Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End (21 page)

At least I didn’t scream. I was spared the embarrassment of explaining why I’d screamed like a girl over a beam of light bouncing off a piece of glass. What I’d taken for a huge eye was just the door reflector of a van parked partway up on the sidewalk.

The rest of the group hung back in the doorway, covering both ends of the street while I nervously approached that huge hunk of metal. Halfway there, I realized I was completely unarmed. If any undead were inside that vehicle, my health would be seriously compromised in seconds.

It was a yellow armored van with
SEGURITSA
written in bold black letters on the side. The passenger door was open. The reflector on the door lit up when you opened the door. I’d mistaken that for an enormous eye. I definitely needed a huge bag of pot. And a vacation in the Caribbean.

I inched up to the van, the way Lucullus approached a dog, ready to run my ass off. It was a huge armored van and must’ve weighed several tons. I placed my hand on the hood. It was
completely cold. It must have been sitting there for weeks, even months. I stuck my head into the driver’s side. Empty. I eased into the plush leather seat and tried to think.

That van wasn’t parked. It’d been abandoned on the sidewalk. The driver must have been in a hurry. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. The keys were still in the ignition. With a shudder, I pictured a couple of security guards in the backseat, turned into undead, closed up in that small space, their rotten teeth pressed to the dividing window that they smashed as they reached out to grab me...

I turned around, bracing myself, but the backseat was empty and dark. Shining the flashlight around, I saw bags with the company logo, covered in dust, tossed on the floor. I sighed with relief. False alarm. There was no one in the van but me. Those bags were filled with the euros people had coveted not long ago, before those monsters came on the scene.

On the floor was a folder on a metal clipboard. I picked it up and glanced over it. The guy’s last route was dated late January. Based on the number of bags and the markings on the side, the driver was near the end of his route when he saw something that made him shit bricks and race back to base. I could think of no other reason to leave behind a van loaded with millions of euros, its door ajar, in the middle of the street and the keys still in the ignition. I didn’t have to be psychic to know what that poor man saw. Where was he now...and in what condition?

That van just might get us across the city. There was plenty of room for all seven of us. It was armored, sturdy, and weighed enough to keep a pack of those things from overturning it. The more I thought about it, the more perfect it got. But one look at the ignition quashed my enthusiasm. The key was in the on position, but the motor was off. The driver had stopped the car so abruptly he’d left off the motor running. It idled for weeks until it
ran out of gas and died. I had the perfect vehicle to cross a city of the undead, but not a drop of gasoline. And I didn’t know what shape the battery was in.

Just then, Kritzinev and Pritchenko stuck their heads inside the van, alarmed that I was taking so long. I almost fainted from shock. When I told them the van’s possibilities, they smiled.

False alarm. Those young guys out there have just been on edge a bit.

The situation couldn’t be any bleaker. We’re trapped in this shithole of a store, exhausted and hounded by those creatures. I tried to fly under the radar, but Kritzinev whispered a couple of times that this was all my fault and gave me looks that weren’t exactly reassuring. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When we determined that the van was in good working condition, we got ready to set out. The more we thought about it, the better that vehicle sounded. An armored van is as close to a tank as you can get in civilian life. We had one parked right in front of us, with the keys in it, beckoning to us to get in. The problem was that its gas tank was dry as dried tuna. After idling for God knows how long, it was completely empty.

We came up with a solution, thanks to Shafiq, one of the Pakistanis. He’s a wiry guy, very dark skinned. His monstrous black mustache makes Viktor Pritchenko’s mustache look puny.

When we discovered the tank was dry, Kritzinev muttered a string of words in Urdu to this kid. While another Pakistani went back to the Seguritsa parking lot, Shafiq shrugged off all his gear and stripped down to his shirt and shorts with the ever-present
Kalashnikov strapped across his back. Viktor and I were sitting with our backs against the wall, slightly amazed at the scene. The remaining Pakistanis kept an eye on the street through the half-open metal gate, watching for any unwanted visitors.

After a few minutes, the guy returned from the lot with a long piece of rubber tubing cut from a hose. Taking the rubber tube and a five-liter plastic jug, Shafiq headed back to the Zodiac, not saying another word. He untied the boat and paddled quietly toward the Citroën depot about fifty yards from us, disappearing into the black night. We could only hear his rhythmic paddling in the distance.

