Dark Days az-2 Read online

  The heavy-duty wire fence surrounding the runway was over twenty feet high. The first dozen Undead—men, women and children—had gathered there and were shaking the fence, sending up a cacophony of sounds as they beat against the steel mesh like a bunch of drunk monkeys. If that fence gave way, we’d really be screwed.

  In less than ten minutes, a huge crowd of Undead had already gathered. Within an hour there’d be tens of thousands. I pictured a long procession of corpses parading down what remained of Highway M-30 that encircled Madrid, headed straight for Cuatro Vientos Airport. Not a surprise with all the racket we’d made.

  “You two! Come here!” Kurt Tank waved us over as he spread a map on the ground. “We don’t have much time. There’s no sign of Alpha Four and that means they must’ve suffered a serious setback.”

  “Serious setback.” That’s one way to put it. More like they were fucked up.

  Tank peered through his binoculars. “The door to the hangar is closed. We’re safe out here. They must be trapped on the other side, but we don’t have time to check. We have to stick to the plan, before a million of those things get here.”

  “The fence seems to be holding,” the computer guy argued hesitantly. He looked as scared as the rest of us.

  “That fence wasn’t designed to withstand several thousand bodies pushing against it, sir,” replied the sergeant standing next to Tank. He was tall and dark, with a deeply wrinkled, weathered face. “In no time, a lot more of those bastards will join them. Then that fucking fence will give and you won’t like what happens next, sir.”

  “No time to waste!” Tank barked pointing to a lone helicopter parked near the control tower. “Get that helicopter up and running NOW! I don’t care what you have to do, but get that chopper in the air! You have fifteen minutes, not one minute more, or we’ll be in big trouble.” He turned back to the legionnaire who stood expressionless beside him. “Sergeant, organize your men in patrols around the perimeter, but don’t get within five feet of the fence! And burn those damn bodies. They’re starting to smell!”

  Not knowing why, I started running toward the helicopter, with Pritchenko at my side. Someone had handed each of us a large, very heavy package wrapped in oilcloth. I started to pant, cursing every time that damned bundle slipped from my hands. Pauli and Marcelo ran in front of us carrying equally heavy wooden boxes. Broto followed at a trot, clutching his backpack, looking more worried with every step.

  When we reached the helicopter, I fell against its side, puffing like a freight train. The other team ran to the small planes parked on the edge of the runway. The electric bus was heading toward them, carrying several red cylindrical pods. I guessed they were empty containers they’d load with drugs when we got to our destination.

  If we got there.

  Every time I turned toward the fence, I got chills. The Undead were streaming. Before the Apocalypse, this was a densely populated area two miles from a huge mall. It must’ve been a fucking “hot spot.” That sight wiped the smile from Prit’s face.

  “Here, kid.” Marcelo held out a closed fist. “Take this, just in case. You might need it. Use it wisely.”

  The computer guy stared at the Argentine and closed his fist around what Marcelo was handing him. Then he slowly opened his hand and looked up, confused. It was a shiny copper nine-millimeter bullet.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, surprised.

  “It’s yours, dickhead. In case you haven’t noticed, there’re more of those rotten bastards out there than we have ammunition. Even if we make every one of our shots, we won’t have enough bullets. So, if you get in a tight spot, you can… POW!” Marcelo pointed an imaginary gun at his head.

  Broto paled and, with trembling hands, stashed the bullet in his pocket. He was the only one on that mission who was unarmed. He must’ve been kicking himself for turning down the Glock they’d offered him in the Canaries.

  “Oh, come on, Marcelo, don’t be an asshole. Leave the kid alone!” Pauli snapped, as she gave the Argentine a friendly punch in the arm.

  “Do the math, kid,” said the Argentine, ignoring Pauli, as he pointed to our guns and then to the savage crowds behind the fence. “Do the math.” Then he turned to the helicopter and starting unwrapping the package Prit and I had brought.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Pauli said to David. “He’s just fucking with you. He doesn’t like being here, he doesn’t like the Undead and doesn’t like babysitting rookies like you, so he’s in a bad mood. If all goes as planned, you won’t be any closer to the Undead than we are now. Don’t worry, okay?”

