Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End (28 page)

I surrendered the driver’s seat. I didn’t want to argue with Prit about his ability to “drive any heap on four wheels.” Truth is, the Ukrainian is a damn good driver, but he puts the fear of God in me.

Traveling from the port to the VNT office had taken nearly a week. We made it back to the port in just thirty-five minutes, ten minutes of which we spent trying to back out of a café window where we’d gotten stuck. A hair’s breadth from killing ourselves, the way I saw it. According to the fucking Ukrainian, just a small mental fuckup.

The fact is, we were just a few yards from the entrance to the port, almost back where we started. The tall buildings at the port hid the
Zaren Kibish
and the
Corinth
from view, but they were close by. And we were ready with a plan.

With a screech that set my teeth on edge, Pritchenko shifted gears and set off for the entrance to the port.

There’s an old military saying that a plan only works perfectly when you try it out on the enemy. We’d find out very soon that our plan was no exception.

The entire port gave off the pungent stench of rotting flesh. In the light of day, you could see that the entire Safe Haven was one big graveyard. Everywhere we looked were mountains of half-burned, rotting corpses.

The chuffing of the van drove away hundreds of gulls and fat rats with glossy coats. I shuddered when I thought about their diet. From time to time, a few staggering figures came out from between the wrecked warehouses and headed for our vehicle, but they were too far behind us. We were moving too fast for them to be a threat.

The Darwinian principle of survival of the fittest seemed to be working. Gradually only the toughest, fastest, or biggest sons of bitches were left. Or the luckiest, Prit said acidly. I was more and more convinced we’d get out of this alive. The mere fact that we were moving at top speed through an area full of those creatures would’ve paralyzed me with fear a few months ago. Now it just seemed like an everyday occurrence.

I told Prit what worried me most was not that there were so few survivors, but that there were so few
female
survivors. He thought for a moment, then started to tell a lurid tale about a girl from his village named Ludmila, nicknamed the Firefighter. Just as he got to the part about the straw, he hit the brakes. I almost flew through the windshield. We’d come to the Seguritsa alley, a few yards from where we’d landed what seemed like a million years ago.

Prit parked the van alongside a wrecked Beetle, leaving no way to get through, not even on foot. That makeshift barrier wouldn’t hold them for long, but it would give us time to carry out our plan. Let the dance begin.

As the Zodiac approached the
Zaren Kibish
, adrenaline roared through my veins. The salt spray soaked my hair as the freighter’s hull loomed ahead. With my right hand on the rudder, I
clutched the black steel Samsonite briefcase with my left. A familiar bearded figure was leaning over the railing, staring through binoculars. Ushakov.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The salty air, the familiar scent of algae and burning fuel, took me back to better times. I opened my eyes, with the childish hope it had all been a nightmare. Instead I saw the ladder hanging over the side.

Gripping the briefcase, I started up the ladder to the
Zaren
’s deck. When I got to the rail, an eager Filipino hand reached for the case. I slapped the hand away and hit another sailor in the chest with the briefcase as I stepped on deck. I didn’t plan to let go of that briefcase. Not yet.

Ushakov pushed through a group of sailors and planted himself in front of me, his hands on his hips. There was a deathly silence on the deck.

On one side was Ushakov, surrounded by half a dozen burly sailors aiming Kalashnikovs at my chest. On the other side, there I was, dirty, unshaven, covered in cuts and bruises, wearing VNT overalls two sizes too big, bone tired, clutching a shiny black steel Samsonite briefcase. A real duel of Titans.

“Well, well, Mr. Lawyer!” Ushakov boomed. “You look awful! Where’s the rest of group?

“They’re not here,” I answered laconically.

“Kritzinev?”

“Dead.”

“My crew?”

“Dead.”

“Pritchenko?”

“He’s dead, too.” My voice cracked. “I’m the only one left, Comrade Captain.”

Ushakov’s face turned gray. I guess he hadn’t expected me to return. His greedy gaze was fixed on the case.

“Is that it?” he asked in a trembling voice. “Is that the briefcase?”

“That’s it, Ushakov,” I said quietly. “Check the label.”

I carefully placed the briefcase on the ground, the label clearly visible, and took a couple of steps back. Ushakov stared at the label and muttered something in Russian as he grabbed the Samsonite with both hands.

