“Why do they burn like that?” Broto asked Pauli, staring at the charred tapestry. “That’s fucking amazing! They burned to the bone in minutes. Jesus Fucking Christ!”
“Simple,” said the Catalan, as she tightened the straps of her bulletproof vest. “Most of those things have been dead—or undead—for over a year.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Broto was clueless.
“It means,” Pauli patiently explained, “they’re undergoing the process of putrefaction, albeit slowly. The process of decomposition generates—”
“Gases,” I blurted out, suddenly grasping what had just happened.
“Methane gas, mostly. The longer they’ve been in that state, the higher the concentration of gases saturating their body fat. The ones who burned like matches succumbed in the early days. The rest,” she nodded toward the few figures still staggering around, “have only been Undead for a few months.”
I looked down once more at the furiously burning bodies below. Jubilation flooded the cabin in waves, as the helicopter slowly descended. But out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the tense, worried faces of the crew. A few veterans made jokes to take their minds off their fear.
I was hard-pressed to describe what I felt. Fear, mostly. Anguish, thinking about the thousands of lives we’d just cut down. Those things weren’t just rag dolls; they’d been people who’d had a life and dreams and who didn’t deserve to end up like that. And I felt heartsick, thinking that if it weren’t for dumb luck I’d have ended up one of the horde of Undead.
Mostly I was scared.
Panicked.
In just a few moments, those soldiers, who were so young and should’ve had their whole lives ahead of them, would bravely head into that building. Viktor Pritchenko and I knew too well the horrors awaiting them.
28
Basilio Irisarri was in a foul mood. The look on his face and in his narrow, vacant eyes was homicidal. Lately he’d snarled over and over, “Get my drift, pal?” Basilio didn’t know he had that tic, but it had gotten worse recently. As an idea took shape in his mind, that phrase became a mantra he said to anyone who’d listen.
Things had gotten complicated since that ugly business with the nun. Basilio was already in the hot seat with the higher-ups. He always had trouble with bosses, but this time he was really in the hot seat.
For starters, he was no longer stationed on the Galicia. During the internal investigation required by navy protocol, he’d been “temporarily relieved” of his duties. He didn’t mind that part. The Galicia was nearly empty these days. The flow of refugees had completely dried up. That damned nun and her pals were the last to be quarantined on that ship.
Basilio had resented standing guard in an empty boat anchored in the middle of the bay. He’d never admit it, but he got the creeps patrolling that gigantic ship in the dark, with only a flashlight, hearing the creaking and groaning of a thousand bulkheads.
On the plus side, he was the first to get wind of any new “business opportunities” in the port. Everyone knew that all the best deals in the black market were cooked up on the docks under the watchful eye of inspectors and officers. Pull out a few packs of smokes or gold earrings at the right time and a guard would suddenly need to take a piss or the harbor patrol boat would develop engine failure that mysteriously fixed itself a couple of hours later. In that world, Basilio was like a fish in water, a true genius with an innate talent for discovering some juicy deal.
For the first time in his life, things were going well, very well, for Basilio. His contacts were coming through after weeks of “negotiating.” He was raking in the booty, gold especially.
The lack of legal tender on the islands was a real pain in the ass, even for the black market, but it was inevitable. With a continent in shambles, there were billions of euros lying around, free for the taking—if anyone dared face the Undead to get them. Many refugees arrived clutching millions of dollars, euros, and pounds they’d found strewn across their home countries. They flooded the local market with useless currency that no government backed. Gold, silver, and precious stones—those were the real currency and Basilio knew how to get them.
But a few weeks before, things had gotten fucked up again. First there was that damned raid that cost him a huge shipment of bootleg rum. Then he got the news that that damn nun was still alive!
Basilio’s methods were crude, but he was nobody’s fool. If the nun was alive, it was just a matter of time before she woke up and told the real story about what happened. Then he wouldn’t have jack shit—no bright future, no black market deals, just a one-way ticket to the cranes in the port and a quick hanging.
So, when he learned through one of his customers (a doctor hooked on the dwindling supply of cocaine), that that old bitch was clinging to life, he realized he needed to come up with a plan.
Basilio was no coward. He had no problem bumping someone off in a dark alley, but sneaking into a hospital full of guards, in broad daylight, to knock off an old woman lying in a crowded hospital room would be tricky. Basilio would have to tread lightly. If the old bitch died in a dramatic way, he’d be the first person they’d suspect.
For several days Basilio considered letting the situation play out. According to his contact, the old hag was in a coma and there was a good chance she’d never wake up. He could get lucky and the nun would kick the bucket.
But the day before, a team had left for the Peninsula in search of medicine. They might bring back some drug that would revive the old bat. On the other hand, with all the Undead around, there was a good chance they wouldn’t make it back. But Basilio couldn’t take that chance.
He finally made up his mind: He’d take care of the nun himself. That thought made him feel a whole lot better.
So the next morning, he disguised himself as an orderly, pushing a wheelchair. In it was Eric Desauss, a wiry, red-haired, freckle-faced Belgian, with a convincing cough. Under a blanket, he gripped a nine-millimeter beretta he’d insisted on bringing “just in case.”
Getting the uniform and the pass was simple, although he’d had to pay Dr. Addict a fortune in white powder. Getting Eric to collaborate was easy, too. An old acquaintance from Basilio’s little world, he’d been diagnosed as schizophrenic. Just the thought of killing the nun gave him a morbid thrill and a painful erection he had to hide under the blanket.
Basilio was having a hard time getting his bearings in that fucking madhouse. Dr. Addict had told him how to get to the nun’s hospital room but had refused to go with him, saying, “I don’t want to know what the fuck you’re up to. I don’t even want to know you.”
Basilio and Eric roamed around the hospital for nearly twenty minutes. Basilio’s bad mood was quickly approaching the red zone, like mercury in a thermometer left on a hot stove. They couldn’t keep wandering around aimlessly. Sooner or later, someone would notice that the same orderly with the same patient had passed that same spot three times—and then they’d be in deep shit.
“Eric, I think we have a problem. Get my drift, pal?”
“You’re telling me. We’ve been in this hallway twice. That guard looked us over real good. Maybe we should come back another day.”
“No fucking way,” Basilio whispered. “I’ve got enough morphine in my pocket to bring down an elephant. They frisk everyone leaving the hospital, including staff. What do you think they’d say if they found the piece you’re hiding under that blanket?”