Dark Days (Apocalypse Z) (17 page)

The legionnaires looked at me funny and made wisecracks about my wetsuit, but I wore it anyway. It was the main reason I’d survived. If something works, why the hell change? Plus, I was superstitious enough to believe that nothing bad would happen to Prit or me as long as I had it on. Bottom line, it made me feel better and that alone was worth it.

One of the legionnaires looked worried as he conferred with Tank. Something had gone wrong. I overheard him say that the group that had headed for the airport’s Aviation Museum wasn’t answering radio calls. Shit…

The hairs rose on the back of my neck and I broke out in a cold sweat. If we didn’t secure every access to the runway, thousands of Undead would overrun it in minutes. There’d be so many, the plane wouldn’t be able to take off. The engines would suck in dozens of bodies and explode, trapping us forever.

The heavy-duty wire fence surrounding the runway was over twenty feet high. The first dozen Undead—men, women and children—had gathered there and were shaking the fence, sending up a cacophony of sounds as they beat against the steel mesh like a bunch of drunk monkeys. If that fence gave way, we’d really be screwed.

In less than ten minutes, a huge crowd of Undead had already gathered. Within an hour there’d be tens of thousands. I pictured a long procession of corpses parading down what remained of Highway M-30 that encircled Madrid, headed straight for Cuatro Vientos Airport. Not a surprise with all the racket we’d made.

“You two! Come here!” Kurt Tank waved us over as he spread a map on the ground. “We don’t have much time. There’s no sign of Alpha Four and that means they must’ve suffered a serious setback.”

“Serious setback.” That’s one way to put it. More like they were fucked up.

Tank peered through his binoculars. “The door to the hangar is closed. We’re safe out here. They must be trapped on the other side, but we don’t have time to check. We have to stick to the plan, before a million of those things get here.”

“The fence seems to be holding,” the computer guy argued hesitantly. He looked as scared as the rest of us.

“That fence wasn’t designed to withstand several thousand bodies pushing against it, sir,” replied the sergeant standing next to Tank. He
was tall and dark, with a deeply wrinkled, weathered face. “In no time, a lot more of those bastards will join them. Then that fucking fence will give and you won’t like what happens next, sir.”

“No time to waste!” Tank barked pointing to a lone helicopter parked near the control tower. “Get that helicopter up and running NOW! I don’t care what you have to do, but get that chopper in the air! You have fifteen minutes, not one minute more, or we’ll be in big trouble.” He turned back to the legionnaire who stood expressionless beside him. “Sergeant, organize your men in patrols around the perimeter, but don’t get within five feet of the fence! And burn those damn bodies. They’re starting to smell!”

Not knowing why, I started running toward the helicopter, with Pritchenko at my side. Someone had handed each of us a large, very heavy package wrapped in oilcloth. I started to pant, cursing every time that damned bundle slipped from my hands. Pauli and Marcelo ran in front of us carrying equally heavy wooden boxes. Broto followed at a trot, clutching his backpack, looking more worried with every step.

When we reached the helicopter, I fell against its side, puffing like a freight train. The other team ran to the small planes parked on the edge of the runway. The electric bus was heading toward them, carrying several red cylindrical pods. I guessed they were empty containers they’d load with drugs when we got to our destination.

If
we got there.

Every time I turned toward the fence, I got chills. The Undead were streaming. Before the Apocalypse, this was a densely populated area two miles from a huge mall. It must’ve been a fucking “hot spot.” That sight wiped the smile from Prit’s face.

“Here, kid.” Marcelo held out a closed fist. “Take this, just in case. You might need it. Use it wisely.”

The computer guy stared at the Argentine and closed his fist around what Marcelo was handing him. Then he slowly opened his hand and looked up, confused. It was a shiny copper nine-millimeter bullet.

“What’s this for?” he asked, surprised.

“It’s yours, dickhead. In case you haven’t noticed, there’re more of those rotten bastards out there than we have ammunition. Even if we make every one of our shots, we won’t have enough bullets. So, if you get
in a tight spot, you can… POW!” Marcelo pointed an imaginary gun at his head.

