Pritchenko and I stood there paralyzed, staring for a few seconds. No matter how disgusting they are, a walking corpse inevitably awakens a morbid fascination in a person, a fascination as dangerous as a swaying cobra. I’ve written many times in this journal that those monsters are fast, damn fast, even if they are crawling. They’d be on us in less than twenty seconds.
The next guy was wearing just a bloody, dirty hospital gown tied in the back. The wind ruffled his very long hair. From his arm hung what had once been a drip. When he saw us, he stopped, stretched his hands toward us, and uttered a guttural, horrifying growl.
That broke the spell for me. Pritchenko still stood there, bewildered, leaning on the hood of the car with the battery in one hand, his jaw hanging open. We had to get out of there before they grabbed us, or we were done for. I grabbed his arm and whispered louder and louder, “Run…run…RUN…RUN!” We turned and ran like hell to the van. Those things were so close you could almost feel their breath.
The three hundred yards to the van looked like a hundred miles. A wetsuit is not exactly the most comfortable thing when you’re running like a deer. Two hundred yards. Pritchenko was like a soul running from the devil. Even his mustache was bristling with horror. It was a comfort to know I wasn’t the only one who was screwed. A hundred yards. I could see Kritzinev’s and the Pakistanis’ faces. My heart dropped when I saw them raise their guns and aim at us. For a second I thought we’d be executed on the spot. Fifty yards. We were almost there when they started shooting.
The sound of five AK-47s firing all at once is deafening, especially when it’s right next to your ears and you’ve never heard it before. I collapsed, panting, at the foot of the Pakistanis, next to a contorted Pritchenko, watching a barrage of bullets rain down on those undead. I watched with horror as the men shot into their bodies. I knew that didn’t faze them. I stood up like a crazy man and shouted to them to shoot them in the fucking head, but I realized I was shouting in Spanish, and those Pakistanis from hell didn’t understand me for shit.
Pritchenko jumped up almost in front of the AK-47s and shouted, “Head, head!” like a man possessed. It was a miracle they missed him, but he got the message across. The Pakistanis corrected their aim, and in less than a minute a dozen undead lay on the ground, definitely dead now, with some ragged holes in their heads.
I’m really hardened. Just a month ago, the sight of carnage like that would’ve made me vomit my guts out. Now I looked on the scene as detached as a child tearing the wings off a fly. It’s natural, but I don’t like it one bit.
Time was running out. That shooting spree had gotten the attention of every ghoul in the vicinity, and they were headed right for us. It was just a matter of time before they’d congregate there. I got into the driver’s seat, while Pritchenko and one of the Pakistanis tried to jump the van’s motor with the Volkswagen’s battery. I don’t know if it was an easy process or if Viktor was forced to reapply the “old Soviet ways,” but he suddenly signaled for me to turn it over. The van’s motor sputtered a couple of times and stalled, but at least the dials were lit. We had a battery, but something was wrong with the fuel.
I could hear a violent exchange in Russian and Urdu across the hood. They couldn’t understand each other, but they finally came to some agreement. They looked up at the same time and signaled for me to try again. This time the motor started with a powerful roar that echoed through the narrow street. They slammed the hood and raced into the van. We were ready.
Just in time. An enormous mob was pouring around the far corner. I shuddered to see that that mob had closed off all our escape routes, while the engine sounded increasingly uncertain. If I turned it off, we were done for, trapped in the tight space in the van forever.
The sight was terrifying. The street was three hundred yards long. A high brick wall on one side and the back wall of a huge warehouse on the other formed a corridor about six yards wide. At the far end of the street, near the Seguritsa gate, an armored van, crammed with seven people, sat panting after sitting for more than month and a half. The other corner of the street was packed with undead. In a word, hell.
Shots from the AK-47s had saved Pritchenko’s and my lives, but the noise they’d made had drawn all the undead around. A tidal wave of hundreds of those creatures was headed down the narrow street right for us. The motor’s backfire drew them like a moth to a flame.
The din was deafening inside the van. The four Pakistanis chattered nervously, nonstop in Urdu, pointing at the mob headed our way. Pritchenko was pale, crouched in a corner staring, beads of sweat on his forehead. I’m no shrink, but I’d guess he was recalling his last moments in the Safe Haven. This time he had nowhere to hide. Kritzinev sat next to me, pale as wax, his eyes wide as saucers; the veins on his nose stood out like a map. Seeing those things through binoculars from the safety of the Zaren’s deck was one thing; it was quite another thing to be there with nothing to keep them from coming at you. I was scared, very scared, like everyone else. Fuck ’em all, I couldn’t help thinking.
Kritzinev shook my arm, shouting fast and furious in Russian. I shrugged. I had the same panicked look on my face. I wasn’t sure what to do. You’re never prepared for something like that. I released the handbrake, put the van in first gear, and let it roll slowly toward that roiling mass that took up the whole street.
The van’s engine panted noisily as the wall of flesh, bone, and bloodlust closed in on us in the middle of the street. At a hundred yards, we saw the first undead. We could guess at the mass behind them. It was like trying to clear a path through a demonstration or drive through an audience at a concert.
My mind worked feverishly. Adrenaline and panic urged me to charge the crowd. It was an obscenely inviting idea—floor it and mow down row after row of undead and then drive someplace where no one’s ever seen those things, not even in a picture.
The rational part of my mind got me back on track right away. Charging that shambling crowd wasn’t an option. A body projected against a windshield, no matter how dead it is or how shatterproof the windshield is, was still a 150-pound bundle thrown against glass. It could do a lot of damage to a vehicle. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. A broken window in the middle of that crowd was a death sentence.
I recalled forensic reports I’d read about people struck by cars. In most cases, the victim died, but not before doing serious damage to the undercarriage, suspension, tires, and steering of the vehicle that hit him. Real life is very different from movies. Cars aren’t indestructible; they break down easily and suffer serious damage, not to mention flipping over or crashing.
We had one option, but it required cool heads. I let the van move slowly toward the crowd just twenty yards from us as I quickly explained my plan to Viktor. We’d move through the crowd, practically idling, at the speed of a person walking. I was sure we’d gently part the crowd of undead. If any of them fell under our wheels at that slow speed, I didn’t think it would do any damage, considering we weighed more than three tons. To the van, that is; damage to the fallen creatures was another story.
The downside was that we’d be surrounded by those monsters for a very long time. I speculated that they’d hit the sides and windows of the van many, many times. If it weren’t for the armor on the vehicle, we couldn’t do it.