“I’ve fulfilled my part of the deal, Ushakov. Now it’s your turn. Give me my cat and let me go.”

Ushakov was mesmerized by the case. For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me. I was about to repeat myself when Ushakov snapped out of his trance. Glancing briefly at me, he turned to one of the sailors armed with an AK-47.

“Kill him,” he said matter-of-factly.

The Filipino cocked the rifle and aimed it at my chest. I had a split second to get out of that mess. It was now or never.

“I wouldn’t do that, Captain,” I said in a trembling voice. When I’d planned that, it seemed much easier. That was because I hadn’t had the barrel of a gun pointed at my chest.

“No? Why not, Mr. Lawyer?” Ushakov said with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I have what I wanted, thanks to you. And I’ve decided I don’t want a lot of people to know about it. I don’t know if I can trust you to keep your mouth shut, so I’ll shut it for you. So...bye-bye!” He smiled.

“Can you be sure you have the right case, Ushakov? Don’t be in such a hurry.”

Ushakov’s face froze in a grimace as he looked from the case to me and vice versa. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying, Ushakov. Take a look.”

I walked over to the side of the
Zaren Kibish
and waved toward the shore. Prit’s familiar silhouette appeared from around the corner. The bastard was smiling from ear to ear. He lifted
a shiny black steel Samsonite briefcase over his head so it was clearly visible from the boat.

Ushakov’s face was quite a sight. The crew looked confused. Nobody knew what was happening.

“That briefcase you’re holding is full of old newspapers, Ushakov. You don’t have shit, you fucking maniac.”

“But...” he stammered. “How?”

“Oh, come on! Vigo’s a big city. It has several luggage stores. It wasn’t hard to find a case like that one, Ushakov.” I smiled.

“But the label...”

“Ripped off the other case. Consider it a show of good faith, proof that the other case is the real thing, Captain. As soon as you give me what I want, Pritchenko will leave the bag on the shore and we can all go our merry way. Now, don’t fuck with me. Let’s talk this over like good little boys, right?”

“What do you want?” Ushakov muttered, as he approached menacingly. Sparks of anger shot from his eyes.

“Very simple,” I said quietly. “My cat, my boat, and Mr. Pritchenko’s package. One of those AK-47s, and food for a week,” I ticked the items off on my fingers, as Ushakov’s face got redder and redder. “Oh! And a carton of Chesterfields.”

Ushakov yelled something unintelligible as he squeezed his fists tight. He stared at the shore for several seconds that seemed to go on forever. “What’s stopping me from killing you and going after your friend onshore and killing him too? Tell me.”

“Simple,” I replied, acting more relaxed than I felt. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes,
alone
, Prit will run like hell with the briefcase and hide in some corner of that godforsaken city. You won’t find him in a million years, Ushakov. Think it over.”

Ushakov thought for a moment. Suddenly he turned to a sailor and began barking orders in Russian. After that, he strode toward me menacingly.

“All right, Mr. Lawyer. I’ll give you what you want, but you’ll regret this. I swear.”

Some people say lawyers are sons of bitches. I won’t argue with that. But when it comes time to negotiate, it’s great to be a lawyer.

Sometimes the craziest memories hit when you least expect them. A strange image kept coming to mind as I stood on the deck of
Zaren
, waiting for them to bring me my stuff.

I was six or seven, and my parents had taken me to the circus. I was watching the knife thrower. I remember I was impressed that the girl standing in front of the target was so brave that she let a man hurl knives at her. My mother always told me knives are very dangerous and they can cut you. The smiling, relaxed face of the surprisingly calm girl was etched in my mind at that tender age.

At that moment, I wished I had the same presence of mind. The truth is, I was scared shitless. One false step, a wrong word, a miscalculation, no matter how small, and someone might get nervous and shoot me between the eyes. I knew Prit would be all right on his own, but I didn’t want to die that morning.

Ushakov was pacing like a caged bear, shooting me murderous glances. I had to be careful. The bastard must have had an ace up his sleeve to fuck me over with.

