Lucia didn’t believe the expression time stopped—not until five seconds after she opened that damned door. The instant that guy pulled the trigger, Lucia felt time stand still and become something very gooey and thick, like melted caramel.
The first shot sent slivers of the wall flying by her right ear and shook her out of her daze. She automatically stepped out of his line of fire. But Maite froze in the doorway, that cup of bad coffee clutched to her chest, her eyes glued to the shooter as he raced along the wall, raising his gun again.
The second shot hit Maite right below her heart with enough force to lift the small girl into the air, spraying blood and coffee in every direction. She pirouetted like a dancer in the Russian ballet, slumped against the door, then slid to the floor where she lay motionless, a bewildered look in her eyes.
“Not that nurse, you idiot! The other one! Get the other one! The tall one!” Lucia heard the orderly say.
That voice triggered a memory and Lucia knew instantly that the nun was a goner. If she didn’t run for it, her number would be up, too. Groaning in fear, Lucia retreated down the hallway.
The hospital was in utter chaos. Alarms were going off everywhere. Groups of armed men (some in uniform, some not) ran past dozens of panicked patients and confused, overwhelmed doctors.
“Froilists! Fucking Froilists!” howled a guy in a military uniform Lucia didn’t recognize, as he led a group of soldiers into the building.
From another part of the building came a series of hiccups Lucia instantly recognized as bursts from HKs. Then came a muffled explosion and the rattle of another weapon she couldn’t identify (Pritchenko could’ve told her they were AK-47s). In the pandemonium of panicked civilians and soldiers afraid of a Froilists’ incursion, two groups of guards were shooting at each other. It was a fucking madhouse.
A gurney flew out of nowhere and hit Lucia in the hip, knocking her to the ground. A red-hot pain shot up her leg. The crowd and the shooting swirled around her as she struggled to her feet. She glanced down the hallway and spotted the redheaded guy with the gun standing next to Basilio. When he saw her pushing through the knot of people, he jabbed the gunman in the ribs and pointed at her.
Lucia wasted no time. Gripping the gurney, she stood up, knocking aside equipment that had fallen in the corridor. Knowing her way around the hospital gave her an advantage, but she had less strength to push her way through all the people running in every direction. Not daring to look back, she sensed that her pursuers were gaining ground.
Lucia spotted the intersection of two hallways. She knew if she turned right, she’d come to the exit. Even in all the chaos, there must be a guard at the door. She was just a couple hundred feet from the hallway.
As she approached the intersection, machine-gun fire nearly tore Lucia’s head off the minute she stepped into the hall. She instinctively dropped to the ground. Shots rang out behind her, coming from the same direction as the first shots. Before she knew it, she and fifty other people were caught in the crossfire between two groups shouting commands and rallying cries.
Get out of here or you’re screwed, she told herself as she gritted her teeth and crawled toward a side door. A nurse she didn’t know was slumped on his side, his head blown wide open. The air smelled of gunpowder, blood, and shit. The groans of the wounded mingled with the hysterical screams of those hit by an explosion.
A disheveled officer in the Civil Guard came out of God-knows-where, shouting himself hoarse trying to bring order to the chaos.
“Hold your fire! We’re shooting at each other, dammit!” His words convinced a few of the confused shooters to stop firing.
Lucia felt relieved. Finally someone was taking control of the situation. She started crawling in his direction, but stopped midway when she saw that smiling redheaded creep who killed Maite come up behind the officer.
With a flourish, like a barber removing his customer’s cape after a haircut, Eric Desauss raised his gun and shot less than an inch from the neck of the unsuspecting officer. The soldier dropped to the ground, a red fountain gushing from his neck. Security guards took aim at the gunman, but before they could fire, a machine gun at the other end of the hall took out three or four of them.
Chaos erupted again. The guards completely forgot the lone gunman and concentrated on the group that had fired on them. Basilio took advantage of the situation to grab one of the HKs on the floor.
“Over there! She went out that door!” Basilio yelled.
Humming a little tune, Eric the Belgian stepped over the soldier’s bloody corpse and headed for the door, looking down the barrel of his gun, with Basilio following close behind. His fly felt like it was about to explode as intense pleasure spread through his body. As he sprinted through the crossfire, he pictured himself jacking off over that slut’s corpse and a huge smile lit up his face.
31
For a very long second, I stood there, frozen like a store dummy, staring at the Glock in my hand. What had happened didn’t sink in. The fucking gun hadn’t fired, but I didn’t have time to ponder the situation. With a murderous roar, one of the half-charred Undead launched himself at Prit as he loaded his HK, grabbed him by the shoulder and hurled himself on top of the small Ukrainian.
Instinctively, Pritchenko raised his rifle and drove its muzzle into the Undead’s chest like a stake, which sent both of them careening backward. The Undead stopped in his tracks. The blow probably broke his ribs. Caught off balance, Prit stumbled and fell backward onto the ground, totally helpless.
That was all the Undead needed. He dropped to his knees and slumped over my friend who was struggling to get free from that deadly embrace. Everything was moving in slow motion. I peered at the monster’s rotten teeth through his lips that’d been reduced to a thin grimace by the fire. He snapped his jaws like a bear trap, just inches from the Slav’s face that was pale with terror.
“Get him off me! Dabai, dabai!” Prit shouted.
Getting a running start, I kicked the Undead’s ribs as hard as I could. That kick would’ve knocked the life out of a normal person, but those creatures were made of sterner stuff. Wobbling from my kick, the Undead guy dropped Prit, who crawled away.
Then the monster focused all its attention on me. I took a couple of steps back as the Undead struggled to his feet. Prit stood silently behind him, holding his huge hunting knife, poised to hack off the thing’s neck.
Before the Slav could make a single cut, the Undead’s temple erupted in a miniature volcano. Bits of the guy’s brain splattered everywhere and his body collapsed in a heap. Prit and I looked at each other, stunned but relieved.
“What kind of fucking game are you two playing?” Pauli’s shrill, sarcastic voice was the most wonderful sound on the earth. She was down one knee, blue smoke wafting out the barrel of her HK. She’d come along just in time.
“Looks like you boys prefer hand-to-hand combat,” she said mockingly. “You know better than anyone that wrestling with monsters is a really bad idea. You could catch something really bad.” She slowly got to her feet and brushed off her knees.
“Prit’s fucking gun jammed,” I protested, pointing to his HK. “My pistol didn’t fire either.” I waved the Glock under her nose. “So don’t give me any shit, dammit!”
“For starters, that’s a rifle, not a gun,” Marcelo corrected me, rubbing his shoulder that was sore from shooting the MG3. “You guys jammed two weapons? That’s a first.”
I held out my Glock, with a scowl. The Porteño took out the magazine and examined it carefully. He raised his eyes with a look of disbelief.