Broto paled and, with trembling hands, stashed the bullet in his pocket. He was the only one on that mission who was unarmed. He must’ve been kicking himself for turning down the Glock they’d offered him in the Canaries.

“Oh, come on, Marcelo, don’t be an asshole. Leave the kid alone!” Pauli snapped, as she gave the Argentine a friendly punch in the arm.

“Do the math, kid,” said the Argentine, ignoring Pauli, as he pointed to our guns and then to the savage crowds behind the fence. “Do the math.” Then he turned to the helicopter and starting unwrapping the package Prit and I had brought.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Pauli said to David. “He’s just fucking with you. He doesn’t like being here, he doesn’t like the Undead and doesn’t like babysitting rookies like you, so he’s in a bad mood. If all goes as planned, you won’t be any closer to the Undead than we are now. Don’t worry, okay?”

I looked at the petite officer and saw worry in her eyes. We both knew things weren’t going to be that simple. But her words seemed to calm the computer guy.

Meanwhile Pritchenko had slipped into the cockpit. His hands were flying over the mass of controls, checking fuel levels and fluids of that huge SuperPuma. Most of the control panel lit up, indicating that at least the electrical system and battery were intact.

Something about the chopper caught my attention. Although it was a military plane, it was painted entirely white, from nose to tail, except for a red and blue stripe down the side. You could barely make out
SPANISH AIR FORCE
beneath the months-worth of dust and ash that covered the huge bird.

I mustered up some courage and pulled the lever on the door. It opened with a groan and folded down as a ladder. Adrenaline roared through my veins as I cocked my gun and climbed the three steps.

Instead of the usual bench seats, it had comfortable leather armchairs, covered with a layer of fine dust. I cautiously stepped in. The interior was dark and gloomy since its windows were encrusted with dust, so my eyes took a few seconds to adjust. Nearly blind as I made my way
down the aisle, I kicked a long, cylindrical object lying on the floor, sending it rolling into a corner with a muffled thud. When I bent over to pick it up, I saw that it was a mahogany cane; its silver handle was engraved with a seal. I carried it to the door to get a better look.

I couldn’t help gasping. The handle was engraved with a fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the Bourbones, Spain’s royal family. I froze for a few seconds to let my mind process that information. There weren’t many Bourbones in the world; even fewer were so old they needed to walk with a cane. I knew who this cane’s owner was—King Juan Carlos! I’ll be damned…

Broto entered the cabin, dragging his heavy backpack, and found me with the cane in my hands. “They must’ve evacuated the royal family from the Zarzuela Palace in this helicopter,” he commented like a guy talking about yesterday’s game. “A plane was waiting for them here. You know the rest.”

Just then Pauli appeared in the doorway, dragging one of the wooden boxes. “What the hell’re you guys doing back there? Give me a hand. These fucking boxes aren’t going to load themselves!”

Chastened, Broto and I grabbed the first box. A hieroglyph of acronyms, stenciled in black, were scattered across the top; I could only decipher “7.62 x 51mm.” Machine gun ammunition. I looked up. Marcelo had unwrapped the package Prit and I had dragged there. A huge, evil-looking MG3 machine gun, glistening with oil, lay inside. I whistled softly. We sure weren’t hurting for firepower. Who knew if that would be enough.

The SuperPuma’s engines let out a hoarse cough, along with a cloud of smoke and dust. The propeller blades started to rotate slowly as the engine came alive with a hiss.

“All aboard!” Prit bellowed from the cockpit. “Let’s go!”

The huge chopper’s blades picked up speed as Prit revved the engine. It was a tight fit in the cabin with eighteen team members and all our gear. Kurt Tank sat next to Prit in the forward cabin.

With a jolt, the bird rose into the air. Suddenly, an alarm began to wail in the cabin and a huge red indicator light lit up the dashboard.

“What the fuck’s happening, Prit?” I asked over the intercom, alarmed.