As I sat there, dying to light a cigarette, I could imagine the scene: Shafiq crouched down, running up and down the rows of cars ready to be shipped to the four corners of the world, the keys in the ignition and a couple of liters of gas in the tank, just enough to drive on to the boat and then the tractor-trailer. A trip they’d never make.

The plan was simple. He’d empty that gas into the jug and then fill the van’s tank. Since the jug only held five liters, he’d have to make at least a dozen trips. But we didn’t have any other containers, except for our canteens. The job would take a while. At least we’d have a vehicle to safely cross the city in. We wouldn’t have to walk. And we’d be setting out in daylight. Call me a coward, but I’d rather see what’s around me than head into a dark ghost town full of mutants.

As I settled down for a break, thousands of paranoid thoughts raced through my mind. What if he mixed regular gas with diesel? What if the cars only used regular gas? (The van, of course, took diesel.) What if the cars had already been cannibalized by the Safe Haven survivors? What if a former employee of the factory, now changed into the living dead, was wandering around? What if it snuck up on Shafiq as he worked? More and more fatal
errors went through my mind. With each new terrifying thought, I felt less and less confident and sweated more and more.

All my fears were unfounded. Shafiq returned with a jug of amber diesel gas, wearing a huge smile. He didn’t make a mistake. He only got fuel from the diesel vans. Yeah, someone had already emptied a lot of the vehicles, but there were dozens more that still had gas. He’d have to go a little farther, but that was no problem. The area was empty.

I relaxed and leaned back against the wall as Shafiq set off again. It was strange. For those guys, being in complete darkness, an assault weapon in their hands, risking their lives, was the most normal thing in the world. It was their daily bread.

It occurred to me that the epidemic had hit the more advanced countries harder. In Spain only the army, security forces, and a few thousand people had guns. That’s how advanced Europe used to impose order, law, and comfort. In places like Pakistan, Liberia, Somalia, or God knows where else, even a child at his mother’s tit had a gun hanging around his neck or something more serious at the front door. There, you shoot first and ask questions later. There, having no electricity or running water has never been a problem.

Now the most advanced parts of the civilized world are defenseless, devoured by their own citizens. Maybe the undead haven’t had as much luck in more remote, primitive, isolated areas. Maybe they haven’t even made it that far.

It’s ironic. The poorest, most underdeveloped areas of the world are now humanity’s last hope. The rest of the world is one huge hell where a handful of scattered survivors are trying to escape.

The sun was slowly rising. The tank was filled just as the sun peeked over the horizon. Poor Shafiq, drenched and exhausted, was starting to stumble with the jug. Another Pakistani, Usman, ventured to the end of the street, where a Volkswagen Beetle with
two flat tires was parked. He looked around the corner and came back to inform us that a few of those mutants were walking back and forth about ten yards away, unaware of our presence. The guy looked terrified. That was the first time he’d seen those things up close. I knew only too well that it was not a pretty sight. Hard to believe I was the veteran of the group.

When the tank was full, we got in the van. I was surprised when they gave me the driver’s seat. I guessed I was supposed to lead them in everything. With a sigh I got in and closed the heavy door. Kritzinev, Shafiq, and I crammed into the front seat, while Pritchenko and three other Pakistanis climbed into the compartment in back. I adjusted the seat and mirror and turned the key.

The starter didn’t even turn over. I tried again. Nothing. And again. Nothing. Kritzinev’s face told the whole story. Mine too. I leaned back, my mind racing. What the hell was wrong? My eyes swept across the dashboard for a clue. I looked down at the dashboard. The light indicator was on. Shit. The driver had not only left the motor running, he’d left the lights on too. They’d been on for weeks. The battery was dead.

I imagined the scene: the yellow flashing headlights all that lit up that dark street. The battery dying as hundreds of undead surrounded that van, abandoned on the road to the Safe Haven.

