relief and realized I’d been holding my breath all that time.
We quickly crossed to the heavy gate. I looked at it in despair. Too large for us to force open. We’d come to a dead end. I stood there, stunned, staring at that huge gate, wondering what the hell to do. I knew the others behind me were waiting for me to make a decision. I had no idea what to say. Viktor walked up to the door and inspected it carefully. I just stood there, watching the Ukrainian in surprise. He ran his fingers along the edge closest to the wall. I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, smiling, sweat beading on his forehead, and whispered a single word: “Broken.”
With a creak as loud as a gunshot, the door moved an inch. It wasn’t locked! I suddenly remembered I’d seen that kind of door when I visited a client in prison. It was a high-tech model that used electromagnetic locks. As long as there was electricity, it was impossible to force the lock. In a power outage, the battery could keep the operating system armed for days. But even the smartest manufacturer couldn’t have planned for a power outage that lasted several months. So the lock was turned off, and you could push it open with one finger.
How the hell had Viktor figured that out? Who was this guy?
The door slid smoothly on its tracks, and we got a look at the street outside the compound. The street. The outside. Where those things reigned unchallenged. But when we cautiously poked our heads out, we didn’t see any.
Feverishly I swung the light left and right, afraid I’d catch a glimpse of one of those monsters. I swear to God if I’d seen one close up, I’d have slammed the gate shut and never come out, not even at gunpoint. Now I almost regret that didn’t happen. We’d have been spared what came next.
Just when I thought I’d swept the whole street, I aimed the flashlight to the right and my heart almost stopped. A huge red eye, evil and bright, was staring at me, unblinking, less than three feet away. It was terrifying. I was suddenly mesmerized. When I snapped out of it, I jumped back and almost dropped the flashlight.
At least I didn’t scream. I was spared the embarrassment of explaining why I’d screamed like a girl over a beam of light bouncing off a piece of glass. What I’d taken for a huge eye was just the door reflector of a van parked partway up on the sidewalk.
The rest of the group hung back in the doorway, covering both ends of the street while I nervously approached that huge hunk of metal. Halfway there, I realized I was completely unarmed. If any undead were inside that vehicle, my health would be seriously compromised in seconds.
It was a yellow armored van with SEGURITSA written in bold black letters on the side. The passenger door was open. The reflector on the door lit up when you opened the door. I’d mistaken that for an enormous eye. I definitely needed a huge bag of pot. And a vacation in the Caribbean.
I inched up to the van, the way Lucullus approached a dog, ready to run my ass off. It was a huge armored van and must’ve weighed several tons. I placed my hand on the hood. It was completely cold. It must have been sitting there for weeks, even months. I stuck my head into the driver’s side. Empty. I eased into the plush leather seat and tried to think.
That van wasn’t parked. It’d been abandoned on the sidewalk. The driver must have been in a hurry. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. The keys were still in the ignition. With a shudder, I pictured a couple of security guards in the backseat, turned into undead, closed up in that small space, their rotten teeth pressed to the dividing window that they smashed as they reached out to grab me…
I turned around, bracing myself, but the backseat was empty and dark. Shining the flashlight around, I saw bags with the company logo, covered in dust, tossed on the floor. I sighed with relief. False alarm. There was no one in the van but me. Those bags were filled with the euros people had coveted not long ago, before those monsters came on the scene.
On the floor was a folder on a metal clipboard. I picked it up and glanced over it. The guy’s last route was dated late January. Based on the number of bags and the markings on the side, the driver was near the end of his route when he saw something that made him shit bricks and race back to base. I could think of no other reason to leave behind a van loaded with millions of euros, its door ajar, in the middle of the street and the keys still in the ignition. I didn’t have to be psychic to know what that poor man saw. Where was he now…and in what condition?
That van just might get us across the city. There was plenty of room for all seven of us. It was armored, sturdy, and weighed enough to keep a pack of those things from overturning it. The more I thought about it, the more perfect it got. But one look at the ignition quashed my enthusiasm. The key was in the on position, but the motor was off. The driver had stopped the car so abruptly he’d left off the motor running. It idled for weeks until it ran out of gas and died. I had the perfect vehicle to cross a city of the undead, but not a drop of gasoline. And I didn’t know what shape the battery was in.
Just then, Kritzinev and Pritchenko stuck their heads inside the van, alarmed that I was taking so long. I almost fainted from shock. When I told them the van’s possibilities, they smiled.
ENTRY 62
False alarm. Those young guys out there have just been on edge a bit.
The situation couldn’t be any bleaker. We’re trapped in this shithole of a store, exhausted and hounded by those creatures. I tried to fly under the radar, but Kritzinev whispered a couple of times that this was all my fault and gave me looks that weren’t exactly reassuring. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
When we determined that the van was in good working condition, we got ready to set out. The more we thought about it, the better that vehicle sounded. An armored van is as close to a tank as you can get in civilian life. We had one parked right in front of us, with the keys in it, beckoning to us to get in. The problem was that its gas tank was dry as dried tuna. After idling for God knows how long, it was completely empty.
We came up with a solution, thanks to Shafiq, one of the Pakistanis. He’s a wiry guy, very dark skinned. His monstrous black mustache makes Viktor Pritchenko’s mustache look puny.
When we discovered the tank was dry, Kritzinev muttered a string of words in Urdu to this kid. While another Pakistani went back to the Seguritsa parking lot, Shafiq shrugged off all his gear and stripped down to his shirt and shorts with the ever-present Kalashnikov strapped across his back. Viktor and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, slightly amazed at the scene. The remaining Pakistanis kept an eye on the street through the half-open metal gate, watching for any unwanted visitors.
After a few minutes, the guy returned from the lot with a long piece of rubber tubing cut from a hose. Taking the rubber tube and a five-liter plastic jug, Shafiq headed back to the Zodiac, not saying another word. He untied the boat and paddled quietly toward the Citroen depot about fifty yards from us, disappearing into the black night. We could only hear his rhythmic paddling in the distance.
As I sat there, dying to light a cigarette, I could imagine the scene: Shafiq crouched down, running up and down the rows of cars ready to be shipped to the four corners of the world, the keys in the ignition and a couple of liters of gas in the tank, just enough to drive on to the boat and then the tractor-trailer. A trip they’d never make.
The plan was simple. He’d empty that gas into the jug and then fill the van’s tank. Since the jug only held five liters, he’d have to make at least a dozen trips. But we didn’t have any other containers, except for our canteens. The job would take a while. At least we’d have a vehicle to safely cross the city in. We wouldn’t have to walk. And we’d be setting out in daylight. Call me a coward, but I’d rather see what’s around me than head into a dark ghost town full of mutants.
As I settled down for a break, thousands of paranoid thoughts raced through my mind. What if he mixed regular gas with diesel? What if the cars only used regular gas? (The van, of course, took diesel.) What if the cars had already been cannibalized by the Safe Haven survivors? What if a former employee of the factory, now changed into the living dead, was wandering around? What if it snuck up on Shafiq as he worked? More and more fatal errors went through my mind. With each new terrifying thought, I felt less and less confident and sweated more and more.
All my fears were unfounded. Shafiq returned with a jug of amber diesel gas, wearing a huge smile. He didn’t
