Dark Days

balance.

Tank’s steel grip on my arm stopped me from falling onto the charred remains.

“Stick with your team,” he said dryly, his shark eyes glaring at me. “Protect the computer guy. Without him, this entire mission is pointless.”

I shrugged him off, wondering what was so special about that fucker Broto and walked over to Prit, carefully stepping over all the charred bodies.

“We go with them,” Prit said pointing to Pauli and Marcelo. “Apparently we have to babysit that freaked-out computer hot shot.”

“Any idea why?”

“Not a clue,” Prit said with a sigh. “But surely in a few minutes—look out!”

The Ukrainian jumped back like he’d seen a snake and he shoved me out of his line of fire. I turned just in time to see two horribly charred Undead less than five feet away from us. They were burned so badly you couldn’t tell their ages or sex, but they moved pretty well, considering their condition.

Prit raised his HK and opened fire at the one on the right. In a split second the rattle of his rifle merged with bursts from other weapons. All the Undead still standing in that parking lot were headed right for us.

The napalm had killed most of those monsters, but three or four dozen still ringed the helicopter and were closing in. The roar of HKs mixed with the bark of the Glocks, and in the background you could hear short, rhythmic bursts from the Argentine’s MG3.

Our two Undead were awfully close and Prit and I faced them alone. The rest of the team was hurriedly shooting in other directions, focusing on their immediate area. The deafening noise drew more and more Undead. They just kept coming.

Pritchenko’s first shot ripped a hole in the Undead’s chest. It staggered back, shaken by the impact for a moment, but kept coming toward us. The Ukrainian corrected his aim and fired again, this time at its head, transforming it into viscous pulp that splattered in every direction. That Undead collapsed in a heap, but Prit and I didn’t have time to watch. He calmly aimed at the other Undead, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. His gun emitted a horrifying metallic clank. We froze, as the Undead approached, unstoppable.

“It’s jammed!” Prit shouted. “Fuck! It’s jammed! Shoot at that one, fast!”

As if in a dream, I raised the Glock. I watched my thumb free the safety the way the instructor had taught me in Tenerife. I focused all my attention on the creature advancing toward us. I shut out the rest of the world. All that existed was that charred monster, the sight on that heavy Glock, and me.

I heard myself breathing. I felt my finger slowly press the trigger—and fired.

But the hammer made just a muffled clank.

30

TENERIFE

The gunshots got Lucia’s attention first. As she pushed through the heavy fire doors, she was struck by the eerie silence in that room. Next, her gaze flew to the burly orderly bent over Sister Cecilia, his head pressed against the nun’s head as if he were telling her a secret. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a red- haired guy sliding along the wall to her right with his hand behind his back.

That guy’s got a hard on like a horse in heat, she thought, puzzled and amused. Just then, the redheaded guy (who looked a lot like the lead singer in the Spin Doctors) drew his hand from behind his back and aimed a black gun at her and Maite.

Lucia didn’t believe the expression time stopped—not until five seconds after she opened that damned door. The instant that guy pulled the trigger, Lucia felt time stand still and become something very gooey and thick, like melted caramel.

The first shot sent slivers of the wall flying by her right ear and shook her out of her daze. She automatically stepped out of his line of fire. But Maite froze in the doorway, that cup of bad coffee clutched to her chest, her eyes glued to the shooter as he raced along the wall, raising his gun again.

The second shot hit Maite right below her heart with enough force to lift the small girl into the air, spraying blood and coffee in every direction. She pirouetted like a dancer in the Russian ballet, slumped against the door, then slid to the floor where she lay motionless, a bewildered look in her eyes.

“Not that nurse, you idiot! The other one! Get the other one! The tall one!” Lucia heard the orderly say.

That voice triggered a memory and Lucia knew instantly that the nun was a goner. If she didn’t run for it, her number would be up, too. Groaning in fear, Lucia retreated down the hallway.

The hospital was in utter chaos. Alarms were going off everywhere. Groups of armed men (some in uniform, some not) ran past dozens of panicked patients and confused, overwhelmed doctors.

“Froilists! Fucking Froilists!” howled a guy in a military uniform Lucia didn’t recognize, as he led a group of soldiers into the building.

From another part of the building came a series of hiccups Lucia instantly recognized as bursts from HKs. Then came a muffled explosion and the rattle of another weapon she couldn’t identify (Pritchenko could’ve told her they were AK-47s). In the pandemonium of panicked civilians and soldiers afraid of a Froilists’ incursion, two groups of guards were shooting at each other. It was a fucking madhouse.

A gurney flew out of nowhere and hit Lucia in the hip, knocking her to the ground. A red-hot pain shot up her leg. The crowd and the shooting swirled around her as she struggled to her feet. She glanced down the hallway and spotted the redheaded guy with the gun standing next to Basilio. When he saw her pushing through the knot of people, he jabbed the gunman in the ribs and pointed at her.

Lucia wasted no time. Gripping the gurney, she stood up, knocking aside equipment that had fallen in the corridor. Knowing her way around the hospital gave her an advantage, but she had less strength to push her way through all the people running in every direction. Not daring to look back, she sensed that her pursuers were gaining ground.

Lucia spotted the intersection of two hallways. She knew if she turned right, she’d come to the exit. Even in all the chaos, there must be a guard at the door. She was just a couple hundred feet from the hallway.

As she approached the intersection, machine-gun fire nearly tore Lucia’s head off the minute she stepped into the hall. She instinctively dropped to the ground. Shots rang out behind her, coming from the same direction as the first shots. Before she knew it, she and fifty other people were caught in the crossfire between two groups shouting commands and rallying cries.

Get out of here or you’re screwed, she told herself as she gritted her teeth and crawled toward a side door. A nurse she didn’t know was slumped on his side, his head blown wide open. The air smelled of gunpowder, blood, and shit. The groans of the wounded mingled with the hysterical screams of those hit by an explosion.

A disheveled officer in the Civil Guard came out of God-knows-where, shouting himself hoarse trying to bring order to the chaos.

“Hold your fire! We’re shooting at each other, dammit!” His words convinced a few of the confused shooters to stop firing.

Lucia felt relieved. Finally someone was taking control of the situation. She started crawling in his direction, but stopped midway when she saw that smiling redheaded creep who killed Maite come up behind the officer.

With a flourish, like a barber removing his customer’s cape after a haircut, Eric Desauss raised his gun and shot less than an inch from the neck of the unsuspecting officer. The soldier dropped to the ground, a red fountain gushing from his neck. Security guards took aim at the gunman, but before they could fire, a machine gun at the other end of the hall took out three or four of them.

Chaos erupted again. The guards completely forgot the lone gunman and concentrated on the group that had fired on them. Basilio took advantage of the situation to grab one of the HKs on the floor.

“Over there! She went out that door!” Basilio yelled.