eighteen team members and all our gear. Kurt Tank sat next to Prit in the forward cabin.
With a jolt, the bird rose into the air. Suddenly, an alarm began to wail in the cabin and a huge red indicator light lit up the dashboard.
“What the fuck’s happening, Prit?” I asked over the intercom, alarmed.
“Quiet back there!” The Ukrainian sounded calm as he fought the cross currents that shook the helicopter. “The engine temperature sensors must be clogged with dust or they’ve been damaged by moisture! According to the dashboard, the main engine is about to burn up, but that’s impossible. We just took off!”
“You sure?” I asked again. That was to be expected. Any plane would be in bad shape after months of neglect and exposure to weather.
“I can’t be a hundred percent sure!” Pritchenko snapped. “It is what it is! We can’t land again to do a tune up! Look down there!”
I looked out the window. A throng of thousands of angry Undead had gathered at the fence along the runway. Every inch of the perimeter was covered with those things, two or three abreast. They clutched the fence and furiously shook it. Their groans were so loud you could hear them above the whir of the helicopter’s blades. Some had stuck their arms through the gaps between the concrete supports and the steel mesh.
You had to see that scene to believe it. There were all kinds: young, old, children, fat, skinny. They all were a waxy yellow and had that tattoo of exploded veins scattered across their skin. Their clothes were in bad shape, and some were completely naked, covered with dirt from head to toe. As we rose, those Undead monsters stretched their arms toward the helicopter, their lifeless, watery eyes drilling into us. Even from that height, I could see inside their grisly, dark mouths.
They knew we were there. And not just because we were making all that noise. They’d detected our vital signs somehow. Something drew them to us.
We were all petrified at that ghoulish sight. Someone muttered, “Dear God in Heaven.” Another voice quietly said the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. My mouth was too dry to say a word. I would’ve killed for a whiskey.
The Undead just kept coming—down side streets, singly or in small groups. They swarmed the M-40 highway and skirted dozens of huge pileups, wobbling toward us.
“Will the fence hold?” Broto asked over the intercom glumly, as he took it all in.
“Let’s hope so.” Tank shrugged. “The two pilots and the soldiers on the ground have orders to take refuge in the Airbus, out of sight of the Undead, and make as little noise as possible. We hope that’ll keep more from approaching the perimeter. Plus, the noise our helicopter makes will draw them to us.”
“That’s reassuring,” murmured Broto, as he paled.
“Why not shoot?” I asked Marcelo, who’d leaned the MG3 out the left rear window. The Argentine coolly held the machine gun and carefully scrutinized the crowd.
“What for? That’d be a waste of ammunition. From this distance most of my shots would miss their marks.” He gazed at that crowd, a shadow of fear in his eyes. “It’d be like shooting into the sea.”
We sat in silence, watching the parade of Undead below the helicopter.
“Six minutes!” Pauli’s voice broke our silence. “Get ready, everyone. This’ll be a very short flight.”
26
“Oh, shit!” shouted the truck driver, as he swerved hard onto the shoulder.
Passengers were thrown to the bed of the truck in a jumble of arms and legs, cursing in several languages. Bruised and battered, Lucia got to her feet and looked around. The white cloud of steam pouring from the truck’s engine and the glum look on the driver’s face told her the truck wasn’t going any farther.
“Are you crazy?” an old man asked, indignantly, as he helped a little boy to his feet. “Do you think we’re just a load of gravel?”
“Don’t blame me!” The driver shrugged, pointing to the smoking engine. “This heap’s been patched with parts from three different trucks! It’s a miracle it still runs! Be glad we’re not stranded on the highway!”
“Whadda we do now?” someone else asked.
“Get out and walk,” the truck driver said matter-of-factly and gave his cap a tug. “I’m staying here with the truck. Some bastard might try to steal my gas.”
A chorus of groans rose at that. It was still early in the morning but the sun was already beating down. Everyone knew the walk wouldn’t be pleasant.
Lucia leapt like a deer out of the truck and got her bearings. Her shift at the ICU started at two and it was already twelve thirty. The hospital was about four miles away, so she had just enough time to get there on foot. Thankful she’d gotten an early start that day, she began walking down the shoulder, glancing behind her like the other passengers, hoping another vehicle would come along.
A lot of people were walking up and down the same road. Until a couple of weeks ago, there would’ve been a fruit and vegetable stand by the side of the road, but the Government of the Republic had decreed that collective farming would increase yield. Time would tell if that strategy would pay off. Lucia couldn’t be bothered with that at the moment. She had more pressing matters to focus on, like how the hell to get more drugs for Sister Cecilia on the black market.
Lucia visited Sister Cecilia every minute she could. She was devastated at the nun’s wan, bandaged face that blended into the white sheets where she lay motionless.
The week before, Lucia had sold a pair of diamond earrings that had belonged to her mother. It was a miracle she’d been able to hold on to them for so long. Selling them broke her heart. They were the last memento of her former life, a reminder of the girl who got on that bus a thousand years ago and embarked on this difficult life. She thought bitterly,
In exchange for the earrings, that sweaty guy who worked at the Port Authority had given her a half dozen ration coupons; for Sister Cecilia, she’d gotten one of the rarest, most expensive items on the island—four boxes of morphine. The doctors had already used up two of those boxes. Lucia wondered what would happen when the nun’s meager allotment of analgesics ran out.
That wasn’t the only problem. The doctor said Sister Cecilia badly needed a drug called mannitol to reduce the swelling in her brain, but the medical board had ruled that her friend was a lost cause and precious vials of mannitol would be wasted on her. But Lucia didn’t lose hope.
She’d been walking for twenty minutes when the driver of an overcrowded bus with a ridiculous-looking fuel tank bolted to the roof took pity on Lucia’s group and picked them up. At a little past one, the girl finally arrived at the hospital.
Health services had totally collapsed. There were five hundred physicians on the island at most, and that number included med students from the University of La Laguna whom authorities had rushed to graduate.
In the lobby was an endless flow of patients, medical staff, and people claiming they had the most ridiculous ailments. Being admitted to the hospital guaranteed three meals daily and a break from the oppressive Mandatory Labor Service for a few days. Every day, exhausted doctors weeded out the fakers from among the genuinely sick.
She entered through the employee entrance, nodding at the armed guards manning the metal detector. With a quick, practiced gesture, she pinned her badge to her lapel. The guards knew her and gave her a quick glance, then turned their attention back to the relentless stream of people trying to finagle their way in. Security was no laughing matter at the island’s only functioning hospital. There’d been several attempts to rob the pharmacy. On the black market, medications were the most valuable currency.
“Hi, Lucia!” The nurses’ aide who greeted her was a real pistol, barely five feet tall. She was making eyes at one of the guards as she pinned her ID to the neckline of a blouse that was better suited for a bar than a hospital.
“Hi, Maite! How’s it going?” With a knowing smile, Lucia walked up to the girl she considered her good
