“Just my pride,” said the Ukrainian, laconic as ever. He brushed the dust off his pants and grabbed my HK off the ground. “Think it’ll hold?” he asked skeptically, as he studied the barricade holding up the doors.
“Doubt it. Not with that crowd pushing against them. But they’ll buy us some time,” I said, as I shoved the last beam in place.
We could barely hear each other over the roar of the helicopter as it circled the tower. I could see its crew taking stock of the scene below them. For a moment, I wondered what the pilot was thinking as he looked down on that multitude pressing against the tower and the Sokol abandoned at the far end of the runway.
“Head for the top of the tower!” Prit cried, as I loaded my spear gun.
The first few Undead had reached the doors and were pounding wildly on them. A mad jumble of moans exploded out of their throats. The chilling memory of that claustrophobic day cooped up in a dark crawl space in that store in Vigo came racing back. My hands started to shake and I was helpless to stop them.
Sister Cecilia and Lucia, with Lucullus in her arms, labored up the stairs behind Prit. From time to time he had to clear away a pile of rubble blocking the stairwell. The debris crashed to the floor below, where we’d just been standing, raising such huge dust clouds I could barely make out where the doors were.
I crouched down on the first flight of stairs, coughing uncontrollably from all the dust, and waited, looking down at the doors every time that roaring mass pushed especially hard. There was absolutely nothing I could do. That barricade wouldn’t hold for long.
I started up the stairs in the dark, till I came to the third floor landing, where I had to sit down and catch my breath. A huge bang, like an explosion, startled me. The groans of the Undead got twice as loud. The doors had fallen.
They were inside.
Their halting steps echoed on the metal stairs. I swallowed hard and waited. My sweaty hands gripped my spear gun even tighter as I leaned against the railing.
The first Undead suddenly appeared on the staircase, silhouetted in the light from a small window. He was a young guy, in his twenties, with long hair and a beard. His clothes were in tatters and he had two gaping bullet holes in his chest. A huge gash on his right leg made him limp but didn’t stop him from climbing the stairs. His face and clothes were covered in dried blood; his dead eyes glowed with hate. Cement dust had settled on his body, making him look even more diabolical.
A terrible sneer spread across his face when he saw me. As he took a few halting steps toward me, I took a deep breath and aimed the spear at his head. At less than five feet, I couldn’t miss. With a squishy
He looked confused for a second and then crashed onto the concrete landing. I didn’t hang around to admire the landscape; I turned and ran to the top of the tower. The helicopter rumbled right above our heads.
A charred skull smiled down at me at the top of the last flight of stairs. With a shiver, I jumped over it and headed for the ladder to the trapdoor that opened onto the roof.
As I climbed up, I heard the Undead stream into the cupola of the tower. Prit grabbed the back of my wetsuit and pulled me up. Sister Cecilia quickly drew the ladder up behind me. I gasped when I looked back down through the trapdoor. Dozens of rabid Undead were crowded around below, trying to reach us.
I’d made it by a hair.
Relieved, I looked over at Pritchenko but his shocked expression made me turn around. I peered at the helicopter hovering overhead and was stunned by what I saw. And yet, there it was, right in front of my eyes: the helicopter, painted in camouflage, had tilted when they threw us a ladder. On the door, in big, bold letters were the words ARGENTINA AIR FORCE.
9
An army helicopter from Argentina.
In the Canary Islands.
Moroccan soldiers, Argentine helicopters… What the hell was going on? I hoped someone at the top of that ladder had the answer.
A gloved hand at the end of an arm in a drab olive uniform helped me into the cabin. When we were all on board, the helicopter flew off, circling the runway at full speed. I lay on the floor, panting, feeling the nausea that washed over me every time I had a brush with death. I sat up and tried to collect myself. I didn’t want the first impression that bunch of strangers had was me throwing up out the chopper’s door.
I turned to smile at the man with the gloved hand. He was tall and thin, in his thirties, wearing a flight suit, his face partially covered by a helmet and mirrored goggles. The guy spoke before I could get a word out.
“Up against the bulkhead, please,” said the voice, polite but firm with a distinct Argentine accent.
“Hello, my name is—” I stuck my hand out to my savior but stopped short when the guy pointed the barrel of his rifle at my stomach.
“Sir, up against the bulkhead… NOW!”
I raised my hands and, with my eyes glued to the rifle, moved to the aft bulkhead, where the rest of my “family” was lined up. Lucia looked terrified. Sister Cecilia wore an expression the Christians must’ve had when they faced the lions in Roman times. Stripped of his rifle, Prit shot fire from his eyes; his whole body boiled with rage. Given the slightest provocation, he’d break someone’s neck. I knew my friend was capable of that and more, so I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s see what’s going on here.”
I turned and faced the front. The cabin of this helicopter was a lot smaller than the Sokol’s, so we were just three feet from our new traveling companions, a man and a woman, both dressed in fatigues. Up front, the pilot and copilot had their hands full controlling the helicopter, which was shaking violently, caught in a stream of hot air. The copilot was talking to someone over the radio. I couldn’t hear what he was saying on account of the noise coming from the rotor, but the musical rhythm in his voice left no doubt he was from Buenos Aires.
Argentines, like the helicopter. But their flight suits had the Spanish Air Force insignia embroidered on the right sleeve. When the woman leaned over and said something to the man, her accent was unmistakably Catalan, from northern Spain.
“Sorry for the reception!” she shouted over the noise. “But rules are rules. Nothing personal, but until you pass the quarantine, we have to follow protocol.” She paused for a second and then looked at us curiously. “Are you Froilists?”
“Froilists?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s that?
With a wave of her hand, she said, “You’ll find out soon… if you live that long.”
That didn’t sound very promising.
“Where’re you from?” asked the tall Argentine. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, he didn’t take his eye off us, especially Pritchenko. The finger resting on the trigger of his rifle said
“Pontevedra… I mean Vigo, in Galicia,” said Lucia.
“You’re from the Peninsula?” Clearly he didn’t believe us.
“Yeah! So?” His smartass tone had pissed me off. “We flew to the Canaries along the African coast. Then one last jump to Lanzarote, where we ran out of fuel and now… you guys…” I left my words hanging in the air.
I shot our interrogators a challenging look. It was their turn. They looked at each other and relaxed a bit.
“Hey! Take it easy!” The Argentine said, more to Pritchenko than to me. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from or if you’re telling the truth. The most important thing is we don’t know if you’re infected or not. Until we know for sure, we have to take precautions, okay?”
I finally got it. This was one of the last outposts of survivors; of course they’d take every precaution and quarantine us. Our saviors didn’t know if we were infected with the virus that created the Undead. With a shiver, I realized that if they had the slightest doubt, all the welcome we’d get was some lead to the head.