A furry blur appeared through the ship’s hatch, attracted by the noise on deck. My heart raced. Lucullus! Instinctively I stepped forward but stopped short when I realized my mistake. It wasn’t Lucullus but a brown female cat, with a bell around her neck and wicked green eyes. She slithered sinuously between the
sailors’ legs, then sat on a roll of cable to groom herself, giving everyone the withering look only a cat can.

This cat brought to mind Lucullus with a painful intensity. Suddenly, bouncing out of the same hatch, a couple of steps behind, came another ball of fur, this one a familiar shade of bright orange. Lucullus!

He must’ve sweet-talked the ship’s cook while I was gone, because he was fatter and his hair was glossy. He smugly approached the brown cat, purring, doing what my sister called “the Lucullus move,” twitching his tail seductively and roguishly wiggling his ears.

Typical. I dragged my ass through an abandoned city full of monsters, dying of hunger and thirst, risking my life at every turn, while he spent the whole time stuffing his face and romancing that green-eyed doll.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. I cleared my throat. The noise was enough. Lucullus looked up. As soon as he saw me, he forgot all about the gorgeous feline at his side and rushed to me, meowing so pitifully you could’ve heard him all over the city. Before I knew it, he’d planted himself in my lap and was purring with delight, rubbing against my neck.

I grabbed my cat and felt a strong sense of relief. Not only had they not killed him, he was great shape. I’d been afraid I’d never see him again.

I looked up to find Ushakov watching, with contempt tinged with anger. I didn’t give a rat’s ass what he thought of me. I just wanted out of there. Who cared if the bastard was furious? But he was calm—too calm, when you consider I’d just fucked him over royally, showing him up in front of his own men. No, the guy was planning something, and I didn’t know what it was.

Time passed very slowly, as boxes of food were piled at my feet. One of the sailors brought me a package addressed in
Cyrillic. I checked the part to make sure it matched the description Pritchenko had given to me. A Pakistani handed me a loaded AK-47 and a box of shells.

All that stuff weighed a ton, but no one was helping me load it onto the
Corinth
. I raised an eyebrow at Ushakov. He replied with a half bow and barked some commands to two sailors, who carried the boxes to the sailboat. Shit. Too easy. I didn’t like that.

Something vibrated in my pocket, accompanied by two short beeps. Before the astonished eyes of crew and captain, I pulled out a small blue walkie-talkie we’d taken from a blood-soaked patrol car, abandoned on a side street.

That car was a real mystery. It was perfectly parked near a ransacked hardware store, between some smelly trash cans and a car with flat tires and broken mirrors. After more than a month and a half of neglect, all the vehicles in the street were covered a thick layer of dust and dirt, but that patrol car was nice and clean, as if it’d just come from a garage. That was what made us stop and take a look. Inside it was empty; the driver’s seat was covered with dried blood. There were no traces of blood on the sidewalk or tracks leading away from the car. The street was completely deserted. A ghostly wind whistled through the dirt and abandoned vehicles. The car was spotless, as if it had just been parked there. It was so unnatural and mysterious, my hair stood on end. Prit and I found a pair of police-issue walkietalkies in the car, as well as a high-powered flashlight. Not a single piece of paper or a weapon, not a clue, not a trace. Nothing. A complete mystery.

Now one of those walkie-talkies crackled in my hand. I pressed the button, knowing Prit was on the other end.

“Talk to me,” I said in Spanish, fairly certain no one else on board spoke Spanish.

“How’s everything going?” The Ukrainian’s voice was staticky.

“Well...too well,” I said, not taking my eye off the sailors. “They’re up to something.”

“Don’t look, but we have problem on bridge,” Pritchenko said quietly in his Slavic accent. “A guy with RPG-7 is hidden behind top rail. I see him perfect.”

A cold sweat rolled down my back. An RPG. A fucking rocket launcher. I should’ve guessed. Anyone with a TV has seen an RPG. The poor man’s artillery. Virtually all guerrillas and Third World armies had thousands of those things, mass produced in the former Soviet Union. The black market was rife with them. They are so simple and effective. You just insert the grenade at the end; a tube serves as a launcher. So easy to use, even a child-soldier from some remote African country can learn to shoot it in ten minutes. So lethal that when the Russians invaded the Chechen capital of Grozny in 1994, they lost dozens of tanks to Chechen guerrillas armed with those lethal tubes.