Dark Days

but he got the creeps patrolling that gigantic ship in the dark, with only a flashlight, hearing the creaking and groaning of a thousand bulkheads.

On the plus side, he was the first to get wind of any new “business opportunities” in the port. Everyone knew that all the best deals in the black market were cooked up on the docks under the watchful eye of inspectors and officers. Pull out a few packs of smokes or gold earrings at the right time and a guard would suddenly need to take a piss or the harbor patrol boat would develop engine failure that mysteriously fixed itself a couple of hours later. In that world, Basilio was like a fish in water, a true genius with an innate talent for discovering some juicy deal.

For the first time in his life, things were going well, very well, for Basilio. His contacts were coming through after weeks of “negotiating.” He was raking in the booty, gold especially.

The lack of legal tender on the islands was a real pain in the ass, even for the black market, but it was inevitable. With a continent in shambles, there were billions of euros lying around, free for the taking—if anyone dared face the Undead to get them. Many refugees arrived clutching millions of dollars, euros, and pounds they’d found strewn across their home countries. They flooded the local market with useless currency that no government backed. Gold, silver, and precious stones—those were the real currency and Basilio knew how to get them.

But a few weeks before, things had gotten fucked up again. First there was that damned raid that cost him a huge shipment of bootleg rum. Then he got the news that that damn nun was still alive!

Basilio’s methods were crude, but he was nobody’s fool. If the nun was alive, it was just a matter of time before she woke up and told the real story about what happened. Then he wouldn’t have jack shit—no bright future, no black market deals, just a one-way ticket to the cranes in the port and a quick hanging.

So, when he learned through one of his customers (a doctor hooked on the dwindling supply of cocaine), that that old bitch was clinging to life, he realized he needed to come up with a plan.

Basilio was no coward. He had no problem bumping someone off in a dark alley, but sneaking into a hospital full of guards, in broad daylight, to knock off an old woman lying in a crowded hospital room would be tricky. Basilio would have to tread lightly. If the old bitch died in a dramatic way, he’d be the first person they’d suspect.

For several days Basilio considered letting the situation play out. According to his contact, the old hag was in a coma and there was a good chance she’d never wake up. He could get lucky and the nun would kick the bucket.

But the day before, a team had left for the Peninsula in search of medicine. They might bring back some drug that would revive the old bat. On the other hand, with all the Undead around, there was a good chance they wouldn’t make it back. But Basilio couldn’t take that chance.

He finally made up his mind: He’d take care of the nun himself. That thought made him feel a whole lot better.

So the next morning, he disguised himself as an orderly, pushing a wheelchair. In it was Eric Desauss, a wiry, red-haired, freckle-faced Belgian, with a convincing cough. Under a blanket, he gripped a nine-millimeter beretta he’d insisted on bringing “just in case.”

Getting the uniform and the pass was simple, although he’d had to pay Dr. Addict a fortune in white powder. Getting Eric to collaborate was easy, too. An old acquaintance from Basilio’s little world, he’d been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Just the thought of killing the nun gave him a morbid thrill and a painful erection he had to hide under the blanket.

Basilio was having a hard time getting his bearings in that fucking madhouse. Dr. Addict had told him how to get to the nun’s hospital room but had refused to go with him, saying, “I don’t want to know what the fuck you’re up to. I don’t even want to know you.”

Basilio and Eric roamed around the hospital for nearly twenty minutes. Basilio’s bad mood was quickly approaching the red zone, like mercury in a thermometer left on a hot stove. They couldn’t keep wandering around aimlessly. Sooner or later, someone would notice that the same orderly with the same patient had passed that same spot three times—and then they’d be in deep shit.

“Eric, I think we have a problem. Get my drift, pal?”

“You’re telling me. We’ve been in this hallway twice. That guard looked us over real good. Maybe we should come back another day.”

“No fucking way,” Basilio whispered. “I’ve got enough morphine in my pocket to bring down an elephant. They frisk everyone leaving the hospital, including staff. What do you think they’d say if they found the piece you’re hiding under that blanket?”

“We could stash everything here and come back another day,” Eric whined. His enthusiasm was waning.

“There’s not going to be another day. Get my drift, pal? It’s gotta be today. We can’t take a chance she’ll wake up. Hey! Look! We found it!” Basilio pointed to a sign that said RECOVERY ROOM 12 with an arrow pointing to the right.

Basilio pushed the wheelchair faster. Before the Apocalypse, that room had been a parking garage for ambulances. Now, the hospital was so crowded, they’d turned it into a hospice with just a coat of white paint and four picture windows on the south wall. The stench of sickness and death was so strong, the two gunmen gagged as they walked through the door. The hospital staff called that room “the Morgue.” Many patients were brought there, but few left it alive. Most often, there was no way to heal those patients; they were the sad ghosts whose lives were cut short. In the old days, they’d have recuperated from their ailments in a couple of days. Now the desperate ill were locked away there so no one had to see them and everyone could go on with their lives, pretending everything was fine. It was way worse than hell.

Fifty beds filled the large room, lined up in two neat rows, with a wide aisle down the center. Most of the beds were occupied, except for a couple whose mattresses were rolled up to let their springs air out. A bloodstain on one of the mattresses made Basilio stop short for a moment. His eyes flitted from bed to bed, searching for the nun’s face among that dying crowd. Finally, he spotted her.

Two nurses in the far corner of the room were leaning over a patient in crisis. One of the nurses hurried out the far door for help. The other nurse had her back turned, so she didn’t see Basilio and Eric stop in the middle of the aisle. The Belgian got out of the wheelchair and pressed himself against the wall, beretta in hand, keeping an eye on both doors.

Basilio wasted no time. He stuck his hand into his pocket, pulled out a syringe filled with morphine and sidled up to the bed where the defenseless Sister Cecilia lay. The sailor-turned-hit-man studied her for a second. In just a few weeks, the old woman had shrunk. With that giant bandage on her head, she looked like an enormous insect in a cocoon. Sorry, old gal, he thought as he gripped the saline drip and injected the drug in the syringe he was holding. Nothing personal. You shouldn’t have gotten in the way…

BANG! The shot was amplified a million times in that huge room, startling Basilio out of his thoughts. He whipped around to face Eric, who’d gone down on one knee and fired the beretta three times in rapid sequence. At the back of the room, a doctor stopped in his tracks, as if he’d hit a concrete wall, then collapsed as a fountain of blood spurted out his neck. A nurse lay sprawled on the floor at his feet. The nurse who’d had her back turned was now draped over her patient in a strange, deadly embrace awash in blood and brains.

“Eric! What the hell’re you doing?” Basilio roared.

“That nurse saw us,” replied the Belgian, in a strangely slow voice. A demented smile drew up the corners of his mouth. “They were going to set off the alarm, Bas! What else could I do?” He shrugged as if to say Don’t blame me.

Basilio’s anger was oozing out every pore, but he didn’t lose control. Two thoughts fired through his cold, dark mind. First, he shouldn’t have brought that maniac Belgian along. Second, they had to get out of there—fast. People were yelling and screaming all over the hospital, and he could hear an alarm blaring in the distance.

“You’ve fucked things up real good, pal!” Basilio growled, as he finished emptying the contents of the syringe into the nun’s IV. He spent a few seconds of the little time they had to escape making sure every drop entered the old woman’s body. He wouldn’t have time to calmly smoke a cigarette and watch the old woman die the way he’d planned. He wanted to be sure the morphine was in her body and there was nothing they could do to save her,