio, as he stuck his legs into his suit. “This is where they make drugs and hazardous chemicals. Acids and shit like that.”
“That little hottie went in without one and she didn’t keel over,” challenged Eric, still not convinced.
“Suit yourself,” Basilio shrugged. “But if your dick falls off, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
That finally convinced the Belgian. He sighed and picked up the suit. Not saying another word, the gunmen struggled into the bulky suits. The narrow visors of their headgear reduced the field of vision and muffled sounds. The suits had a breast pocket for battery-operated walkie-talkies, but there weren’t any in sight. Basilio gave an impatient wave. They couldn’t waste any more time looking for them.
Once inside the airlock, he hit the red button on the wall. In seconds, the disinfectant enveloped them in a dense fog. Eric nervously fiddled with his beretta; Basilio kicked himself for not bringing more weapons.
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