Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End (23 page)

The van stayed in that position for just a few seconds. It felt like time stopped. Slowly, it started to tilt backward under the enormous weight of its armor plating. I tried to reach over a dazed Shafiq to open the door, but it was too late. With a creak and the gut-wrenching sound of scraping metal, the van slid into the void.

The impact was mind-blowing. The van fell on its rear end from a height of twenty feet. When it hit the road, there was a massive crash of crushed metal and broken glass. It slid sideways, then came to rest on its roof in a thick cloud of smoke and dust.

For a couple of minutes, I hung upside down, strapped to my seat, too stunned to react. Colored lights flashed before my eyes, and there was a ringing in my ears. When I finally tried to move, I felt a heart-stopping whiplash. We’d fallen backward, and the rear of the van had absorbed most of the impact, but the front of the van had taken a brutal hit too. The seat where Kritzinev and I sat had come loose and been thrown against the bulkhead. The iron bolts that anchored it had absorbed most of the impact and been twisted beyond recognition, so he and I were miraculously unhurt.

I couldn’t say the same of the other occupants of the van. Shafiq was unconscious. His head had flopped to one side, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. In the rear compartment someone was screaming in pain. Along with the urine smell there was now the stench of vomit and blood. I had to get out of there.

Slowly moving my arm, I felt for the end of my belt and released the latch. Then I crawled over the unconscious body of Shafiq and pressed the button to open the door. When the lock on the driver’s-side door clicked open, I felt a profound relief. I couldn’t imagine how I’d have forced open that armored door, which was seriously dented by the crash. I placed both hands on the door frame, got some momentum going, and pulled myself out of the vehicle. I stood on top of the wreck to take a look around.

It was a disturbing scene. The van had folded like an accordion in back, reducing its length by about a third. The right front wheel was missing, and fuel was leaking out in a growing puddle. The road we’d fallen on to didn’t intersect the one we’d come from or any other road I could see. It was deserted, but it wouldn’t be for long.

Gravel fell next to me, pinging against the van. I looked up and saw a half dozen undead leaning into the gap we’d left in our wake. They seemed stymied by our being on a different level from them. For now, they weren’t jumping down, but I didn’t know how long that would last. We had to hurry.

Kritzinev was dragging himself out of the van, his eyes clouded over, a deep gash on his right arm. A guy his age and physical condition wasn’t up for this. For a second I felt sorry for him. Then I remembered the smug look on that bastard’s face when the sailor almost strangled Lucullus.

I let him struggle out of the cab on his own. I went to the side door and pulled the handle, praying it would open. The handle
turned, and I pulled the heavy door open. The sight was terrifying. One of the Pakistanis lay on the floor, his neck at an unnatural angle; blood poured from a deep gash in his forehead. He was dead. His brains were splattered against the barrier window. That explains the vomit I smelled.

Another Pakistani, Usman, was holding his arm, screaming like a madman. It had broken in the crash, and splintered bone protruded through his skin. It looked like he had another joint between his elbow and wrist. That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch. The last Pakistani, Waqar, was still strapped in his seat. He didn’t look hurt but his mouth was bleeding profusely.

Pritchenko was struggling to get out of his seat. That lucky SOB. Several money bags had cushioned his fall. The little Ukrainian was floating in a sea of fifty-euro bills, making that the most expensive airbag in the world. He just had a bump the size of an egg in the middle of his forehead. He gave me a big, toothy smile. Now he really did look like a cartoon character.

There was no time to stop and admire the scenery. We got Usman and Waqar out of the backseat. Viktor then helped a still dazed Shafiq out of the driver’s seat.

After a couple of minutes we headed downtown. Pritchenko carried the dead Pakistani’s AK-47, and I carried the gun belonging to the guy with the broken arm. But we were just porters. Kritzinev had ordered them to take out the ammo.

The light was fading. The place would be packed with undead as soon as they found a way to reach the road. After we’d walked for ten minutes in the heart of that ghost town, we realized we couldn’t go any farther. Waqar’s mouth was still bleeding, and he was getting weaker. The rest of us were dead tired and stiff. We needed some rest. Kritzinev was the first to spot the little shop.

It was a small neighborhood grocery store. Someone had rammed a massive armored personnel carrier into the door and
then looted it. Piled up around the store were dozens of rotting corpses, all shot in the head. Someone had held those monsters at bay while a team from the Safe Haven searched for food.

It looked like a good place to spend the night.

The light was growing dimmer, and rain was starting to fall. As the rain splattered, soaking everything, we went cautiously through the gaping hole, single file.

My heart sank when I saw the inside of the store. The looting party had thoroughly trashed the place. Empty shelves and torn boxes were tossed everywhere, and broken display cases lay on the floor. It was a deeply disturbing sight.

I took a closer look and noticed some telling details. The looting was systematic, yes, but rushed—not surprising when you consider how quickly those creatures gathered when they located a human being. Packets of noodle soup had been torn open in the shuffle; the entire floor was covered with little stars. I don’t know why, but that image jolted me like an electric shock, more than any other atrocity I’d witnessed.

I collapsed against a wall, exhausted, eyeing all that pasta on the floor. I remembered how my mother and I had fixed soup on rainy days. That memory was intense and painful. I’d stored away that anguish, but now it flooded me in an unstoppable torrent. I mourned silently, big tears rolling down my face.

I hadn’t heard from my family for months. That was something I didn’t want to face. Now an overwhelming pain and emptiness filled me as I wondered what had become of my parents and my sister. I tried to imagine where they might be, wondering if their shelter had been safe enough. But this chaos was too powerful. No coping mechanism could have held up more than five minutes in all this madness.

