Republic and the supporters of Froilan, Elena’s son and therefore the new king. Each side knew all too well that it was too weak to prevail and that a long civil war was out of the question.
Finally, the two sides called a truce. With little Froilan as their figurehead, Royalists (derogatorily called Froilists by the Republicans) would control Gran Canaria, under the protection of the military junta. Tenerife pompously declared itself the “Third Spanish Republic” and elected a prime minister and a “National Emergency Democratic Government.” The truth was, democracy was just a nice word that both groups hid behind as they took power and tried to survive. The way an old lady, down on her luck, holds onto a dress she wore in better days and her grandmother’s silver spoons, both governments tried to clothe themselves in the last scraps of legitimacy, while still throwing punches under the table. Although they weren’t officially at war, neither side recognized the other’s legitimacy. Raiding parties frequently stole supplies, leaving more casualties than the Undead had.
When Lucia and her friends reached the islands, confrontations between Republicans and the Froilists were at an all-time high. Both governments seethed with paranoia over enemy infiltration. Each side knew it had thousands of supporters on the other island… and thousands of infiltrators among their own ranks. It was only a matter of time before a fifth column would jump into the fray.
24
Hearing the shots, I pressed against a window, trying to see what was going on. After they’d deplaned, the legionnaires had divided into groups of three. Four groups spread out on the runway around the Airbus, while the fifth group sprinted toward the terminal at the far end of the airbase. Those guys had clearly drawn the short straw. They were headed for the hangars, out of our line of sight. If they encountered any problems, they’d be too far away for help to reach them in time. But I felt sure they knew that.
I was taken by surprise by a new burst of gunfire coming from the terminal building. Through the doors that opened onto the runway staggered three Undead—a middle-aged man whose wide mustache was covered with clotted blood, and two women, one of whom had had her arm torn off at the shoulder.
There they were—the tireless fucking Undead.
I shuddered at the sight of them. The passage of time had had little effect on those things. I’d hoped they’d rotted after all this time, but their bodies seemed to be holding up well. I was sure they’d decayed in some way, but it was a slow, subtle change I couldn’t put my finger on. They just didn’t seem as “fresh” as they did at first. It would take years or centuries for them to “die,” a lot more time than we survivors had.
The clothes those three were wearing were in very good condition, so they must’ve spent most of the time inside the terminal, not subjected to the elements. The one with the bloody mustache had on a green jumpsuit like the airport cleaning staff wore. The other two looked like civilians or flight attendants, but I couldn’t say which since their clothes were covered in blood.
Those Undead didn’t faze the legionnaires closest to the door. They very coolly let them get about six feet away before they acted.
Their system struck me as odd. In each team, there was a long-range shooter, a short-range shooter, and one soldier who stood in the middle watching to make sure no Undead got too close without being noticed. The middle guy also loaded the other soldiers’ weapons. The two shooters switched positions frequently and if need be, carried out the same role.
Just then, the team slung their HKs across their backs, quickly put on plastic safety goggles, and drew their pistols. For almost a minute, they allowed the monsters to approach, until they were almost an arm’s length away. On the order of the group leader, they all pulled their triggers.
Almost simultaneously, the heads of the three Undead exploded in a fountain of blood, bone chips, and viscera. Their bodies collapsed onto the concrete, convulsing. I couldn’t suppress a loud “Fuck” as I involuntarily took a step back and fell backward over a seat. It was so unexpected and macabre I felt breakfast rising up my throat.
“Explosive bullets,” Pitt murmured, wearing a wolfish grin, as he helped me up. “Even a misplaced shot becomes a hit. Those guys know what they’re doing.”
The three legionnaires hopped over the bodies and kept running toward the building. Another group had already entered the control tower, while a third group hurriedly put new batteries in one of the airport’s electric vehicles. After a moment, the little bus came to life and started to roll slowly on tires that had gone flat after months outdoors. It wouldn’t run for very long, but long enough to check the perimeter.
More shots rang out inside the terminal. Prit jumped to his feet, with the look of a hungry hunter. The Ukrainian wanted to get off the plane and, as he put it, “shoot some ducks on the pond.” I wasn’t so eager to get out there.
“What the hell’re we waiting for?” the Ukrainian growled. “Let’s go!”
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Mr. Pritchenko.” Pauli stretched out her arm to restrain my restless friend, who was slipping down the aisle like an eel, headed for the door. “Listen to me, please! The legionnaires have drilled this operation for weeks. We have to stay in the plane until they’ve secured the perimeter. Then can we leave. Plus, your mission is to fly a helicopter. That’s it. Got it?”
“They may need our help!” Prit snorted, casting an urgent glance at the door. “They’re mopping up out there while we’re sitting on our asses in here, damn it!”
“They know we’re here,” I intervened, trying to reassure my friend. “If they need us, they’ll radio us. Besides, if we go out there now, they might confuse us with the Undead. We have to wait, Prit. Try to understand that.”
The Ukrainian turned his back, sulking and cursing under his breath. He wanted to take on those monsters, but he was being held back. How different we were! I’ll admit it—those Undead terrified me. Not only wasn’t he afraid, he hated them and wanted to unleash his wrath on them.
There was a crash of broken glass as a huge window in the terminal exploded. Through the shower of glass, I saw flashes from guns turn the room a sulfur yellow. Then several bodies with mangled heads fell out the window and landed on the tarmac with a thud. For a second, there was silence inside the plane. Suddenly, someone’s radio violently crackled, startling us.
“Alpha Three in position. Terminal secured. Doors barricaded from the inside. Twelve varmints down. No casualties of our own. Awaiting instructions. Over.”
“Alpha Three, hold your position,” Tank replied as he waved us down the rope ladder onto the runway. “Teams Two and Three, entering the building. Hold your fire!”
Tank turned to us, cocking his gun. His sea-green gaze rested on me for a second, then he surveyed the rest of the group. A chill ran down my back. I could guess what was coming next.
“We’re up, gentlemen. Let’s go!”
25
The rope ladder swayed violently; its rough surface burned my hands as we descended on it to the runway. Preceding me was tall, silent Marcelo. Unlike most Argentines, he was a man of few words, but he seemed confident in everything he did. Next down the ladder was Pritchenko. In his excitement, he was humming an indecipherable tune under his breath. Broto, the computer tech, and Pauli were waiting for us on the runway.
My thoughts were a bit scattered, so when my feet touched the ground, I gave a little hop. “Once more into the breach dear friends,” I said, quoting Shakespeare’s
