The Belgian’s face drained of all emotion as he shot the Undead on the ground. The creature died instantly, with Basilio’s flesh sticking out of his mouth, like a playful, little pink tongue. A sadistic smile spread across Eric’s face, even in that grisly situation.
The last two Undead had piled on top of Basilio. One of them had ripped off his headgear. The Belgian fired twice at one of them, who collapsed like a rag doll, but the other one was faster and clamped down on Basilio’s neck. With a muffled roar, Basilio made a last ditch effort and launched his assailant’s body over the table, sending test tubes, beakers, and microscopes crashing to the floor.
Eric fired his last two bullets into the Undead’s twisted body. He whipped around like a cobra, but he was the last man standing. Six Undead lay on the ground, their heads blown off.
Basilio Irisarri had slid to the floor and sat propped up against the wall. Eric watched in fascination as blood pulsed out of the wound in Basilio’s neck in time to the beat of his heart.
“Eric…” Basilio’s voice sounded strangely waterlogged. A clot of blood slid out the corner of his mouth, then down his neck and joined the river flowing between his clenched fingers. “Eric, help me the fuck up. Eric, I can’t…”
The Belgian pointed to his headgear and gestured that he couldn’t hear him. Then he shook his head and waved good-bye.
“No… you bastard…” Basilio gurgled. “Get me out of here…”
“Can’t hear you, Basilio. I don’t know if you can hear me, but this isn’t fun anymore. I’m hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I’d be willing to bet those beasts devoured your little slut. And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re dying.”
The burly sailor stared up at him, speechless. With each heartbeat, a little bit of life slipped away, out the terrible wound on his neck.
Eric pursed his lips and shook his head. “Gotta go, buddy.” He chattered away happily as he bent down and placed the empty beretta in Basilio’s free hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m deserting you or that I don’t care about you. I really do. So here’s a little souvenir. The authorities’ll think
He looked around, with the pained look of someone whose yard was torn up in a night of crazy partying.
“Say hello to Satan for me, old pal,” he said. He looked at Basilio one last time, then headed back to the airlock. As he pressed the button to open the door, he heard the click of the beretta’s hammer. He turned and saw Basilio pointing it at him with his last ounce of strength. The old boatswain looked at the empty pistol in defeat, realizing he’d been scammed.
“We’re rabid beasts, Basilio,” Eric muttered, knowing the dying sailor couldn’t hear him. “We turn on each other every chance we get. We can’t help ourselves! Take these shitty islands. What’s the first thing the survivors did? Kill each other! We’re on the brink of goddamn civil war, if you believe the media! Those monsters took away the little humanity we had left. At least die with some fucking dignity!”
The door opened behind him. He gave a mock salute and stepped into the little room. Although clouded by death, Basilio’s eyes followed him, his vision growing more and more blurred. His brain was dying, but coursing through his veins were thousands of tiny beings that were multiplying like crazy in his warm body. In a few hours, a new Basilio would arise. But Eric Desauss wouldn’t be around to see that.
The Belgian pressed the button and immediately the jet of disinfectant enveloped him. The liquid burned as it washed over the gash in his calf. He was shocked to see a large, bloody hole in the pant leg of the suit. His fingers clumsy in the hazmat gloves, he lifted up the torn fabric and inspected a string of evenly spaced puncture wounds.
The sweat on his skin froze. He muttered to himself, “One of those fucking beakers must’ve cut me. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. When that last SOB flew across the table, a million glass tubes broke. One of them must’ve sliced my leg. Yeah, that’s it.” His voice didn’t sound as confident as he’d like, but it made him relax a bit.
Breathing easier, Eric waited patiently for the disinfectant shower to end. When the red light went off, the Belgian pushed the outer door open and headed back into the hallway. Still wearing the suit, he slipped through the security door that Basilio had blown to pieces and walked calmly out of the demolished lab.
A few feet before he reached the guard post, he met up with a ragtag crew of civilians and military guards racing down the hall.
“In the lab! A guy with a gun! And a girl! They shot up the place! I got away but there’re still people inside!”
“Shit, not the Zoo! Hope they didn’t reach the Zoo!” The highest ranking soldier turned pale. “Are you all right, Doctor?”
“A bullet grazed the back of my leg,” Eric lied convincingly, pointing to his bloody leg. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll get one of the other doctors to take a look at it.”
“Of course, Doctor. They’ll patch you up on the next floor. The Froilists made a real mess, but everything’s calmer now.” The officer turned to his men. “Let’s go, but be careful. If the doors to the Zoo are open, shoot first and ask questions later. Got it?”
The group trotted off to the lab. With a smirk, Eric took off his hazmat suit, leaned it against the guard post, brushed his sweat-soaked hair off his face, then hobbled through the metal detector. The throbbing pain in his leg grew worse with every step.
Two minutes later, Eric went through the hospital doors. The place was in complete chaos. Dozens of soldiers rushed in and out, and long lines of patients in pajamas were crowded together on the sidewalk. Whistling through his teeth, he walked downtown, limping slightly.
Eric had heard voices since he was fourteen and had learned to tune them out.
Eric realized he desperately needed a drink. What a fucking great idea! It was the Mother of All Brilliant Ideas. A couple of drinks would numb the pain in his leg. Maybe they’d even warm up his balls, which fear had turned to ice. And stop the voice in his head that wouldn’t fucking let him think straight, that was screaming about the millions of little shepherd’s crooks multiplying in his leg. Hell, it was worth a try.
For want of a nail, the kingdom was lost.
For want of a single, fucking nail.
41
The lower floors of that hospital were in shambles in contrast to the deathly serene bunker and command center the first floor had been transformed into. As Prit and I walked silently, side by side, I figured his mind—like mine—was crowded with memories of the day we ventured into Meixoeiro Hospital, exhausted and half-dead. It felt like we were returning to the scene of a crime.
Our dwindling group made its way quickly, only stopping for Tank to glance at his map. Occasionally we came across some Undead, but the soldiers on point mowed them down with lethal efficiency. From the center of the group, Prit and I didn’t have to fire our weapons once.
We made our way down one hallway after another until we came to the medical supply room. I figured it would have a heavy, armored door since those medications were valuable and scarce, but there was just a double wooden door with a simple lock that looked like it would fall open if you just looked at it. The soldier in the lead