“Quiet back there!” The Ukrainian sounded calm as he fought the cross currents that shook the helicopter. “The engine temperature sensors must be clogged with dust or they’ve been damaged by moisture! According to the dashboard, the main engine is about to burn up, but that’s impossible. We just took off!”

“You sure?” I asked again. That was to be expected. Any plane would be in bad shape after months of neglect and exposure to weather.

“I can’t be a hundred percent sure!” Pritchenko snapped. “It is what it is! We can’t land again to do a tune up! Look down there!”

I looked out the window. A throng of thousands of angry Undead had gathered at the fence along the runway. Every inch of the perimeter was covered with those things, two or three abreast. They clutched the fence and furiously shook it. Their groans were so loud you could hear them above the whir of the helicopter’s blades. Some had stuck their arms through the gaps between the concrete supports and the steel mesh.

You had to see that scene to believe it. There were all kinds: young, old, children, fat, skinny. They all were a waxy yellow and had that tattoo of exploded veins scattered across their skin. Their clothes were in bad shape, and some were completely naked, covered with dirt from head to toe. As we rose, those Undead monsters stretched their arms toward the helicopter, their lifeless, watery eyes drilling into us. Even from that height, I could see inside their grisly, dark mouths.

They knew we were there. And not just because we were making all that noise. They’d detected our vital signs somehow. Something drew them to us.

We were all petrified at that ghoulish sight. Someone muttered, “Dear God in Heaven.” Another voice quietly said the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. My mouth was too dry to say a word. I would’ve killed for a whiskey.

The Undead just kept coming—down side streets, singly or in small groups. They swarmed the M-40 highway and skirted dozens of huge pileups, wobbling toward us.

“Will the fence hold?” Broto asked over the intercom glumly, as he took it all in.

“Let’s hope so.” Tank shrugged. “The two pilots and the soldiers on the ground have orders to take refuge in the Airbus, out of sight of the
Undead, and make as little noise as possible. We hope that’ll keep more from approaching the perimeter. Plus, the noise our helicopter makes will draw them to us.”

“That’s reassuring,” murmured Broto, as he paled.

“Why not shoot?” I asked Marcelo, who’d leaned the MG3 out the left rear window. The Argentine coolly held the machine gun and carefully scrutinized the crowd.

“What for? That’d be a waste of ammunition. From this distance most of my shots would miss their marks.” He gazed at that crowd, a shadow of fear in his eyes. “It’d be like shooting into the sea.”

We sat in silence, watching the parade of Undead below the helicopter.

“Six minutes!” Pauli’s voice broke our silence. “Get ready, everyone. This’ll be a very short flight.”

26

TENERIFE

“Oh, shit!” shouted the truck driver, as he swerved hard onto the shoulder.

Passengers were thrown to the bed of the truck in a jumble of arms and legs, cursing in several languages. Bruised and battered, Lucia got to her feet and looked around. The white cloud of steam pouring from the truck’s engine and the glum look on the driver’s face told her the truck wasn’t going any farther.

“Are you crazy?” an old man asked, indignantly, as he helped a little boy to his feet. “Do you think we’re just a load of gravel?”

“Don’t blame me!” The driver shrugged, pointing to the smoking engine. “This heap’s been patched with parts from three different trucks! It’s a miracle it still runs! Be glad we’re not stranded on the highway!”

“Whadda we do now?” someone else asked.

“Get out and walk,” the truck driver said matter-of-factly and gave his cap a tug. “I’m staying here with the truck. Some bastard might try to steal my gas.”

A chorus of groans rose at that. It was still early in the morning but the sun was already beating down. Everyone knew the walk wouldn’t be pleasant.

Lucia leapt like a deer out of the truck and got her bearings. Her shift at the ICU started at two and it was already twelve thirty. The hospital was about four miles away, so she had just enough time to get there on foot. Thankful she’d gotten an early start that day, she began walking down the shoulder, glancing behind her like the other passengers, hoping another vehicle would come along.