had held those monsters at bay while a team from the Safe Haven searched for food.
It looked like a good place to spend the night.
The light was growing dimmer, and rain was starting to fall. As the rain splattered, soaking everything, we went cautiously through the gaping hole, single file.
My heart sank when I saw the inside of the store. The looting party had thoroughly trashed the place. Empty shelves and torn boxes were tossed everywhere, and broken display cases lay on the floor. It was a deeply disturbing sight.
I took a closer look and noticed some telling details. The looting was systematic, yes, but rushed—not surprising when you consider how quickly those creatures gathered when they located a human being. Packets of noodle soup had been torn open in the shuffle; the entire floor was covered with little stars. I don’t know why, but that image jolted me like an electric shock, more than any other atrocity I’d witnessed.
I collapsed against a wall, exhausted, eyeing all that pasta on the floor. I remembered how my mother and I had fixed soup on rainy days. That memory was intense and painful. I’d stored away that anguish, but now it flooded me in an unstoppable torrent. I mourned silently, big tears rolling down my face.
I hadn’t heard from my family for months. That was something I didn’t want to face. Now an overwhelming pain and emptiness filled me as I wondered what had become of my parents and my sister. I tried to imagine where they might be, wondering if their shelter had been safe enough. But this chaos was too powerful. No coping mechanism could have held up more than five minutes in all this madness.
They could be anywhere. They could be living; more likely they were dead. God forbid they were one of those things wandering around. I shuddered at the thought. If I came face-to-face with them, I don’t think I could defend myself. Not against them.
All the pain I’d accumulated over the last few weeks was unleashed. One of the Pakistanis sneered at me when he noticed I was crying. He must’ve thought I was weak or scared. I didn’t really give a damn what he thought. All I wanted was to get out of there alive and get my cat and my boat back. Then maybe I’d find a way to contact my family. In this apocalypse, I’ve learned that your plans have to be short term. The pain’ll always be with me, not just now but in the weeks to come. It can’t get any worse. Surely it will fade, like an ember. That’s enough talk about sad things.
We braced the battered iron gate with some display cases and shelves, and settled down to spend the night. I lit a cigarette. Pritchenko fixed dinner on a kerosene stove while Shafiq and Kritzinev set Usman’s broken arm.
Shafiq grabbed his countryman from behind, and Kritzinev stuck a wooden stick in his mouth. Then he grabbed the guy’s broken arm at both ends. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he set the bone in place with a crunch that made my hair stand on end. Usman’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted. The rest was easy. They improvised a splint with a metal bar and a roll of bandages. It would hold the arm in place, but it wasn’t the right way to set a fracture. If a doctor had gotten a look at that botched job, he’d have been hopping mad. That kid’s arm was going to be fucked up forever.
In this new world, where the Health Department no longer exists, we’re at the mercy of accidents, just like the cavemen were.
Waqar’s injury had gotten worse. The guy was really pale, and he was coughing up blood. The severe pain in his abdomen was constant, and he was getting weaker. He must’ve had an internal injury. Probably his spleen. That was very bad, considering there was no hospital nearby. We didn’t know what to do. Even if we did, we had no way to help him. Only a properly equipped hospital with a trained staff could help him. Unfortunately, in the entire continent, there wasn’t much of either.
The smell of a stew soon filled the room. We left Usman, unconscious, lying by the gas lamp. Propped up against the wall, Waqar refused to eat. Kritzinev, Shafiq, Pritchenko, and I dug into that warmed-up stew and listened to the raging storm outside.
The meal was sad and somber. In general, our “mission” was in the crapper. We didn’t know where we were, we had no transportation, we’d lost a member of the team, and two were wounded, one seriously. It was a joke.
Just then Waqar struggled to his feet and headed for the bathroom at the back of the room. That guy was looking worse by the minute. I felt sorry for him, so I got up to help him, since he was having a hard time moving. He was just a couple of yards ahead of me. On the bathroom door hung a colorful poster of a bunch of fat guys in nineteenth-century clothing. They looked like they needed to take a piss and were frantically banging on the bathroom door. Below that was written “Wait Your Turn” in huge red letters. The owner of the shop had a real sense of humor.
We’d made a huge mistake when we first arrived—no one had checked the bathroom. Waqar reached out and turned the doorknob. As he did, the door slammed open. Waqar fell on the floor with a cry of pain as that thing hovered over him.
I reacted instinctively. Waqar was lying on his back, trying to pull away from that monster that was biting the air, going for his throat. He was a young guy, in army fatigues that were too big for him and hair too long to be a soldier. A volunteer from the Safe Haven, I speculated as I sprinted the two yards between us. He’d gotten infected somehow so they left him locked in a bathroom. They couldn’t shoot an old friend; they weren’t that cold- blooded. They figured no one would open that bathroom door again.
I grabbed that thing by the back of his jacket and struggled to pull him a few inches away from Waqar. The undead are like junkies all strung out on cocaine or pills. It’s very hard, if not impossible, for one person to overpower them. Not to mention that if they bite you, you’re screwed. Waqar took advantage of this break to roll over and escape from his clutches.
In the process, I lost my grip and fell backward, giving that monster a chance to stand up and turn around. The son of a bitch saw me lying helpless on the ground and gave a grunt of triumph before pouncing on me.
Shots rang out, and the guy’s head exploded like a ripe watermelon, leaving a strange pattern of brains on the wall. His knees buckled, and he fell in slow motion.
I turned my head toward the door. There stood Sharif, the barrel of his AK-47 still smoking, looking at me with more respect than he had just a few minutes earlier. He’d saved my life. But the gunfire doomed us. They knew we were there.
ENTRY 64
Something’s horribly wrong with Waqar. I’m no doctor, but I swear that the internal bleeding, or whatever he has, is getting worse. Blood isn’t seeping out of his mouth anymore, but he’s deathly pale. His groin is very hard, and his skin is as taut as a drum. He also has a huge bruise on his chest, a deep scratch on his right arm, and a high fever. All we have is some Tylenol and a box of Clamoxil, a medium-strength antibiotic. We have absolutely nothing to relieve the pain. I gave him a couple of Tylenol and forced him to drink lots of water. Pritchenko puts wet compresses on his forehead every ten minutes. We’re the only ones caring for this poor kid.
Kritzinev found a case of wine, so now he’s completely out of it. The other two Pakistanis are praying and looking at us with anguished faces. Beyond that, they’re no help. From time to time they say something to us in Urdu, but neither Viktor nor I understand them. I feel absolutely powerless.
Outside there are plenty of monsters. We don’t know exactly how many, because the shutters—which fortunately are holding up well—are down. But we can hear their pounding and their enraged roars. We haven’t found any other way out. We’re trapped.
I’m worried about Waqar. He’ll kick the bucket in a few hours if we don’t get him out of here. It baffles me how completely irresponsible these people are. Coming to shore without even a basic first-aid kit, just a few odds and ends of medications! Our provisions are running low, too, I noticed when I rifled through the Pakistanis’ backpacks.
I guess they thought this would be a walk in the park: reach the VNT office, grab the package, and get back on board. Idiots! This is hell on earth, and in hell, any problem can become a tragedy in a heartbeat.
