Humming a little tune, Eric the Belgian stepped over the soldier’s bloody corpse and headed for the door, looking down the barrel of his gun, with Basilio following close behind. His fly felt like it was about to explode as intense pleasure spread through his body. As he sprinted through the crossfire, he pictured himself jacking off over that slut’s corpse and a huge smile lit up his face.
31
For a very long second, I stood there, frozen like a store dummy, staring at the Glock in my hand. What had happened didn’t sink in. The fucking gun hadn’t fired, but I didn’t have time to ponder the situation. With a murderous roar, one of the half-charred Undead launched himself at Prit as he loaded his HK, grabbed him by the shoulder and hurled himself on top of the small Ukrainian.
Instinctively, Pritchenko raised his rifle and drove its muzzle into the Undead’s chest like a stake, which sent both of them careening backward. The Undead stopped in his tracks. The blow probably broke his ribs. Caught off balance, Prit stumbled and fell backward onto the ground, totally helpless.
That was all the Undead needed. He dropped to his knees and slumped over my friend who was struggling to get free from that deadly embrace. Everything was moving in slow motion. I peered at the monster’s rotten teeth through his lips that’d been reduced to a thin grimace by the fire. He snapped his jaws like a bear trap, just inches from the Slav’s face that was pale with terror.
“Get him off me!
Getting a running start, I kicked the Undead’s ribs as hard as I could. That kick would’ve knocked the life out of a normal person, but those creatures were made of sterner stuff. Wobbling from my kick, the Undead guy dropped Prit, who crawled away.
Then the monster focused all its attention on me. I took a couple of steps back as the Undead struggled to his feet. Prit stood silently behind him, holding his huge hunting knife, poised to hack off the thing’s neck.
Before the Slav could make a single cut, the Undead’s temple erupted in a miniature volcano. Bits of the guy’s brain splattered everywhere and his body collapsed in a heap. Prit and I looked at each other, stunned but relieved.
“What kind of fucking game are you two playing?” Pauli’s shrill, sarcastic voice was the most wonderful sound on the earth. She was down one knee, blue smoke wafting out the barrel of her HK. She’d come along just in time.
“Looks like you boys prefer hand-to-hand combat,” she said mockingly. “You know better than anyone that wrestling with monsters is a really bad idea. You could catch something really bad.” She slowly got to her feet and brushed off her knees.
“Prit’s fucking gun jammed,” I protested, pointing to his HK. “My pistol didn’t fire either.” I waved the Glock under her nose. “So don’t give me any shit, dammit!”
“For starters, that’s a rifle, not a gun,” Marcelo corrected me, rubbing his shoulder that was sore from shooting the MG3. “You guys jammed
I held out my Glock, with a scowl. The Porteno took out the magazine and examined it carefully. He raised his eyes with a look of disbelief.
“Did you chamber the first bullet, asshole?”
“Uhhhh…” The blood rushed to my face. Fuck. Despite the training in Tenerife, I’d never gotten over my fear of accidentally shooting myself as I drew the gun. I’d decided to take the first bullet out of the magazine, so there was no bullet in the chamber.
I knew perfectly well I had to cock the gun before I shot it, but in the confusion, I’d forgotten. The Glock hadn’t fired on account of my own negligence. I was mortified. I wished that that Undead lying at my feet
“Who’d they send us? Rookies wet behind the ears!” one of the younger legionnaires shouted, spitting on the ground in disgust.
“Careful what you call me, you sniveling brat.” Prit turned on the legionnaire, a homicidal gleam in his blue eyes. “When you were still running around on the playground, I’d already slit a bunch of Mujahideen’s throats in Chechnya.” The Ukrainian’s voice was icy and controlled. He’d rip the guy’s guts out right then and there if the loud-mouthed kid gave him the slightest excuse. Prit pointed at me. “This guy’s been through more than you can imagine. He’s survived tight spots that would’ve scared you shitless. So shut the fuck up!”
The legionnaire glanced around for support, but the rest of his team was out of earshot. He swallowed, raised his hands and backed off. “Take it easy, pal! Just watch your ass, because I’m not going to lift a finger to help you. Got it?” He turned and walked back to the warehouse door with his tail between his legs.
“What happened to your HK, Prit?” Pauli asked, unfazed. “Did it jam?”
Not saying a word, the Ukrainian took the magazine out and pulled the hammer. A shiny bullet flew out and hit the ground with a clink. Prit scooped it up and handed it to Pauli.
“Oh, shit! It’s a series forty-eight!” The Catalan frowned and handed it to Marcelo.
He examined the shell and winced. “The motherfucker’s calibrated wrong!”
“What is it, Marcelo?” Clearly something was wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what.
“We’ve used up a shitload of ammunition fighting the Undead,” Pauli said, as she checked her own gun’s magazine. “Each incursion consumes hundreds of rounds. Six months ago our supply of bullets reached a critical low. We had to start making our own. The problem was there were no machines on the Canary Islands to produce the shells with the necessary precision, so we had to build the machines from scratch.”
“But that’s good, right?”
“Not really,” Pauli said with a weary shake of her head. “Not all that ammunition met quality standards. Occasionally some defective ammunition can slip in. We lost a couple of teams before we figured out what was going on. We assumed the ammunition for this mission had been tested several times. Guess we assumed wrong.”
“A mistake?” David Broto asked, wide-eyed. All in all, the computer guy had survived his first contact with the Undead pretty well.
“Or sabotage,” one of the sergeants glumly interjected, as he checked one of his magazines. “This one’s defective too! Son of a bitch!”
“Froilists?” Broto asked.
“Could be.” Marcelo stretched like a cat and started walking toward his MG3. “All I know is, Tank’s not going to like this.”
Sabotage? My head was spinning. What was that all about? Before I had time to ask, Tank landed like a mortar round in the middle of our group, barking orders.
“What the hell’re you doing standing around? Get the lead out, dammit! We don’t have all day!” He pulled one of the legionnaires by his backpack toward the building.
Wrestling with my backpack, I followed the rest of the group toward the warehouse’s rusty fire escape a few feet away. Thinking about that defective ammunition sent chills up my spine. It could be the death sentence for a lot of our group.
32
Lucia ran down a hallway in an unfamiliar wing of the cavernous hospital. Unlike the rest of the building, it was deserted and was lit up by flickering fluorescent lights. There wasn’t a single bed or wheelchair… and not a damn thing to hide behind. She rubbed her throbbing hip where the gurney ran into her. She’d have one helluva
