“Holy Mother of God! We’re saved!” Sister Cecilia’s voice warbled with excitement, as the hazy outline of Lanzarote loomed on the horizon. We’d reached the easternmost island of the archipelago.
I shot the little nun a surprised look. At the sight of land she’d come out of her trance and shrieked excitedly in those cramped quarters. Lucia kissed Prit and me and hugged us so tight, she nearly choked us.
We all had a right to rejoice. Our goal was in sight.
We’d taken off from Africa a couple of hours before and had covered the distance faster than we’d estimated, thanks to a tailwind. Now, Lanzarote shimmered in the sun like a mirage in the middle of that turquoise sea. It was the most beautiful sight I’d seen in months.
Prit nonchalantly announced that we’d touch down in about twenty minutes. “And twenty minutes after that, I’ll be drinking a nice cold beer. Better yet, a whole keg with a pocketful of Canary Island cigars.” Behind me, Lucia rattled on to Sister Cecilia about getting clothes that weren’t three sizes too big. “Something feminine that shows off my figure.” Even Lucullus got caught up in the excitement. He zipped around from one end of the cabin to the other, forcing us to put him back in his carrier amid yowls of protest. I was just relieved we’d made the nearly three-thousand-mile trip with no mishaps. Given the circumstances, that was no small feat.
I started fiddling with the radio, looking for a frequency so I could contact the island and identify ourselves. The last thing I wanted was some nervous finger to pull a trigger. We were new to the area and had to proceed with caution.
The concerned look on my face silenced the rejoicing in the cabin. No matter how much I turned the dial, I only got static. My gut froze into an icy knot. If the radio didn’t pick up any broadcast, it could mean one of only two things: Either the island was maintaining radio silence… or there was no one there who could operate that radio.
I felt sick. If the epidemic had reached the islands, our chances of survival plummeted. We were three thousand miles from Europe, flying over an island in the middle of the Atlantic, and the last of our fuel was running out. We couldn’t turn back or go somewhere else. We’d bet everything on the Canary Islands… and it looked like we’d lost.
In the silence, I could feel three pairs of eyes boring into my neck, as the helicopter covered the last nautical miles between us and land. In a few minutes we’d have what Prit called “dry feet.”
What the hell was I going to tell them? What the hell were we supposed to do?
“There’s no signal, is there?” Sister Cecilia broke the heavy silence, with a note of fatalism in her voice.
“No, Sister. I don’t think there’s anyone down there.” The Lanzarote coastline was flying past under our feet.
“That can’t be! That just can’t be!” Lucia shook her head. “Let me try.” She pushed me aside and grabbed my headphones.
I watched with fascination as Lucia’s slim fingers turned the dials with the delicacy and precision of a goldsmith, stopping at every little crackle or hiss, searching for a spot where a human hand might be behind the signal. I realized I’d let my nerves get the better of me and had handled the radio too roughly, compared with Lucia’s delicate touch. Suddenly her face lit up and my heart raced wildly.
“Here’s something!” She exclaimed, nearly frantic as she ripped off the headphones. “Listen to this!” Prit flipped a lever that connected the radio to the cabin, his eyes glued to the terrain stretching before him.
“Tenerife North Airport GCXO. Automatic emergency warning… headers twelve-thirty free, main runway clear… contact tower on channel thirty-six, do not land without authorization. Repeat, do not land without authorization. Report directly to the quarantine area. Tenerife North Airport GCXO, automatic emergency warning… headers twelve-thirty free.” The message was repeated twice more in Spanish, then it replayed in English.
“What does that mean?” Lucia asked. “What’re they talking about?”
“Tenerife North Airport.” Prit muttered under his breath. “Los Rodeos.”
I nodded. Tenerife North Airport was one of two airports on the island of Tenerife, along with Reina Sofia Airport at the southern end. The automatic signal indicated that someone had survived the epidemic. The part about a “quarantine area” convinced me of that. That was the good news.
The bad news was that we still had to get there. A quick glance at the fuel gauge made it clear we wouldn’t make it. A red light started flashing on the control panel and a shrill alarm went off. Prit pulled a small lever and the flashing light stopped; a steady orange light replaced it. We all looked over at the Ukrainian, confused.
“I just switched over to the reserve tank. We’ve got enough juice to fly for another fifteen minutes. After that…”
“What then?” I muttered.
“Lanzarote Airport’s radio signal is still broadcasting, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s powered by solar batteries, so the signal could replay for months. It doesn’t mean we’ll find anyone there.”
A heavy silence fell. We had no other choice.
I thought for a few seconds. “We’re here, so head for Lanzarote Airport in Arrecife. It’s our only option.”
The Ukrainian nodded and tilted the heavy Sokol to the left, following the signal.
5
For six or seven minutes, we skimmed the rooftops in Arrecife. Before the epidemic it was a city of about fifty thousand, but we didn’t spot anyone on the streets.
It looked about like all the other cities we’d seen along our relentless journey, except for one thing: There were no signs of fighting, no pileups of abandoned cars, no buildings burned to the ground, or any other sign of the Apocalypse. The public gardens, although in ruins and wild, didn’t look like a jungle like other parks had after being abandoned for over a year. The streets were dirty, but there were no large piles of trash and debris and no papers fluttering around. The city looked like it was asleep, like any early Sunday morning. I almost expected to see a delivery truck filled with newspapers drive around a corner.
“There!” Lucia yelled. “On that plaza, in between those two green buses!”
Everyone looked where she was pointing. I swallowed hard. Just then two men stepped out of one of those buses. One was dressed in the uniform of the Spanish Legion. The other looked like an important dignitary in his forties, wearing a suit and tie, his hair tousled. They walked along as if they were two friends, chatting, oblivious to the roar of the Sokol overhead. Perfectly normal, except that the civilian was missing half his face and the legionnaire’s chest was crusted with blood.
They were Undead.
The epidemic had landed on that plaza.
I punched one of the helicopter’s struts as Prit let out a stream of Russian cuss words. Stunned, Lucia watched those two guys through her binoculars, unable to believe her eyes. Sister Cecilia had resumed praying to her rosary in a monotonous, broken voice. The old nun’s face radiated a strange peace. She was well aware we had a few hours of life left—at best—and she was settling her accounts, preparing to greet God… which would be soon, if we didn’t come up with a plan.
“Something’s wrong with this picture. The city is devastated, sure, but there’re no signs of struggle!” I shouted over the noise of the rotors. “Take a good look! There are very few Undead on the streets, a few dozen at most!”
“He’s right!” Prit was shouting, too. “The city looks like it was emptied out in an orderly fashion! I’d bet my last bottle of vodka those Undead down there came from somewhere else, after the city was evacuated!”
“That would explain why there’re so few of them. It doesn’t explain where everyone went or why they evacuated the city.”
“Or where those Undead came from,” Lucia added, grimly.
We were lost in our thoughts as the helicopter covered the last few miles to the airport. When I cocked my rifle, everyone flinched. Questions about what we’d find there raced through my mind. Though I was sweating
