“Fatalism,” he said with a sad smile.
“What the hell’re you talking about?”
He took a long swig from his flask. “Well, the helicopter is damaged and can’t take off. But, staying here won’t fix it. It’s fate, kapish? It is what it is. Getting upset won’t do any good. Niet?”
I glared at him. “Sometimes you really piss me off! The way you think is too damn Russian for me!”
“Ukrainian,” Prit corrected me with an unflappable smile. “Ukrainian thinking. The Russians are farther north.”
“Whatever you say, Prit,” I answered, my spirits deflated. That guy was impossible. Times like these brought out Prit’s Slavic peasant soul. He accepted hard times with resignation, like his ancestors had done for centuries. He just gritted his teeth and kept moving because there was no way to turn back.
Some of the team members had already slid open the door and were about to jump out. I hesitated. Suddenly I felt very cold, even though sweat was pouring down my back. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry as a desert. I patted my pockets in search of a cigarette, but my hand was trembling so hard I couldn’t unbutton the pocket flap. Anxiety squeezed my heart like an invisible hand. In that state I’d screw up before I took two steps outside. A thought flashed before me—I was going to die there. My vision got blurry, my head started spinning… Dear God!
“Hey! Take it easy.” Pritchenko’s familiar, reassuring voice brought me back to reality. The Ukrainian rested a hand on my shoulder and stared at me, a couple of inches from my face. With measured calm, he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket, lit one, and stuck it between my lips.
“Prit, I can’t go out there.” My voice cracked. “They’ll kill me. They’ll catch me in the blink of an eye. Fuck! What the hell’re we doing here?”
“You’ll be okay.” The Slav helped me to my feet with one hand and slung his rifle over his shoulder with the other. “You did great before and you’ll do great this time, too. Don’t worry. We’ve been in tighter spots, you and me, and we got out okay, right?”
I nodded hesitantly. Everyone else had climbed out of the helicopter. Tank was shouting our names as the rest of the team divided into their groups.
“Remember the little store in Vigo, with the Pakistanis?” A smile spread across Prit’s face. “We were in deep shit, alone, unarmed, no vehicles, surrounded by those monsters, crammed into that fucking crawl space. If we could get out of that, this is—how do you say it—a piece of cake!”
I nodded, with a shaky smile. Pritchenko was right. I thought being classified as “veterans” was strange, but few people had spent as much time among the Undead as we had and had lived to tell the tale.
I let out a long, deflated sigh. If we were the best hope the human race had for its salvation, things were more fucked up than I’d thought.
I took a deep drag on my cigarette and watched the Argentine attach the MG3 to its tripod with the tired look of an expert who’s done that a million times. Okay, so we were back in the middle of that shit, but at least this time we had a plan, and we were surrounded by people who were really good at what they did. Plus, Prit and I had each other and that was no small thing. Maybe those guys with the napalm would take another pass to clear the area. Maybe we’d get out of this with our hide still intact.
“Ready?” The Ukrainian cocked his HK.
“Ready, comrade,” I replied, cautiously pulling out my Glock. “Stick close, okay?”
“Okay. Lucia’ll kill me if anything happens to you and I have no desire to lug your cat around.” He gave me a sly grin. “Let’s go.”
When we jumped down onto what I thought was the surface of the parking lot, one of my legs sunk into what felt like a hole, and a putrid stench flew up my nose. Pauli watched me, half-worried, half-amused.
“Careful. You just stepped in that poor devil’s lungs,” she said with a smirk.
What I’d taken as the parking lot’s scorched surface was a carpet of charred, smoldering bodies. When I jumped out of the helicopter, my right leg sunk into the chest of a burned corpse, shredded its ribs, and came to rest on what was left of its spine. Grossed out, I stepped back and pulled my boot free, nearly losing my balance.
Tank’s steel grip on my arm stopped me from falling onto the charred remains.
“Stick with your team,” he said dryly, his shark eyes glaring at me. “Protect the computer guy. Without him, this entire mission is pointless.”
I shrugged him off, wondering what was so special about that fucker Broto and walked over to Prit, carefully stepping over all the charred bodies.
“We go with them,” Prit said pointing to Pauli and Marcelo. “Apparently we have to babysit that freaked-out computer hot shot.”
“Any idea why?”
“Not a clue,” Prit said with a sigh. “But surely in a few minutes—look out!”
The Ukrainian jumped back like he’d seen a snake and he shoved me out of his line of fire. I turned just in time to see two horribly charred Undead less than five feet away from us. They were burned so badly you couldn’t tell their ages or sex, but they moved pretty well, considering their condition.
Prit raised his HK and opened fire at the one on the right. In a split second the rattle of his rifle merged with bursts from other weapons. All the Undead still standing in that parking lot were headed right for us.
The napalm had killed most of those monsters, but three or four dozen still ringed the helicopter and were closing in. The roar of HKs mixed with the bark of the Glocks, and in the background you could hear short, rhythmic bursts from the Argentine’s MG3.
Our two Undead were awfully close and Prit and I faced them alone. The rest of the team was hurriedly shooting in other directions, focusing on their immediate area. The deafening noise drew more and more Undead. They just kept coming.
Pritchenko’s first shot ripped a hole in the Undead’s chest. It staggered back, shaken by the impact for a moment, but kept coming toward us. The Ukrainian corrected his aim and fired again, this time at its head, transforming it into viscous pulp that splattered in every direction. That Undead collapsed in a heap, but Prit and I didn’t have time to watch. He calmly aimed at the other Undead, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger. His gun emitted a horrifying metallic clank. We froze, as the Undead approached, unstoppable.
“It’s jammed!” Prit shouted. “Fuck! It’s jammed! Shoot at that one, fast!”
As if in a dream, I raised the Glock. I watched my thumb free the safety the way the instructor had taught me in Tenerife. I focused all my attention on the creature advancing toward us. I shut out the rest of the world. All that existed was that charred monster, the sight on that heavy Glock, and me.
I heard myself breathing. I felt my finger slowly press the trigger—and fired.
But the hammer made just a muffled clank.
30
The gunshots got Lucia’s attention first. As she pushed through the heavy fire doors, she was struck by the eerie silence in that room. Next, her gaze flew to the burly orderly bent over Sister Cecilia, his head pressed against the nun’s head as if he were telling her a secret. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a red-haired guy sliding along the wall to her right with his hand behind his back.
That guy’s got a hard on like a horse in heat, she thought, puzzled and amused. Just then, the redheaded guy (who looked a lot like the lead singer in the Spin Doctors) drew his hand from behind his back and aimed a black gun at her and Maite.