Dark Days az-2 Read online

  Cautiously, we eased up to the bodies. They reminded me of the mummies in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. When I kicked the nearest one, the sound was like a piece of firewood. They were completely dehydrated.

  Almost all the bodies were mutilated and had numerous wounds, such as gunshots to the head, along with dried blood on their clothes. After months of living among the Undead, we knew what those beings had been before someone offed them.

  Prit bent down and picked up a shiny copper casing lying on the ground. He took a quick look and said, “5.56 NATO. Probably from a rifle like the one slung across your back.” He didn’t need to say another word.

  The Moroccan army still used the old 7.62 x 51mm CETME that the Spanish military sold them by the thousands when it upgraded in the nineties. That meant that the regular Moroccan army hadn’t done that. But who had—and when?

  Suddenly a deep growl came from the pile of corpses. Prit and I jumped as if we’d been poked with a cattle prod. We heard the growl again, deep and raspy, but nothing moved in that motionless heap of human remains.

  I nervously released the safety on my HK and shot Prit a puzzled look. The Ukrainian licked his dry lips, hesitated, then inched up to the mound as if it were an atomic bomb.

  We heard that growl a third time. It was coming from a body sitting on the ground against a wall, legs outstretched, arms by his sides, and his head resting on his chest. The guy was riddled with bullet holes. Tainted blood stained the wall behind him, tracing the path his body had taken as it slid down. Both knees had been destroyed by gunshots; a couple of dried-up tendons were all that held one leg to his body.

  I whistled softly. I couldn’t believe my eyes. That Undead guy had had the bad luck to survive the gunshots. None of them were to the head so they’d only crippled him. Abandoned in that alley for months, drying in the desert sun, he’d been unable to move and unable to die.

  I leaned in for a closer look. His limbs were completely dehydrated and rigid; his flesh was slowly turning to jerky or wood. That son of a bitch couldn’t move a muscle, but there was still a glimmer in his withered eyeballs. For the first time, I felt sorry for one of those things. I couldn’t imagine the hell of inhabiting that piece of wood. I doubted he knew what he was, but deep down in that dried-out skull dwelled a furious, raving mad being, trapped in there forever.

  With that discovery, we relaxed a little. Any Undead in the area more than a few weeks old would be in the same sorry state, dry as esparto grass and unable to move.

  How ironic, I thought bitterly. The most uninhabitable places on earth—the deserts—were the only places humans would be safe. But the fact that they were uninhabitable ruled them out as the place for humans to settle.

  Prit was staring at the beast. I could tell some deep thought was crossing his mind.

  “Prit, what’s up, man?” When I put a hand on his shoulder, the Ukrainian flinched.

  “I was thinking…” He licked his lips, hesitating. “If extreme heat can do this to those things, then the cold can freeze them. You follow me?”

  “I don’t know where you’re going with this, Prit, but I don’t think…”

  “Winter in Germany is hard, very hard.” His eyes shone with excitement. “My wife and son were in Dusseldorf, where winter temperatures hover around ten degrees below freezing. If all the Undead froze, maybe my family is okay!” The Ukrainian was so excited he was nearly jumping up and down. “Maybe we should go there!”

  I looked at my friend with dismay. He still clung to the hope that his family was alive. “Prit, I think you’re confused,” I said gently, trying not to hurt his feelings. “Extreme heat and extreme cold aren’t the same. I doubt those Undead would freeze to death, as long as they keep moving. Maybe in places where the temperature is fifty or sixty degrees below freezing, but human life is nearly impossible there, too.”

  “But… I don’t understand why…” Anxiety contorted my friend’s face.

  “Prit, think for a minute. The condition these bastards are in is the result of dehydration, not temperature,” I explained, pointing to the Undead at our feet. “The human body is largely made up of water; very high temperatures dry up all that moisture. No matter how cold it gets up north, there’ll always be enough moisture in the air to keep those bastards going.”

  The letdown in Pritchenko’s eyes told me he understood what I’d said. The chances that his family was still alive in Germany were slim. Like my family’s chances, I thought bitterly. We were the Last of the Mohicans.