  I looked at the petite officer and saw worry in her eyes. We both knew things weren’t going to be that simple. But her words seemed to calm the computer guy.

  Meanwhile Pritchenko had slipped into the cockpit. His hands were flying over the mass of controls, checking fuel levels and fluids of that huge SuperPuma. Most of the control panel lit up, indicating that at least the electrical system and battery were intact.

  Something about the chopper caught my attention. Although it was a military plane, it was painted entirely white, from nose to tail, except for a red and blue stripe down the side. You could barely make out SPANISH AIR FORCE beneath the months-worth of dust and ash that covered the huge bird.

  I mustered up some courage and pulled the lever on the door. It opened with a groan and folded down as a ladder. Adrenaline roared through my veins as I cocked my gun and climbed the three steps.

  Instead of the usual bench seats, it had comfortable leather armchairs, covered with a layer of fine dust. I cautiously stepped in. The interior was dark and gloomy since its windows were encrusted with dust, so my eyes took a few seconds to adjust. Nearly blind as I made my way down the aisle, I kicked a long, cylindrical object lying on the floor, sending it rolling into a corner with a muffled thud. When I bent over to pick it up, I saw that it was a mahogany cane; its silver handle was engraved with a seal. I carried it to the door to get a better look.

  I couldn’t help gasping. The handle was engraved with a fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the Bourbones, Spain’s royal family. I froze for a few seconds to let my mind process that information. There weren’t many Bourbones in the world; even fewer were so old they needed to walk with a cane. I knew who this cane’s owner was—King Juan Carlos! I’ll be damned…

  Broto entered the cabin, dragging his heavy backpack, and found me with the cane in my hands. “They must’ve evacuated the royal family from the Zarzuela Palace in this helicopter,” he commented like a guy talking about yesterday’s game. “A plane was waiting for them here. You know the rest.”

  Just then Pauli appeared in the doorway, dragging one of the wooden boxes. “What the hell’re you guys doing back there? Give me a hand. These fucking boxes aren’t going to load themselves!”

  Chastened, Broto and I grabbed the first box. A hieroglyph of acronyms, stenciled in black, were scattered across the top; I could only decipher “7.62 x 51mm.” Machine gun ammunition. I looked up. Marcelo had unwrapped the package Prit and I had dragged there. A huge, evil-looking MG3 machine gun, glistening with oil, lay inside. I whistled softly. We sure weren’t hurting for firepower. Who knew if that would be enough.

  The SuperPuma’s engines let out a hoarse cough, along with a cloud of smoke and dust. The propeller blades started to rotate slowly as the engine came alive with a hiss.

  “All aboard!” Prit bellowed from the cockpit. “Let’s go!”

  The huge chopper’s blades picked up speed as Prit revved the engine. It was a tight fit in the cabin with eighteen team members and all our gear. Kurt Tank sat next to Prit in the forward cabin.

  With a jolt, the bird rose into the air. Suddenly, an alarm began to wail in the cabin and a huge red indicator light lit up the dashboard.

  “What the fuck’s happening, Prit?” I asked over the intercom, alarmed.

  “Quiet back there!” The Ukrainian sounded calm as he fought the cross currents that shook the helicopter. “The
engine temperature sensors must be clogged with dust or they’ve been damaged by moisture! According to the dashboard, the main engine is about to burn up, but that’s impossible. We just took off!”

  “You sure?” I asked again. That was to be expected. Any plane would be in bad shape after months of neglect and exposure to weather.

  “I can’t be a hundred percent sure!” Pritchenko snapped. “It is what it is! We can’t land again to do a tune up! Look down there!”

  I looked out the window. A throng of thousands of angry Undead had gathered at the fence along the runway. Every inch of the perimeter was covered with those things, two or three abreast. They clutched the fence and furiously shook it. Their groans were so loud you could hear them above the whir of the helicopter’s blades. Some had stuck their arms through the gaps between the concrete supports and the steel mesh.

