My cry of horror faded as my lungs run out of air. I was so overcome, I forgot to breathe for a few seconds. The room was a huge mausoleum, a scene from a movie that ends tragically.
Dozens of bodies were scattered everywhere in twos and threes. Most were swollen like the body I’d tripped over, but a few were dried out like thousand-year-old mummies. There were an equal number of men and women, mostly civilians, but a few wore military uniforms. Everybody clasped the same kind of crumpled paper cup.
“There you are!” I heard Prit’s familiar voice behind me as he rocketed into the room. “How the hell’d you get in here?” he asked, when he was sure I was in one piece. “If I hadn’t heard you screaming like a madman, I’d never…” Prit’s last words hung in the air.
The two legionnaires behind him stopped short when they got a look at the scene. “What the hell…” one of them mumbled.
A terrible thought occurred to me. I stepped carefully around a body and walked over to a table in the middle of the room. An enormous pan sat on a camp stove. Dozens of empty soft drink bottles were scattered around it, along with two smaller bottles. I picked one up and shined my flashlight on it. A skull and crossbones printed on an orange label smiled at me. Below it were a chemical formula and the hospital’s logo. Across the label, someone had scrawled “hydrocyanic acid.”
“Mass suicide,” I muttered, letting the bottle fall into the pan.
Any liquid left in that pan had evaporated long ago. No doubt it was once filled to the brim with soft drinks laced with that powerful poison.
“Who are they? Why’d they do that?” Prit asked.
“They are the last survivors of the Autonomous Government of Greater Madrid,” Tank said, “the ones whose evacuation convoy never made it to Barajas Airport.” My gaze wandered over those dirty, thin bodies dressed in suits and ties.
One of the legionnaires whistled through his teeth. “That must’ve been a fucking bitch to discover all convoys had left.”
“They must’ve felt so safe in this bunker that it didn’t occur to them to look outside until days later.” I looked down at the body of a middle-aged woman sitting in an expensive leather chair, her head resting on her chin, her arms limp at her side. She was elegantly dressed. Her very pricey pearl necklace was partially covered by her dirty, matted blonde hair. I shuddered when I realized who she was. Before the Apocalypse, I’d seen her at a number of press conferences.
“They were stranded with no provisions or weapons,” Prit said as he picked up my train of thought. “They had two choices: throw their lot in with the Undead or slowly starve. The bravest ones probably tried to leave.” The Ukrainian clicked his tongue at the thought. “Those who stayed behind chose a faster, less painful way to escape.”
“They had radios,” objected another legionnaire, pointing to a huge military radio lying between two bodies. “Why didn’t they radio for help?”
“No power, kid.” Prit shined his flashlight on the dark lights in the ceiling. “They must’ve realized how bad things were when the generators ran out of fuel and died.”
We were silent for a moment, imagining the anguish those people felt in their final moments. Tank and seven other members of the team walked in and broke the gloomy spell.
“We found the stairs!” said Tank. For a moment he was speechless as he looked around. Even with all his Germanic stoicism, he paled. Then he blinked and shook his head wearily. “Come on, gentlemen, we still have to go down two floors. Our job is only half done.”
Tank turned and walked out, not saying another word. We followed him, dragging our feet. That oppressive place was getting everyone down.
The staircase was located at the end of the ventilation duct. The door to the stairs was crisscrossed with thick chains. My eyes met Prit’s. It was the same system they’d used to seal off the doors at Meixoeiro Hospital in Vigo. I pictured some military pencil-pusher drafting protocol for what to do if you were entrenched in a building during an invasion of Undead. I’d love tell that genius how well his brilliant plan had worked.
Marcelo walked up with heavy-duty clippers and cut the chain with ease. He stepped aside and a group of soldiers crossed through the door. A second later, I heard a single shot, followed by, “Clear.” Then we all headed through the door. At the foot of those stairs lay the body of an Undead, bleeding from a shot to the head. I swallowed and eased past him.
If there was one Undead on that side of the door, there’d be more. A lot more.
40
On account of a stupid accident caused by a panicked, terrified girl trying to save her life, Chaos escaped from Pandora’s box again. But at that moment, no one knew. Not even the heroes of this story. And they never would.
Eric and Basilio quickly checked out every inch of the lab. Basilio stepped to the door and motioned for Eric to stand in front of it. With a nod, the redhead took his position, ten feet in front of the door, gripping his beretta with both hands. Basilio slowly reached for the doorknob and flattened himself against the wall. If that damned girl was crouched on the other side, waiting to jump them, she’d be sadly disappointed.
He looked up at the Belgian, counted off three seconds on his fingers, yanked the door open, then jumped to the side.
A lot happened in a few short seconds. First someone completely naked barreled through the open door.
The first bullet pierced the creature’s neck, releasing a jet of thick, black blood. The second bullet hit him in the face, leaving a gaping hole where his nose had been. The thing collapsed in a heap, but Eric couldn’t relax as three more creatures rushed in.
Cursing in French, the redhead retreated a few feet from the creatures, firing his weapon as he went. Blood spewed like a fountain out of the gaping head of the next Undead, an African man, over six feet tall, and splashed all across Eric’s visor. Eric ran his gloved hand over the visor, which blurred his view completely and made matters worse.
A claw-like hand gripped his arm. Blindly, the Belgian elbowed someone—or something—hard and he fired blindly into another bulky shape coming at him. At that moment, he felt something grab his knee and then a burning pain shot up his calf.
The Belgian turned and fired twice at the Undead that had circled the table and ambushed him. Sweat poured down his face. It felt like a million degrees inside that damn hazmat suit. Through his blood-streaked visor, he could only see a narrow wedge right in front of him. That’s how the bastard had gotten the jump on him.
A piercing howl made his blood run cold. Backed into a corner and unarmed, Basilio faced two Undead at once. His eyes bloodshot, the sailor threw a right uppercut at the Undead that would’ve brought down an ox. The Undead didn’t dodge Basilio’s fist, and that sledgehammer punch didn’t even slow him down. The creature’s jaws snapped together like a rusty trap and broken teeth flew through the air. The other Undead seized that moment to sink its teeth into Basilio’s outstretched forearm, its fangs easily piercing the plastic hazmat suit and the thin cotton uniform underneath.
Basilio spun around like a tornado and let fly devastating kicks that would’ve made Chuck Norris proud. The creature dropped onto his back like a turtle, then struggled to stand up, chewing on that hunk of Basilio’s arm.
“Eric!” Basilio cried out in a ragged voice. “Fucking help me!
