After a few minutes, the guy returned from the lot with a long piece of rubber tubing cut from a hose. Taking the rubber tube and a five-liter plastic jug, Shafiq headed back to the Zodiac, not saying another word. He untied the boat and paddled quietly toward the Citroën depot about fifty yards from us, disappearing into the black night. We could only hear his rhythmic paddling in the distance.
As I sat there, dying to light a cigarette, I could imagine the scene: Shafiq crouched down, running up and down the rows of cars ready to be shipped to the four corners of the world, the keys in the ignition and a couple of liters of gas in the tank, just enough to drive on to the boat and then the tractor-trailer. A trip they’d never make.
The plan was simple. He’d empty that gas into the jug and then fill the van’s tank. Since the jug only held five liters, he’d have to make at least a dozen trips. But we didn’t have any other containers, except for our canteens. The job would take a while. At least we’d have a vehicle to safely cross the city in. We wouldn’t have to walk. And we’d be setting out in daylight. Call me a coward, but I’d rather see what’s around me than head into a dark ghost town full of mutants.
As I settled down for a break, thousands of paranoid thoughts raced through my mind. What if he mixed regular gas with diesel? What if the cars only used regular gas? (The van, of course, took diesel.) What if the cars had already been cannibalized by the Safe Haven survivors? What if a former employee of the factory, now changed into the living dead, was wandering around? What if it snuck up on Shafiq as he worked? More and more fatal errors went through my mind. With each new terrifying thought, I felt less and less confident and sweated more and more.
All my fears were unfounded. Shafiq returned with a jug of amber diesel gas, wearing a huge smile. He didn’t make a mistake. He only got fuel from the diesel vans. Yeah, someone had already emptied a lot of the vehicles, but there were dozens more that still had gas. He’d have to go a little farther, but that was no problem. The area was empty.
I relaxed and leaned back against the wall as Shafiq set off again. It was strange. For those guys, being in complete darkness, an assault weapon in their hands, risking their lives, was the most normal thing in the world. It was their daily bread.
It occurred to me that the epidemic had hit the more advanced countries harder. In Spain only the army, security forces, and a few thousand people had guns. That’s how advanced Europe used to impose order, law, and comfort. In places like Pakistan, Liberia, Somalia, or God knows where else, even a child at his mother’s tit had a gun hanging around his neck or something more serious at the front door. There, you shoot first and ask questions later. There, having no electricity or running water has never been a problem.
Now the most advanced parts of the civilized world are defenseless, devoured by their own citizens. Maybe the undead haven’t had as much luck in more remote, primitive, isolated areas. Maybe they haven’t even made it that far.
It’s ironic. The poorest, most underdeveloped areas of the world are now humanity’s last hope. The rest of the world is one huge hell where a handful of scattered survivors are trying to escape.
The sun was slowly rising. The tank was filled just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Poor Shafiq, drenched and exhausted, was starting to stumble with the jug. Another Pakistani, Usman, ventured to the end of the street, where a Volkswagen Beetle with two flat tires was parked. He looked around the corner and came back to inform us that a few of those mutants were walking back and forth about ten yards away, unaware of our presence. The guy looked terrified. That was the first time he’d seen those things up close. I knew only too well that it was not a pretty sight. Hard to believe I was the veteran of the group.
When the tank was full, we got in the van. I was surprised when they gave me the driver’s seat. I guessed I was supposed to lead them in everything. With a sigh I got in and closed the heavy door. Kritzinev, Shafiq, and I crammed into the front seat, while Pritchenko and three other Pakistanis climbed into the compartment in back. I adjusted the seat and mirror and turned the key.
The starter didn’t even turn over. I tried again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. Kritzinev’s face told the whole story. Mine too. I leaned back, my mind racing. What the hell was wrong? My eyes swept across the dashboard for a clue. I looked down at the dashboard. The light indicator was on. Shit. The driver had not only left the motor running, he’d left the lights on too. They’d been on for weeks. The battery was dead.
I imagined the scene: the yellow flashing headlights all that lit up that dark street. The battery dying as hundreds of undead surrounded that van, abandoned on the road to the Safe Haven.
I had to think of something. I focused on the Volkswagen at the end of the street. It was less than three years old, so its battery was probably in good condition. I considered telling Kritzinev to send Shafiq back to the Citroën parking lot to look for a brand-new battery, but I was sure he’d say no. The sun was getting higher, we were behind schedule, and the Ukrainian was getting impatient. Besides, in daylight the Citroën parking lot might be too dangerous. And he wouldn’t want to waste any more time dragging the van next to the Volkswagen. There was nothing to do except get the battery out of that little round German car.
I turned to Viktor and whispered through the little window in the barrier what to tell Kritzinev. After a quick exchange in Russian, Viktor turned pale and looked at me with despair. I understood instantly. Kritzinev had ordered him to get the battery.
He quickly corrected me. He’d ordered both of us to go. Shit.
We got out of the van, amid the Pakistanis’ mocking jokes. Almost tiptoeing, we approached the Volkswagen; its lemon-yellow color was like a beacon amid all the dirt on the deserted port. It was parked at the very end of the street, near the corner of the wall. Cautiously poking my head around the corner, I saw half a dozen of those things standing at different spots along the road, as if in a trance. Who knows, maybe they were sleeping. One thing was clear—they were close. Too close.
Viktor was struggling with the handle of the Volkswagen. It was locked. Not everything would be easy, after all. Wrapping his fist in his thick peacoat, Pritchenko drew his arm back and, before I could stop him, slammed his fist against the driver’s window.
The window vaporized into a million little pieces, making an outrageously loud noise that set the undead in motion. We had to hurry. With the agility of a car thief, the little Ukrainian slipped into the car and popped the hood. I propped the hood up, one eye on the street corner, waiting for those monsters to show up.
A bunch of wires stuck out of the battery. I jiggled the battery, but the clamps slipped again and again in my sweaty fingers. Pritchenko looked at me expectantly as the Pakistanis knelt on the ground beside the van, calmly watching the show.
When the copper connector slipped out of my hands again, Viktor Pritchenko lost his patience. He gently pushed me aside and leaned over the battery, grabbed hold of the connectors, and yanked them off. Then he tugged on the handle of the battery and pulled it out of the engine well. He smiled and muttered something that sounded like “Better fix things old Soviet way.”
Just in time. Around the corner appeared the first undead, rocking along, drawn by all the noise we were making. It was a middle-aged woman, covered in blood. Her thick torso was bare, exposing one of her drooping breasts. Where the other breast should’ve been, there was only a gaping, bloody hole.