  You had to see that scene to believe it. There were all kinds: young, old, children, fat, skinny. They all were a waxy yellow and had that tattoo of exploded veins scattered across their skin. Their clothes were in bad shape, and some were completely naked, covered with dirt from head to toe. As we rose, those Undead monsters stretched their arms toward the helicopter, their lifeless, watery eyes drilling into us. Even from that height, I could see inside their grisly, dark mouths.

  They knew we were there. And not just because we were making all that noise. They’d detected our vital signs somehow. Something drew them to us.

  We were all petrified at that ghoulish sight. Someone muttered, “Dear God in Heaven.” Another voice quietly said the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. My mouth was too dry to say a word. I would’ve killed for a whiskey.

  The Undead just kept coming—down side streets, singly or in small groups. They swarmed the M-40 highway and skirted dozens of huge pileups, wobbling toward us.

  “Will the fence hold?” Broto asked over the intercom glumly, as he took it all in.

  “Let’s hope so.” Tank shrugged. “The two pilots and the soldiers on the ground have orders to take refuge in the Airbus, out of sight of the Undead, and make as little noise as possible. We hope that’ll keep more from approaching the perimeter. Plus, the noise our helicopter makes will draw them to us.”

  “That’s reassuring,” murmured Broto, as he paled.

  “Why not shoot?” I asked Marcelo, who’d leaned the MG3 out the left rear window. The Argentine coolly held the machine gun and carefully scrutinized the crowd.

  “What for? That’d be a waste of ammunition. From this distance most of my shots would miss their marks.” He gazed at that crowd, a shadow of fear in his eyes. “It’d be like shooting into the sea.”

  We sat in silence, watching the parade of Undead below the helicopter.

  “Six minutes!” Pauli’s voice broke our silence. “Get ready, everyone. This’ll be a very short flight.”

  26

  TENERIFE

  “Oh, shit!” shouted the truck driver, as he swerved hard onto the shoulder.

  Passengers were thrown to the bed of the truck in a jumble of arms and legs, cursing in several languages. Bruised and battered, Lucia got to her feet and looked around. The white cloud of steam pouring from the truck’s engine and the glum look on the driver’s face told her the truck wasn’t going any farther.

  “Are you crazy?” an old man asked, indignantly, as he helped a little boy to his feet. “Do you think we’re just a load of gravel?”

  “Don’t blame me!” The driver shrugged, pointing to the smoking engine. “This heap’s been patched with parts from three different trucks! It’s a miracle it still runs! Be glad we’re not stranded on the highway!”

  “Whadda we do now?” someone else asked.

  “Get out and walk,” the truck driver said matter-of-factly and gave his cap a tug. “I’m staying here with the truck. Some bastard might try to steal my gas.”

  A chorus of groans rose at that. It was still early in the morning but the sun was already beating down. Everyone knew the walk wouldn’t be pleasant.

  Lucia leapt like a deer out of the truck and got her bearings. Her shift at the ICU started at two and it was already twelve thirty. The hospital was about four miles away, so she had just enough time to get there on foot. Thankful she’d gotten an early start that day, she began walking down the shoulder, glancing behind her like the other passengers, hoping another vehicle would come along.

  No sweat. It’s a beautiful day and I don’t mind walking.

  A lot of people were walking up and down the same road. Until a couple of weeks ago, there would’ve been a fruit and vegetable stand by the side of the road, but the Government of the Republic had decreed that collective farming would increase yield. Time would tell if that strategy would pay off. Lucia couldn’t be bothered with that at the moment. She had more pressing matters to focus on, like how the hell to get more drugs for Sister Cecilia on the black market.

  Lucia visited Sister Cecilia every minute she could. She was devastated at the nun’s wan, bandaged face that blended into the white sheets where she lay motionless.

  The week before, Lucia had sold a pair of diamond earrings that had belonged to her mother. It was a miracle she’d been able to hold on to them for so long. Selling them broke her heart. They were the last memento of her former life, a reminder of the girl who got on that bus a thousand years ago and embarked on this difficult life. She thought bitterly, These new times forced people to grow up so fast. Back then, a seventeen-year-old girl was still a kid. Not anymore.