  We moved away slowly, but not before Prit, out of hate or pity, jabbed his knife into the Undead guy’s eye. The creature’s grunts stopped immediately.

  Exploring the rest of the town yielded no surprises. Whoever exterminated all the Undead had cleaned out the place. We found nothing useful: no food to replace our rapidly dwindling supplies, no fuel, no weapons, and no water. The village had a deep well, shaded by a shed, situated in front of the mosque. The villagers had used a motorized pump to draw up the water, but there was no trace of that motor. The looters had taken it. All they’d left behind were the bolts that had attached it to the floor of the shed.

  The adobe walls of the houses had cracked in the sweltering desert heat. Strong winds had carried off some of the roofs. In a couple of years, if no one intervened, the desert would swallow up that town. It would disappear, as if it had never existed.

  The sun was setting over the ocean, turning the sky a spectacular red and bringing the temperature down. We didn’t find any Undead lurking in any of the houses, so we decided to set up camp in the mosque, the only building with carpets on the floor, and spend the night there.

  That night, sitting on the beach, cigarette in hand, under a starry sky, I relaxed for the first time in months. That was when it hit me… I’d made it—I was still alive. For the first time since I started that trip, I broke down and cried.

  4

  THE CANARY ISLANDS

  “Holy Mother of God! We’re saved!” Sister Cecilia’s voice warbled with excitement, as the hazy outline of Lanzarote loomed on the horizon. We’d reached the easternmost island of the archipelago.

  I shot the little nun a surprised look. At the sight of land she’d come out of her trance and shrieked excitedly in those cramped quarters. Lucia kissed Prit and me and hugged us so tight, she nearly choked us.

  We all had a right to rejoice. Our goal was in sight.

  We’d taken off from Africa a couple of hours before and had covered the distance faster than we’d estimated, thanks to a tailwind. Now, Lanzarote shimmered in the sun like a mirage in the middle of that turquoise sea. It was the most beautiful sight I’d seen in months.

  Prit nonchalantly announced that we’d touch down in about twenty minutes. “And twenty minutes after that, I’ll be drinking a nice cold beer. Better yet, a whole keg with a pocketful of Canary Island cigars.” Behind me, Lucia rattled on to Sister Cecilia about getting clothes that weren’t three sizes too big. “Something feminine that shows off my figure.” Even Lucullus got caught up in the excitement. He zipped around from one end of the cabin to the other, forcing us to put him back in his carrier amid yowls of protest. I was just relieved we’d made the nearly three-thousand-mile trip with no mishaps. Given the circumstances, that was no small feat.

  I started fiddling with the radio, looking for a frequency so I could contact the island and identify ourselves. The last thing I wanted was some nervous finger to pull a trigger. We were new to the area and had to proceed with caution.

  The concerned look on my face silenced the rejoicing in the cabin. No matter how much I turned the dial, I only got static. My gut froze into an icy knot. If the radio didn’t pick up any broadcast, it could mean one of only two things: Either the island was maintaining radio silence… or there was no one there who could operate that radio.

  I felt sick. If the epidemic had reached the islands, our chances of survival plummeted. We were three thousand miles from Europe, flying over an island in th
e middle of the Atlantic, and the last of our fuel was running out. We couldn’t turn back or go somewhere else. We’d bet everything on the Canary Islands… and it looked like we’d lost.

  In the silence, I could feel three pairs of eyes boring into my neck, as the helicopter covered the last nautical miles between us and land. In a few minutes we’d have what Prit called “dry feet.”

  What the hell was I going to tell them? What the hell were we supposed to do?

  “There’s no signal, is there?” Sister Cecilia broke the heavy silence, with a note of fatalism in her voice.

  “No, Sister. I don’t think there’s anyone down there.” The Lanzarote coastline was flying past under our feet.

  “That can’t be! That just can’t be!” Lucia shook her head. “Let me try.” She pushed me aside and grabbed my headphones.

