GOOD AFTERNOON, DR. JURADO. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSCODE.
Lucia froze. Then she remembered the code scribbled on the piece of paper. With trembling fingers, she pulled the paper from her pocket and punched the code into the keyboard. The screen went blank for a millisecond and then a new message appeared.
WRONG PASSCODE. YOU HAVE TWO (2) TRIES LEFT. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSCODE.
Lucia brushed a sweaty lock of hair out of her eyes. “You idiot, you can’t even type a damn code right!”
She typed it in again, as calmly as she could, making sure it was correct. She pressed ENTER and the screen went blank.
WRONG PASSCODE. YOU HAVE ONE (1) TRY LEFT. PLEASE ENTER THE PASSCODE.
She felt her stomach clench into an icy fist. If this wasn’t the passcode, she was done for. She wouldn’t get another chance. Plus, those footsteps sounded really close now. She beat her fist against the door. That was stupid. The second to the last character of the code was not the letter O but a zero. She typed it in a third time, this time her fingers flew over the keyboard, as Basilio appeared around the corner, breathing like a bellows. The screen flashed a third time and a new message appeared.
WELCOME TO THE ZOO, DR. JURADO. HAVE A NICE DAY.
The door opened with a hiss. Lucia had just enough time to slip in before a blast from an HK kicked up splinters of plaster from the wall she’d been leaning on. Another bullet hit the control panel. It exploded with fireworks and gave off a faint singed smell. Lucia tried to close the door, but the system had been fried when the panel blew up. With death at her heels, Lucia headed into that room. As she did, she recalled the meaning of the biohazard symbol emblazoned on the door.
Then an alarm went off.
33
The spiral staircase creaked and shook beneath our feet. Flakes of rust showered down as we climbed flight after flight. That staircase was in such bad shape, it mustn’t have been used before the Apocalypse. A thick layer of ash and dust rose up in white clouds making us sneeze and giving the stairs an unworldly, sinister look. Someone behind me whistled through his teeth nervously.
When we finally reached the third floor, an emergency door, crisscrossed by a thick chain, cut us off. I collapsed onto one of the last steps, like most of the group, gasping for breath. The bone-dry air, the heat generated by the napalm, and the dust swirling around us made us desperately thirsty.
With clumsy hands, I unscrewed my canteen and took a couple of long gulps. I passed the canteen to Broto, who’d flopped down next to me, his two-hundred-plus pounds shaking the staircase. The computer geek took a very long drink. I couldn’t take my eyes off his Adam’s apple, bobbing up and down as he gulped down half the canteen. Finally he took a deep breath and handed it back to me, with a loud belch.
“How’re we gonna get that damn door open?” he asked, after a long silence.
“No idea, but I’ll bet Tank has thought of something,” I said, rummaging around in my backpack for a cigarette. Then I remembered I’d left my last pack on the SuperPuma.
“Everybody get back!” One of the legionnaires was unrolling a cable away from a plastic substance that one of his team had stuck around the frame of the door. The cable was connected to a metal box the size of a cigarette pack with a button on top.
“Shit! That’s going to make a lot of noise. Let’s go, pal,” Prit muttered as he pulled Broto to his feet. Our computer whiz had gotten his backpack stuck between two rungs in the staircase. He looked like a huge snail as he struggled to get free. Prit and I jerked him free and got the hell off the landing.
We stood behind the legionnaire with the detonator. When he was sure no one was on the upper floor, he flipped up the lock on the button. I opened my mouth to keep my eardrums from bursting in the explosion, the way I’d been taught back on the island.
Just then machine-gun fire and excited shouts rang out from the bottom of the stairs. The Undead had started up the stairs and the guys in the rear were taking them out. Their position gave them an advantage, but with so little ammo, they couldn’t hold them long.
The same thought must have occurred to the soldier with the detonator. With a flick of his wrist, he pressed the button. A muffled explosion and a cloud of chemical smoke wafted down over us. A large piece of concrete shot over the railing and landed on the crowd of Undead below, but that was as much as we could see.
“Get climbing!” Tank roared. “You guys in front, move your fucking asses!”
Prit and I looked at each other. We’d been the last to get off the staircase so now we were at the front of the line, along with the explosives expert and the sweaty computer guy. The rest had known what was coming and had “allowed” us to take the lead. They got a good laugh as we wrestled Broto to his feet.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we, pal?” I asked as I pulled on the top of my wetsuit.
The Ukrainian gave me a wry smile, as he checked the clip in his HK for the umpteenth time. “Who knows… but stay close, got it?” And with that, he scrambled up the last flight of stairs, ready to enter the building.
Remembering all the dead Tank had left in his wake on previous missions, I climbed the last flight of stairs on Prit’s heels. The door on the landing looked like a giant hand had ripped it off the wall. It lay twisted against the railing where we’d been sitting. A fine rain of concrete and pulverized brick trickled out the holes where the hinges had been.
Prit knelt in the doorway, his HK pointed inside. Panting, I stood next to him, waiting for his next move. The Ukrainian handled situations like this much better than I did.
“It’s darker than a cricket’s ass in there,” he said softly.
“Wait,” I said, turning back. “Broto! Broto! Get your fucking ass up here, dammit!
As he trotted to our position, the computer guy dropped his rifle. Flustered, he stooped to pick it up, but in the process he swatted the legionnaire behind him with his backpack. A stream of curses trailed the poor geek.
“Hey, pal,” I laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Stay calm, okay?” Broto nodded, rolling his eyes, clearly wishing he were anywhere else in the world.
“Got a flashlight in your backpack?” I asked.
“Uhhhh… yeah…” Broto dug around in his backpack and finally pulled out a Polar Torch, like the one I’d had that day a lifetime ago when I had to leave my home in Pontevedra behind, or stick around there and starve.
I shook the flashlight and turned it on, aiming it into the building. The smoke and dust from the explosion hadn’t cleared completely. Millions of little specks danced wildly in the beam I shined in every direction.
Suddenly a loud explosion shook the air. The whole staircase trembled violently, followed by a heart-stopping rip, as if a giant sheet of paper had been torn in two.
“What was that?” I asked, alarmed.
“They must’ve blown up the stairs below us,” Prit replied, glancing over the railing. The rusty step he was on slumped under his feet with a groan, sending up a cloud of rust. He backed away carefully, casting a wary glance at the landing.
“The whole fucking staircase could come down at any time, even without explosives,” he said, dragging our backpacks to the door. “Let’s get out of here while we still can.”
Prit was right. The staircase had been on its last legs before we got there. Now it was at a breaking point. The explosion to cut off the Undead had been the last straw. That old structure could collapse any second from the intense heat of the napalm and the vibrations we made as we climbed up. It was creaking and shuddering; cement dust streamed down all around.