My eyes met Tank’s. He was in the right column near the back. The other sergeant and Prit covered our retreat, holding off any Undead that showed up. The German shot me a grim look and shook his head.
Just then, as if the gods took pity on us (or prolonged our suffering a bit more), we came to a landing with a window. It was tall and grimy and let in only a small square of dim light, but it was a window nevertheless. I pointed it out to Tank.
“We’re on the first floor. We can get out through that window! It can’t be very high!”
The German herded our group like a sheepdog to that window and stood in the most exposed position to protect the last men as they reached the landing. When we were all leaning against the wall, I breathed a sigh of relief. All we had to do was protect our flank, but our situation was still terribly compromised. There were only eleven survivors and we had less than half of our ammunition left.
“Get on my shoulders!” Pritchenko yelled in my ear so loud, I thought my eardrum would explode. Several hands grabbed my backpack and lifted me onto Prit’s shoulders. With a shove, Prit lifted my head level with the window.
The window was about two feet square. It looked like it hadn’t been opened since the building first opened its doors. Its hinges were ringed with rust; a layer of dirt let in only a thin film of gauzy light. I clung, white- knuckled, to the metal frame and looked out the window. I could barely make out a small parking lot. Over time, sand, ash, and cracks had obliterated most of the lines painted around the parking spots. At the back of the lot, two heavily armored, olive green vehicles sat quietly. Their cannons had been carefully wrapped to protect them. There wasn’t a soul around. Any Undead wandering around must’ve been drawn inside by our gunfire.
I jiggled the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t have time to ponder the situation. With the butt of my Glock, I bashed the window. It broke with a loud crash and a shower of glass fell outside. Hurriedly, I brushed the glass off the frame and stuck my head out.
The air smelled fresh and clean compared to the stuffy air in the building. To my right was a metal pipe bolted to the wall. It might’ve been an electrical duct but it was too thin to be a drain. It seemed to be well anchored and strong enough to support our weight. Although we weren’t very far off the ground, I decided it’d be better to climb down that pipe than to jump.
“We can get out through here!” I shouted, looking back inside.
In quick succession, the others lifted the eleven backpacks full of drugs up to me and I threw them out the window. Twisting and turning, I slipped through that gap with the grace of an arthritic acrobat, and descended hand over hand, clinging to the pipe for all I was worth.
The first thing I did was look around nervously. There were only four bullets left in my Glock. If any Undead had come around the corner, I’d have had to run for it. I got lucky; there weren’t any around. For the moment.
I watched Prit slip down the pipe, his trusty knife bouncing against his kidneys. Then came Marcelo and the veteran sergeant in the neckerchief. In a tense moment, David Broto got stuck in the window. Marcelo had to climb back up to get him unstuck.
Meanwhile, the situation inside degraded with each passing moment. I heard only two guns firing. They could hardly contain the crowd of Undead. One of the soldiers went out the window, with a panicked look on his face, and decided to jump to the ground. When he landed, his right ankle gave a terrible crack. For a second we all forgot about the situation and watched the poor bastard writhe in pain.
I could hear the rhythmic hiccup of only one gun inside the building. Tank headed out the window and turned back, extending his hand to the next guy, a very dark-skinned, pimple-faced soldier. Tank had him by the wrist, but the soldier let out a piercing scream, as something pulled him back into the building.
“Aaaaah, fuck, it hurts, it hurts so bad!” The kid screamed, desperately trying to hold on to the commander’s arm.
Unceremoniously, Tank mumbled a brief “sorry” and released the guy’s wrist. In less than a second, his body was swallowed up and disappeared as fast as a rabbit into a magician’s hat. His screams of agony echoed for a moment and then there was silence.
We were speechless when Tank reached the ground and brushed the dust from his jacket, which was smeared with someone—or something’s—blood. In addition to the young soldier, we were missing another legionnaire and a sergeant, who’d also been left inside. We all did a head count but no one dared say a word. Of the original eighteen who’d started out less than an hour before, only eight remained: Marcelo, Pauli, Tank, Broto, the veteran sergeant, the soldier with the broken ankle, Pritchenko, and me.
“What’re you waiting for?” Tank growled. “Get in those tanks before we have company!” So much for German sensitivity.
Without a word, we grabbed our backpacks (we had to leave three of them behind at the wall) and followed Tank.
Those were some weird-looking vehicles. They had four huge wheels instead of tracks, and a turret with a humongous cannon. They’d been designed by an engineer with no sense of aesthetics, but they looked really powerful.
“What the hell is that?” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
“A Centaur,” the veteran sergeant said as he untied the handkerchief around his neck and wiped his forehead. “A light armored reconnaissance SUV. It’s really ugly but it runs great! I had one under my command in Bosnia years ago.”
“If it can get us out of here, it’ll be the sweetest ride in the world,” I muttered, not sharing the soldier’s enthusiasm for that pile of steel. “Think it’ll start?”
“Sure!” said the sergeant with a smile as he climbed aboard and opened the hatch. “Those babies are tough. If it’s got some fuel, it’ll run.”
While the soldier bent over the vehicle’s controls, I walked over to Prit. The Ukrainian was sweaty, but he didn’t look tired. Gasping to catch my breath, I made yet another promise to quit smoking.
“Why do you think they left them behind?” I asked between breaths.
“Good question. Either this heap won’t start or they didn’t think it was worth taking.”
“Why’s that?”
“Look at them. That huge cannon won’t do
Just then, the Centaur engine let out an asthmatic cough, followed by a series of mechanical gasps. Amid a dense cloud of black smoke, the tank sprang to life with a roar, as the sergeant revved the engine.
The sergeant poked his head out the hatch and said, “All set. Let’s get outta here!”
Eager to go, I picked up my backpack and started to climb in. I was halfway up in the tank when Broto made a noise like he was choking, his eyes wide as saucers.
“Not so fast, sergeant,” Pauli said menacingly. “Get out and raise your hands where I can see them. Let’s go.”
Stunned, I looked up. Pauli pointed her HK at the stunned sergeant. Marcelo stood beside her, aiming the MG3 at us from the turret of the Centaur. The soldier with the broken ankle limped over and disarmed us, tossing our weapons inside the tank.
Marcelo’s voice was as cold as a dagger. “Gentlemen, you’re staying here.”
43
“Who are you? How’d you get in here?” Heavy protective gear muffled the voice. “Hey, you aren’t wearing a hazmat suit! You can’t come in here!”
Lucia turned. Behind her, a woman in her fifties peered through the visor of a hazmat suit. She was standing next to a microscope, holding a tray of beakers in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