  I watched with fascination as Lucia’s slim fingers turned the dials with the delicacy and precision of a goldsmith, stopping at every little crackle or hiss, searching for a spot where a human hand might be behind the signal. I realized I’d let my nerves get the better of me and had handled the radio too roughly, compared with Lucia’s delicate touch. Suddenly her face lit up and my heart raced wildly.

  “Here’s something!” She exclaimed, nearly frantic as she ripped off the headphones. “Listen to this!” Prit flipped a lever that connected the radio to the cabin, his eyes glued to the terrain stretching before him.

  “Tenerife North Airport GCXO. Automatic emergency warning… headers twelve-thirty free, main runway clear… contact tower on channel thirty-six, do not land without authorization. Repeat, do not land without authorization. Report directly to the quarantine area. Tenerife North Airport GCXO, automatic emergency warning… headers twelve-thirty free.” The message was repeated twice more in Spanish, then it replayed in English.

  “What does that mean?” Lucia asked. “What’re they talking about?”

  “Tenerife North Airport.” Prit muttered under his breath. “Los Rodeos.”

  I nodded. Tenerife North Airport was one of two airports on the island of Tenerife, along with Reina Sofia Airport at the southern end. The automatic signal indicated that someone had survived the epidemic. The part about a “quarantine area” convinced me of that. That was the good news.

  The bad news was that we still had to get there. A quick glance at the fuel gauge made it clear we wouldn’t make it. A red light started flashing on the control panel and a shrill alarm went off. Prit pulled a small lever and the flashing light stopped; a steady orange light replaced it. We all looked over at the Ukrainian, confused.

  “I just switched over to the reserve tank. We’ve got enough juice to fly for another fifteen minutes. After that…”

  “What then?” I muttered.

  “Lanzarote Airport’s radio signal is still broadcasting, but that doesn’t mean much. It’s powered by solar batteries, so the signal could replay for months. It doesn’t mean we’ll find anyone there.”

  A heavy silence fell. We had no other choice.

  I thought for a few seconds. “We’re here, so head for Lanzarote Airport in Arrecife. It’s our only option.”

  The Ukrainian nodded and tilted the heavy Sokol to the left, following the signal.

  5

  For six or seven minutes, we skimmed the rooftops in Arrecife. Before the epidemic it was a city of about fifty thousand, but we didn’t spot anyone on the streets.

  It looked about like all the other cities we’d seen along our relentless journey, except for one thing: There were no signs of fighting, no pileups of abandoned cars, no buildings burned to the ground, or any other sign of the Apocalypse. The public gardens, although in ruins and wild, didn’t look like a jungle like other parks had after being abandoned for over a year. The streets were dirty, but there were no large piles of trash and debris and no papers fluttering around. The city looked like it was asleep, like any early Sunday morning. I almost expected to see a delivery truck filled with newspapers drive around a corner.

  “There!” Lucia yelled. “On that plaza, in between those two green buses!”

  Everyone looked where she was pointing. I swallowed hard. Just then two men stepped out of one of those buses. One was dressed in the uniform of the Spanish Legion. The other looked like an important dignitary in his forties, wearing a suit and tie, his hair tousled. They walked along as if they were two friends, chatting, oblivious to the roar of the Sokol overhead. Perfectly normal, except that the civilian was missing half his face and the legionnaire’s chest was crusted with blood.

  They were Undead.

  The epidemic had landed on that plaza.

  I punched one of the helicopter’s struts as Prit let out a stream of Russian cuss words. Stunned, Lucia watched those two guys through her binoculars, unable to believe her eyes. Sister Cecilia had resumed praying to her rosary in a monotonous, broken voice. The old nun’s face radiated a strange peace. She was well aware we had a few hours of life left—at best—and she was settling her accounts, preparing to greet God… which would be soon, if we didn’t come up with a plan.

  “Something’s wrong with this picture. The city is devastated, sure, but there’re no signs of struggle!” I shouted over the noise of the rotors. “Take a good look! There are very few Undead on the streets, a few dozen at most!”

  “He’s right!” Prit was shouting, too. “The city looks like it was emptied out in an orderly fashion! I’d bet my last bottle of vodka those Undead down there came from somewhere else, after the city was evacuated!”

