Dark Days

After a few minutes, we had left that urban sprawl behind. My anxious eyes refused to relinquish that image of vitality, which fell away too soon.

The helicopter flew back over the ocean, to the far end of the dock, where a number of large ships crowded the harbor. Anchored a considerable distance away was a ship painted a dull navy-gray. The strange structure in the front ended abruptly and its stern resembled a small landing strip. It looked like some nitwit navy engineer had left half of the ship back at the shipyard.

The L-51 painted in huge white letters on the side identified it as part of the Spanish fleet. We were going to land on one of the strangest ships that ever sailed. Up until a few months ago, it had been an amphibious assault ship. As we flew over the ship’s stern, I read the name on the hull and smiled at the bitter irony. After nearly a year dancing with death for thousands of miles, I was back home.

The ship was named Galicia.

12

By the time we landed on the Galicia’s deck, the sky had turned blood red. Marcelo pointed to the sliding door and motioned for us to climb out. Suddenly, the atmosphere grew tense. The Argentine made a show of drawing his side arm in case of trouble. Even jovial Pauli was all business, with a serious look on her face. The large revolver she was holding looked like a cannon in her small hands. If she fired that gun, the recoil would probably propel her backward. Both the pilot and copilot were also armed with handguns. They’d turned around and faced the cabin, convincing us to leave the relative safety of the helicopter and jump onto the deck.

A warm wind filled with the scent of fertile land reached our noses when we set foot on the Galicia’s deck. Two small choppers with bulbous glass covers also sat on the landing pad—reconnaissance helicopters, I guessed. I glanced up at the ship’s mast. I could just make out the Spanish flag flying overhead in the half-dark of twilight. A flag I didn’t recognize fluttered in the breeze below the national flag. It was dark blue with the shield of Spain in the center, but above the shield was a crown sitting atop a wall instead of just the crown. Most of the other ships flew the same combination of flags.

I scratched my head, trying to understand, but soon I had more important things to think about. A dozen people clad in hazmat suits filed out a door at the base of the superstructure. Polarized visors covered their faces so I couldn’t make out their gender or age. From their height and gait, I concluded that most were men, and three or four were women. As they got closer, I automatically stepped closer to Prit, who instinctively covered my back.

“I don’t like this one bit, man,” the Ukrainian hissed, his eyes glued to the group.

“If things get ugly, let’s all jump overboard, agreed? You grab the nun and I’ll grab Lucia and the cat.”

“Lucullus won’t be too thrilled about swimming to shore. Me, either,” Prit shuddered. “I hate swimming when I can’t see the bottom.”

“Better saltwater than lead, Prit.”

“For now let’s play it cool.” The Ukrainian’s soldier-like gaze swept the area, coldly assessing our situation. “We’re too high up. They’d fry us before we hit the water. Look up there.”

I looked where he pointed with his eyes. Dressed in combat fatigues were a couple of sailors, stationed behind a heavy machine gun on a ledge about twenty feet high with a clear view of the entire runway. They’d know if we sneezed.

Lucia listened with a terrified look in her eyes. I sighed, downhearted. We had no choice but to accept what those people planned to do with us.

The first of the team in hazmat suits had reached us. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I guessed he was examining every member of my “family,” including Lucullus, who was squirming in Lucia’s arms. He studied us for a really long time. After all, we were a very colorful, almost shocking group.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pauli, Marcelo, and the two helicopter pilots head into the ship. Clad only in shorts and T-shirts, they crammed their flight suits into toxic waste disposal bags. This was just routine procedure to them.

“Don’t worry, Peninsula guys,” said Pauli as she walked by. “We’ll see you when you get out of quarantine!” With a cheerful wave, she disappeared through the door, followed by the sour-faced Marcelo.

Great. Now what?

“Welcome to Tenerife. I’m Dr. Jorge Alonso.” The filter in his suit distorted his voice. He seemed to be in charge. “Please stay calm. If you cooperate and follow instructions, everything’ll go as smooth as silk. This is a mandatory medical procedure, so relax and let us do our job. The sooner we finish, the sooner you’ll get out of quarantine. Let’s make this easy, okay?” His voice was conciliatory, but firm, as he pointed to the door the helicopter crew had passed through.

I nodded, too stunned to speak.

The corridors of the ship were painted regulation navy gray; dozens of pipes and cables crisscrossed the ceiling. We passed several doors that were locked tight. One of the doors had a porthole; three or four sailors had crowded around on the other side of the glass to get a look at the “survivors from the Peninsula.” I didn’t know what to think… Were we that bizarre? That could be good or bad. Very bad.

We stopped where two hallways intersected. Dr. Alonso took the lead again.

“Men here, women over there, please.”

“Wait,” I said. “We’d like to stick together. We came here together and we want—”

“I don’t care what you want or don’t want, sir,” he cut me off. “Rules are rules. Men down this hall, women and children down that hall. Please cooperate.”

“Hey, be reasonable,” I answered, summoning up my inner negotiator. “This is new to us, so if you wouldn’t mind, we’d rather—”

This time a tall guy, also in a hazmat suit, spoke up. “Look, friend. This isn’t a debate. It’s not even a discussion. Do what we say. End of story. Got it? If you don’t like it, I hope you know how to swim, because Africa’s a long way from here. So don’t fuck around and do what Dr. Alonso says. Men on the right, women on the left! LET’S GO!” he roared, brandishing an electric prod.

I raised my hands and headed down the hall on the right. After giving that guy a killer look, Prit joined me. I wouldn’t want to be in that guy’s shoes if he ever crossed Pritchenko’s path in a dark alley.

Sister Cecilia and Lucia went down the aisle to the left. Suddenly, Lucia broke away and planted herself next to me, setting Lucullus in my arms.

“Take him.” She gave me a quick kiss. “I haven’t forgotten what you said in Lanzarote.”

“Stay calm. It’ll be okay.” My voice broke. “Watch out for her, Sister!” I called after them as they walked down the hall. “Be careful! See you soon!”

“Don’t worry, my son! We’re in God’s hands!”

No, we’re in these people’s hands, Sister, I thought. And that might not be such a good thing.

“Where’re you taking them? What’re you going to do with us?” Pritchenko was pissed off.

Dr. Alonso shrugged. His soft, sweet voice gave me chills. “Like I said, my friend. To quarantine. Now, if you don’t mind, through that door, please.”

13

Basilio Irisarri was an alcoholic. When he went on one of his many benders, his shipmates would have to drag him back to the ship. Basilio didn’t know it but that detail saved his life.

Basilio was an old-school sailor: simple, direct, and crude. He first shipped out when he was seventeen. He became experienced and capable, having spent time on many ships, mostly as boatswain, in charge of maintenance. He was promoted to chief petty officer a few times, but his surly, belligerent personality coupled with