  In exchange for the earrings, that sweaty guy who worked at the Port Authority had given her a half dozen ration coupons; for Sister Cecilia, she’d gotten one of the rarest, most expensive items on the island—four boxes of morphine. The doctors had already used up two of those boxes. Lucia wondered what would happen when the nun’s meager allotment of analgesics ran out.

  That wasn’t the only problem. The doctor said Sister Cecilia badly needed a drug called mannitol to reduce the swelling in her brain, but the medical board had ruled that her friend was a lost cause and precious vials of mannitol would be wasted on her. But Lucia didn’t lose hope.

  She’d been walking for twenty minutes when the driver of an overcrowded bus with a ridiculous-looking fuel tank bolted to the roof took pity on Lucia’s group and picked them up. At a little past one, the girl finally arrived at the hospital.

  Health services had totally collapsed. There were five hundred physicians on the island at most, and that number included med students from the University of La Laguna whom authorities had rushed to graduate.

  In the lobby was an endless flow of patients, medical staff, and people claiming they had the most ridiculous ailments. Being admitted to the hospital guaranteed three meals daily and a break from the oppressive Mandatory Labor Service for a few days. Every day, exhausted doctors weeded out the fakers from among the genuinely sick.

  She entered through the employee entrance, nodding at the armed guards manning the metal detector. With a quick, practiced gesture, she pinned her badge to her lapel. The guards knew her and gave her a quick glance, then turned their attention back to the relentless stream of people trying to finagle their way in. Security was no laughing matter at the island’s only functioning hospital. There’d been several attempts to rob the pharmacy. On the black market, medications were the most valuable currency.

  “Hi, Lucia!” The nurses’ aide who greeted her was a real pistol, barely five feet tall. She was making eyes at one of the guards as she pinned her ID to the neckline of a blouse that was better suited for a bar than a hospital.

  “Hi, Maite! How’s it going?” With a knowing smile, Lucia walked up to the girl she considered her good friend. They’d only known each other a couple of weeks but survivors made friends amazingly easily. Those who’d emerged from that Undead hell desperately needed to interact with other people to feel alive.

  “Great!” Maite replied with a mischievous grin. “Fernando’s taking me out to dinner tonight. We may even have
some wine! He’s got some special ration coupons.”

  “Fernando…who the hell’s Fernando?” Lucia asked, but one glance at the guard and the starry-eyed look on Maite’s face explained everything. She shook her head. Her friend had a new boyfriend every week. They all promised the eternal love Maite was so desperate for. Of course there’d be a new guy the next week, but that didn’t matter.

  Life goes on, Lucia thought as she pulled on her uniform in the locker room and listened to her friend chatter away. Despite all the shit we’ve been through, we still fall in love and have dreams. Even living the way we are, we survivors are fairly happy. Incredible, but true. Our will to live is so strong.

  “… Cecilia?”

  “What’d you say, Maite?” Lucia abruptly turned from her thoughts.

  “I asked you if there’d been any change in your friend’s status.”

  Lucia thought for a moment, with a bitter look on her face. “No change. I’m going to go see her before my shift.” She wanted to say, No fucking change. She’ll probably be a vegetable forever, but I can’t accept that. If I did, I’d start to lose her and I’m sick of losing the people I love, but she checked herself and forced a smile, as she took Maite’s hand in hers and made a pouty face. “Will you come with me? Please?”

  “Sure,” said Maite. “First let’s swing by the nurses’ station and get some of that crap they call coffee, okay?” Maite gave Lucia a loving hug and walked out of the room, not knowing that in less than half an hour, she’d be dead.

  27

  MADRID

  Madrid was dead.

  There was no one left in a city where almost six million people once lived, breathed and dreamed. Nobody, except Them.

  The metropolis extended for miles; not a sound broke the silence. The SuperPuma flew really low over streets and plazas as it crossed the city at top speed. Prit said we’d be less visible that way since the engine noise would ricochet, making it harder for those monsters to locate its source.