  “That would explain why there’re so few of them. It doesn’t explain where everyone went or why they evacuated the city.”

  “Or where those Undead came from,” Lucia added, grimly.

  We were lost in our thoughts as the helicopter covered the last few miles to the airport. When I cocked my rifle, everyone flinched. Questions about what we’d find there raced through my mind. Though I was sweating hard, a shiver ran down my back. Before we arrived at the airport, I headed to the back of the cabin and struggled into my worn, patched wetsuit (some of the repairs looked like scars, mementos of past incidents), with a lot of grunts and contortions. By the time I’d gotten it on, the Sokol’s shadow was gliding down the runway at Lanzarote Airport.

  “Look at that!” Prit said, pointing to the control tower. “There must’ve been some kind of dust up there!”

  The control tower was demolished, scorched by smoke and flames. Piles of rubble and broken glass lay at its feet. The gaping holes in the windows at the top looked like cavities. The tower looked like it had been burned intentionally, not by a wildfire. The rest of the terminal gleamed in the midday sun, unscathed. Four small planes were slowly falling apart where they’d been abandoned. They were emblazoned with the name BINTER, the airline that had once linked all the islands.

  At the end of the runway, a huge 747 lay on its side, its nose buried in a mountain of sand. It was painted white with the words TALA AIRWAYS written across the fuselage and tail in huge, red, block letters. I had no idea where that company was licensed. The colors could’ve been European, or Asian. Probably a charter airline. Lanzarote’s runway was clearly too short for that mastodon of the air to land, so when it touched down, it couldn’t stop and had skidded on its side off the runway.

  But I saw no wreckage anywhere. The scene was scrupulously tidy, as if after that plane’s spectacular landing, someone had collected all the debris and cleaned up the area. As the Sokol flew its last lap, running on fumes, I could tell that parts of the plane, such as the flaps, had been carefully removed.

  “Cannibalized,” Prit said softly over the intercom.

  “Whadda you mean?”

  “Cannibalized. In Chechnya, we had problems getting parts and supplies sometimes, especially when the Mujahideen learned how to use anti-aircraft missiles. To keep at least some of our planes in the air, we salvaged parts from damaged planes and used them in the planes we could fly.” He paused. “Cannibalized,” the Ukr
ainian said softly, as he focused on setting the Sokol down next to the airport’s fuel tanks.

  A couple of minutes later, the helicopter landed smoothly. The hum of propellers trailed off when Prit shut down the engines. I immediately jumped out and ran toward one of the fuel trucks I’d seen from the air. As I got close to it, I felt my heart clench like a fist. That truck had been “cannibalized” too. All four wheels were gone and it rested on concrete blocks. Its hood was wide open, revealing a gaping hole where the motor had been. I knew right away that the gas tank would be as dry as the Sahara Desert.

  I turned to Prit, but he and Lucia were running toward a small metal fence that surrounded what looked like a fuel pump. The Ukrainian shook the gate that was fastened with a simple padlock. He took a couple of steps back, got a running start, and let fly a powerful kick that destroyed the lock with a loud crunch. The gate hung off its hinges at an odd angle, leaving a gap just big enough for Lucia to slip through like an eel.

  The Ukrainian shouted out rapid-fire commands as he struggled to connect a hose to the mouth of the fuel pump. “Press that lever. No, the other way! You’ve gotta push the button to purge the system. Not that one, the one next to it!”

  I ran up to them to help but stopped short. A couple of wobbly figures, silhouetted in the distance, were making their way out of the terminal building. Behind them, dozens more sprang out of several doors, all focused on the four survivors, oblivious to the approaching danger as they struggled to connect a hose.

  “We’ve got company!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

  I’d heard that phrase in dozens of Hollywood movies. When the heroes said it in the heat of battle, it sounded confident, manly and strong, but to my ears, it sounded like the shrill screech of a terrified eunuch.

  Lucia and Prit looked up, startled, and stepped up their efforts to start the pump. I set one knee down on the blazing hot ground and shifted my rifle off my shoulder.