I had to think of something. I focused on the Volkswagen at the end of the street. It was less than three years old, so its battery was probably in good condition. I considered telling Kritzinev to send Shafiq back to the Citroën parking lot to look for a brand-new battery, but I was sure he’d say no. The sun was getting higher, we were behind schedule, and the Ukrainian was getting impatient. Besides, in daylight the Citroën parking lot might be too dangerous. And he wouldn’t want to waste any more time dragging the van next to the Volkswagen. There was nothing to do except get the battery out of that little round German car.

I turned to Viktor and whispered through the little window in the barrier what to tell Kritzinev. After a quick exchange in Russian, Viktor turned pale and looked at me with despair. I understood instantly. Kritzinev had ordered him to get the battery.

He quickly corrected me. He’d ordered both of us to go. Shit.

We got out of the van, amid the Pakistanis’ mocking jokes. Almost tiptoeing, we approached the Volkswagen; its lemon-yellow color was like a beacon amid all the dirt on the deserted port. It was parked at the very end of the street, near the corner of the wall. Cautiously poking my head around the corner, I saw half a dozen of those things standing at different spots along the road, as if in a trance. Who knows, maybe they were sleeping. One thing was clear—they were close. Too close.

Viktor was struggling with the handle of the Volkswagen. It was locked. Not everything would be easy, after all. Wrapping his fist in his thick peacoat, Pritchenko drew his arm back and, before I could stop him, slammed his fist against the driver’s window.

The window vaporized into a million little pieces, making an outrageously loud noise that set the undead in motion. We had to hurry. With the agility of a car thief, the little Ukrainian slipped into the car and popped the hood. I propped the hood up, one eye on the street corner, waiting for those monsters to show up.

A bunch of wires stuck out of the battery. I jiggled the battery, but the clamps slipped again and again in my sweaty fingers. Pritchenko looked at me expectantly as the Pakistanis knelt on the ground beside the van, calmly watching the show.

When the copper connector slipped out of my hands again, Viktor Pritchenko lost his patience. He gently pushed me aside and leaned over the battery, grabbed hold of the connectors, and yanked them off. Then he tugged on the handle of the battery and
pulled it out of the engine well. He smiled and muttered something that sounded like “Better fix things old Soviet way.”

Just in time. Around the corner appeared the first undead, rocking along, drawn by all the noise we were making. It was a middle-aged woman, covered in blood. Her thick torso was bare, exposing one of her drooping breasts. Where the other breast should’ve been, there was only a gaping, bloody hole.

Pritchenko and I stood there paralyzed, staring for a few seconds. No matter how disgusting they are, a walking corpse inevitably awakens a morbid fascination in a person, a fascination as dangerous as a swaying cobra. I’ve written many times in this journal that those monsters are fast, damn fast, even if they are crawling. They’d be on us in less than twenty seconds.

The next guy was wearing just a bloody, dirty hospital gown tied in the back. The wind ruffled his very long hair. From his arm hung what had once been a drip. When he saw us, he stopped, stretched his hands toward us, and uttered a guttural, horrifying growl.

That broke the spell for me. Pritchenko still stood there, bewildered, leaning on the hood of the car with the battery in one hand, his jaw hanging open. We had to get out of there before they grabbed us, or we were done for. I grabbed his arm and whispered louder and louder, “Run...run...RUN...
RUN
!” We turned and ran like hell to the van. Those things were so close you could almost feel their breath.

The three hundred yards to the van looked like a hundred miles. A wetsuit is not exactly the most comfortable thing when you’re running like a deer. Two hundred yards. Pritchenko was like a soul running from the devil. Even his mustache was bristling with horror. It was a comfort to know I wasn’t the only one who was screwed. A hundred yards. I could see Kritzinev’s and the Pakistanis’ faces. My heart dropped when I saw them raise
their guns and aim at us. For a second I thought we’d be executed on the spot. Fifty yards. We were almost there when they started shooting.

The sound of five AK-47s firing all at once is deafening, especially when it’s right next to your ears and you’ve never heard it before. I collapsed, panting, at the foot of the Pakistanis, next to a contorted Pritchenko, watching a barrage of bullets rain down on those undead. I watched with horror as the men shot into their bodies. I knew that didn’t faze them. I stood up like a crazy man and shouted to them to shoot them in the fucking head, but I realized I was shouting in Spanish, and those Pakistanis from hell didn’t understand me for shit.