The building was packed with office workers running around, doing God-knows-what. They kept us waiting for a long time in a small room decorated with the flags of dozens of regiments that probably no longer existed except in memory. By the time a sergeant finally hurried us into an office, the sun was high in the sky.
A bald, pudgy little guy who looked to be pushing fifty sat at a desk. His black goatee stood out against his pasty white skin and bobbed up and down as he talked. He wasn’t wearing a uniform—surprising since up till then, we were the only people we’d seen in street clothes. He was talking a blue streak on two phones at once as his hands flew over a computer keyboard. Beside him, one assistant held a ton of folders, while another madly rifled through documents piled on a side table. People streamed in and out of that office in a systematic way like a well-organized anthill. The guy motioned for Pritchenko and me to sit in chairs in front of his desk, but kept on barking orders into the phone.
As we waited for that guy to finish all his conversations, I checked out the mess piled around him. Most of the folders bore the seal of the Second Operational Quartermaster Corps, a unit I’d never heard of before. From what the guy was yelling into the phone, I surmised that that building was the unit’s administrative headquarters.
Our host brusquely introduced himself as “Luis Viena, administrative head of the Second Quartermaster Corps” then went back to arguing with someone at the other end of the line about acquiring several hundred liters of helicopter fuel. He wanted the fuel immediately and the person on the other end of the line was refusing to provide it. He finally reached an agreement, citing something called “Presidential Priority,” then hung up looking pleased with himself.
He sat there, lost in thought for a few long seconds. Then he blinked, pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his sweaty brow, and turned to us with a broad smile on his face.
“Good morning, good morning.” His words poured out in a torrent. “I’m very sorry to keep you waiting so long, but organizing an operation of this size is difficult, very difficult, yes sir, especially with so few resources and the staff… the staff,” he snorted contemptuously and waved his hand theatrically. “Oh sure, most are good people, hard-working men and women, dedicated, very dedicated of course, but their training and experience… know what I mean? You don’t get training and experience overnight, no sir.” His hand cut the air like an imaginary ax. “No way.”
Prit and I kept our mouths shut. That hyperactive little man stood up, still ranting, as he rummaged around in a file cabinet. Finally he found folders with our names on them and turned toward us, triumphant, waving the folders as if they were fans.
“Organization. Organization and a system,” he said proudly. “Those are the keys, yes sir.” He rattled on as he sat back down, distractedly extracted some reports from the mountain of papers piled on his desk, then stuffed them into the folders he was holding.
He read our names aloud and, for the next ten minutes, delved into our considerably thick files. Occasionally he let out an “uh-huh” or an “ah-ha” and even a couple of surprised “oh’s” and looked up at our faces. Finally, he set the folders back on his desk, took off his glasses, and rubbed his weary eyes. Then he started talking again.
Over the next half hour he told us all about himself, saying he headed up a task force. He wasn’t in uniform because, although he’d served in the army, he was no longer a soldier. Before the Apocalypse, he’d been an executive at Inditex, the world’s largest fashion conglomerate. For over fifteen years, he’d run the company’s giant clothing distribution center in Zaragoza. He’d been enjoying a quiet holiday at his home in the islands with his wife and daughters when the world went to hell. Powerless, he witnessed the world’s collapse, the defeat of humanity at the hands of the Undead, and the arrival of shattered survivors. At first they flooded in, but that downpour slowly became a drip that ended with us. Once things settled down, the army recruited him to be its quartermaster and bring order to the broken supply chain. Given his background, he was the right person, the only person with experience in organizing huge amounts of resources. So far, he’d done a remarkable job.
I envied that chatty, high-strung guy. Not only had he survived the Apocalypse, peacefully, in the Canaries, in his own home, surrounded by his family, but he worked comfortably behind a desk, hundreds of miles from the nearest Undead and all that shit. A piece of cake, compared to what we’d been through,
My instincts told me Prit and I—not that guy—were going to have to smell that shit up close.
TSJ hadn’t just carried off useless people or criminals. Many of the fallen were people with knowledge and skills essential to society’s survival. Engineers, architects, agronomists, nurses, pilots, doctors, soldiers—all missing in large numbers, especially the latter. Medical personnel and the military had suffered huge losses, since they were the first line of defense in the losing battle against TSJ. The government was trying to rebuild the military and medical corps as fast as possible, but that took time.
And that’s where we came in. Prit was one of the few surviving helicopter pilots; all the flight hours he’d logged made him invaluable. As for me, the fact that I’d spent over a year in the Wild West, as the military called areas infested with Undead, made me a seasoned veteran, able to survive in a hostile environment and look out for less experienced members of my team.
As Viena spoke, I felt the blood drain from my face. He must be fucking joking. Me? A seasoned veteran? I spent most of that year running from one place to another like a scared rabbit or hidden in the basement of Meixoeiro Hospital! I was no Rambo!
I politely pointed that out to Mr. Viena. And, in case he hadn’t noticed, Viktor Pritchenko, although certainly an exceptional pilot, had lost half a hand in an explosion. We weren’t who they thought we were—just two exhausted survivors who wanted to start a new life. We’d do any job they entrusted to us, but we were no soldiers. Not for all the gold in the world would we go back to that so-called Wild West. I said all this in a long speech, then sat back and studied my interviewer.
Viena sat perfectly still for a moment, staring at us. Then he cleared his throat and spoke. “Gentlemen, I think you’ve misunderstood. I’m giving you an order that comes from much higher up. If you think you can resume the orderly life you led before the Apocalypse, think again. The world has completely changed and that change affects all of us. All of us. Including you, gentlemen.” He turned to Prit. “And Mr. Pritchenko’s in a very delicate situation. True, he’s one of the most experienced pilots on the islands and God knows we need good pilots. But there’s that ugly business with the nun.”
I grabbed Prit’s arm to stop him from leaping across the table, as the Ukrainian muttered a string of curses in Russian.
“That brings us to the next situation.” Viena nodded, deep in thought, indifferent to Prit’s reaction. “If Mr. Pritchenko voluntarily enlists in the quartermaster corps, we could… how should I put this… find a solution agreeable to all parties in the matter of the Galicia. There wouldn’t be a trial and all charges would be dropped.”
“As for you.” Now he turned to me. “Surely you can see how much we need a person of your experience to face those monsters. Our raiding parties have been to the Wild West three or four times, tops. However, you and your friend,” he stopped to glance at my file, “survived for more than a year out there. Few of us here can say that,” he said with a smile.