struggled to get free. Prit and I jerked him free and got the hell off the landing.
We stood behind the legionnaire with the detonator. When he was sure no one was on the upper floor, he flipped up the lock on the button. I opened my mouth to keep my eardrums from bursting in the explosion, the way I’d been taught back on the island.
Just then machine-gun fire and excited shouts rang out from the bottom of the stairs. The Undead had started up the stairs and the guys in the rear were taking them out. Their position gave them an advantage, but with so little ammo, they couldn’t hold them long.
The same thought must have occurred to the soldier with the detonator. With a flick of his wrist, he pressed the button. A muffled explosion and a cloud of chemical smoke wafted down over us. A large piece of concrete shot over the railing and landed on the crowd of Undead below, but that was as much as we could see.
“Get climbing!” Tank roared. “You guys in front, move your fucking asses!”
Prit and I looked at each other. We’d been the last to get off the staircase so now we were at the front of the line, along with the explosives expert and the sweaty computer guy. The rest had known what was coming and had “allowed” us to take the lead. They got a good laugh as we wrestled Broto to his feet.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we, pal?” I asked as I pulled on the top of my wetsuit.
The Ukrainian gave me a wry smile, as he checked the clip in his HK for the umpteenth time. “Who knows… but stay close, got it?” And with that, he scrambled up the last flight of stairs, ready to enter the building.
Remembering all the dead Tank had left in his wake on previous missions, I climbed the last flight of stairs on Prit’s heels. The door on the landing looked like a giant hand had ripped it off the wall. It lay twisted against the railing where we’d been sitting. A fine rain of concrete and pulverized brick trickled out the holes where the hinges had been.
Prit knelt in the doorway, his HK pointed inside. Panting, I stood next to him, waiting for his next move. The Ukrainian handled situations like this much better than I did.
“It’s darker than a cricket’s ass in there,” he said softly.
“Wait,” I said, turning back. “Broto! Broto! Get your fucking ass up here, dammit!
As he trotted to our position, the computer guy dropped his rifle. Flustered, he stooped to pick it up, but in the process he swatted the legionnaire behind him with his backpack. A stream of curses trailed the poor geek.
“Hey, pal,” I laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Stay calm, okay?” Broto nodded, rolling his eyes, clearly wishing he were anywhere else in the world.
“Got a flashlight in your backpack?” I asked.
“Uhhhh… yeah…” Broto dug around in his backpack and finally pulled out a Polar Torch, like the one I’d had that day a lifetime ago when I had to leave my home in Pontevedra behind, or stick around there and starve.
I shook the flashlight and turned it on, aiming it into the building. The smoke and dust from the explosion hadn’t cleared completely. Millions of little specks danced wildly in the beam I shined in every direction.
Suddenly a loud explosion shook the air. The whole staircase trembled violently, followed by a heart- stopping rip, as if a giant sheet of paper had been torn in two.
“What was that?” I asked, alarmed.
“They must’ve blown up the stairs below us,” Prit replied, glancing over the railing. The rusty step he was on slumped under his feet with a groan, sending up a cloud of rust. He backed away carefully, casting a wary glance at the landing.
“The whole fucking staircase could come down at any time, even without explosives,” he said, dragging our backpacks to the door. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
Prit was right. The staircase had been on its last legs before we got there. Now it was at a breaking point. The explosion to cut off the Undead had been the last straw. That old structure could collapse any second from the intense heat of the napalm and the vibrations we made as we climbed up. It was creaking and shuddering; cement dust streamed down all around.
“Get a move on!” someone yelled behind us, spurring the legionnaires on. I recognized Tank and Marcelo’s voices hustling their men up the stairs.
The situation was growing worse by the minute. The foot-long bolts holding the staircase to the building became deadly projectiles as they flew out with a clang. A section at the very top came loose. With a loud bang it bounced down several floors then came to rest on the ground, hundreds of feet below. I heard a cry of pain when someone was hit by a piece of steel, but I couldn’t see who it was. A cloud of cement dust enveloped us and I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me.
I grabbed Broto by the sleeve and vaulted into the building. Prit followed, leaping like a gazelle. Right on his heels, a knot of two dozen terrified legionnaires rushed up the tottering structure. Suddenly, everyone wanted to be first inside.
It was pitch black inside, but wonderfully cool compared to outside. Even with the flashlight, I could barely see through the dust. Broto recoiled with a muffled shout; someone must’ve run into him. I turned, my arms outstretched, blindly feeling my way. I took a sharp jab to the groin and doubled over in pain, trying to breathe. A shadow knocked me down and a heavy boot tripped over my leg. All around, guys were shouting, cursing, and gasping for breath. We couldn’t see a thing with all the dust in the air. Just then, the ladder fell completely away with a monstrous roar that shook the building. A second later, we heard hundreds of tons of rusted steel crash onto the parking lot; the Undead answered with an enraged roar. The structure had crushed hundreds of those bastards. A drop in the bucket, but at least it was something.
Coughing, I tried to sit up. All around me the shouting multiplied. I heard Tank yelling orders and another voice shouting for a john, but everything else was gibberish.
Tank gradually regained control of the situation. Here and there flashlights gradually lit up the room with a dull glow. I looked around. The first image that came to mind was of the firefighters at the World Trade Center on 9-11. Covered in a thick layer of dust and ash, we all looked ghostly. When the staircase fell, the plaster ceiling in the room came down around our heads. The floor of that airless room was covered with a layer of ash nearly a foot thick. When we rushed in, we’d stirred it up. Through a crack in the door, I could make out the faint afternoon light falling on Madrid.
Tank called out our names. Each name was answered with a raspy “yes” or “present,” along with coughs and sneezes. But seven names didn’t answer. They must’ve been the guys who were bringing up the rear who now lay dead (one would hope) on the parking lot, felled by the twisted wreckage of the stairs.
Prit crawled to my side, his thick mustache completely white. “You okay?”
“Nothing’s broken,” I said, as I patted down my body.
“You’re bleeding.” Always a man of few words, the Ukrainian simply pointed to my forehead.
“Oh, man, that sucks!” I muttered. I touched my face and my hand came back bright red. Blood was streaming down my face, but I hadn’t noticed. In all the confusion, a piece of plaster must’ve gashed my scalp.
“I’m fine too, thank you. Don’t worry about me,” Broto said bitterly, sneezing hard.
“Lucia’ll kill me,” Prit said, ignoring the computer guy as he bandaged my head. “I promised her you’d come back in one piece. You’ve been trying to break your neck from the minute you climbed out of the helicopter. Your head looks like a cocoon,” he said, punching my shoulder.
Then he turned to Broto. “You sure you’re okay? Let me take a look.” He grabbed the computer guy by the arm and pulled him close. After giving him a thorough going-over, he handed him his canteen.
“Flush your nostrils first, then take a drink. Just one. Got it?” he said menacingly. “We’re not gonna find any water here, so we have to ration what we have.”
Broto wasn’t listening. He was in shock over the scene before us. In fact, it was a miracle he didn’t drop the canteen.
I whispered, “Prit, what the hell is all this?”
34