They could be anywhere. They could be living; more likely they were dead. God forbid they were one of those things
wandering around. I shuddered at the thought. If I came face-to-face with them, I don’t think I could defend myself. Not against them.

All the pain I’d accumulated over the last few weeks was unleashed. One of the Pakistanis sneered at me when he noticed I was crying. He must’ve thought I was weak or scared. I didn’t really give a damn what he thought. All I wanted was to get out of there alive and get my cat and my boat back. Then maybe I’d find a way to contact my family. In this apocalypse, I’ve learned that your plans have to be short term. The pain’ll always be with me, not just now but in the weeks to come. It can’t get any worse. Surely it will fade, like an ember. That’s enough talk about sad things.

We braced the battered iron gate with some display cases and shelves, and settled down to spend the night. I lit a cigarette. Pritchenko fixed dinner on a kerosene stove while Shafiq and Kritzinev set Usman’s broken arm.

Shafiq grabbed his countryman from behind, and Kritzinev stuck a wooden stick in his mouth. Then he grabbed the guy’s broken arm at both ends. With a sudden flick of his wrist, he set the bone in place with a crunch that made my hair stand on end. Usman’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted. The rest was easy. They improvised a splint with a metal bar and a roll of bandages. It would hold the arm in place, but it wasn’t the right way to set a fracture. If a doctor had gotten a look at that botched job, he’d have been hopping mad. That kid’s arm was going to be fucked up forever.

In this new world, where the Health Department no longer exists, we’re at the mercy of accidents, just like the cavemen were.

Waqar’s injury had gotten worse. The guy was really pale, and he was coughing up blood. The severe pain in his abdomen was constant, and he was getting weaker. He must’ve had an internal
injury. Probably his spleen. That was very bad, considering there was no hospital nearby. We didn’t know what to do. Even if we did, we had no way to help him. Only a properly equipped hospital with a trained staff could help him. Unfortunately, in the entire continent, there wasn’t much of either.

The smell of a stew soon filled the room. We left Usman, unconscious, lying by the gas lamp. Propped up against the wall, Waqar refused to eat. Kritzinev, Shafiq, Pritchenko, and I dug into that warmed-up stew and listened to the raging storm outside.

The meal was sad and somber. In general, our “mission” was in the crapper. We didn’t know where we were, we had no transportation, we’d lost a member of the team, and two were wounded, one seriously. It was a joke.

Just then Waqar struggled to his feet and headed for the bathroom at the back of the room. That guy was looking worse by the minute. I felt sorry for him, so I got up to help him, since he was having a hard time moving. He was just a couple of yards ahead of me. On the bathroom door hung a colorful poster of a bunch of fat guys in nineteenth-century clothing. They looked like they needed to take a piss and were frantically banging on the bathroom door. Below that was written “Wait Your Turn” in huge red letters. The owner of the shop had a real sense of humor.

We’d made a huge mistake when we first arrived—no one had checked the bathroom. Waqar reached out and turned the doorknob. As he did, the door slammed open. Waqar fell on the floor with a cry of pain as that thing hovered over him.

I reacted instinctively. Waqar was lying on his back, trying to pull away from that monster that was biting the air, going for his throat. He was a young guy, in army fatigues that were too big for him and hair too long to be a soldier. A volunteer from the Safe Haven, I speculated as I sprinted the two yards between us. He’d gotten infected somehow so they left him locked in a bathroom.
They couldn’t shoot an old friend; they weren’t that cold-blooded. They figured no one would open that bathroom door again.

I grabbed that thing by the back of his jacket and struggled to pull him a few inches away from Waqar. The undead are like junkies all strung out on cocaine or pills. It’s very hard, if not impossible, for one person to overpower them. Not to mention that if they bite you, you’re screwed. Waqar took advantage of this break to roll over and escape from his clutches.

In the process, I lost my grip and fell backward, giving that monster a chance to stand up and turn around. The son of a bitch saw me lying helpless on the ground and gave a grunt of triumph before pouncing on me.

Shots rang out, and the guy’s head exploded like a ripe watermelon, leaving a strange pattern of brains on the wall. His knees buckled, and he fell in slow motion.

I turned my head toward the door. There stood Sharif, the barrel of his AK-47 still smoking, looking at me with more respect than he had just a few minutes earlier. He’d saved my life. But the gunfire doomed us. They knew we were there.

Something’s horribly wrong with Waqar. I’m no doctor, but I swear that the internal bleeding, or whatever he has, is getting worse. Blood isn’t seeping out of his mouth anymore, but he’s deathly pale. His groin is very hard, and his skin is as taut as a drum. He also has a huge bruise on his chest, a deep scratch on his right arm, and a high fever. All we have is some Tylenol and a box of Clamoxil, a medium-strength antibiotic. We have absolutely nothing to relieve the pain. I gave him a couple of Tylenol
and forced him to drink lots of water. Pritchenko puts wet compresses on his forehead every ten minutes. We’re the only ones caring for this poor kid.

Kritzinev found a case of wine, so now he’s completely out of it. The other two Pakistanis are praying and looking at us with anguished faces. Beyond that, they’re no help. From time to time they say something to us in Urdu, but neither Viktor nor I understand them. I feel absolutely powerless.

Outside there are plenty of monsters. We don’t know exactly how many, because the shutters—which fortunately are holding up well—are down. But we can hear their pounding and their enraged roars. We haven’t found any other way out. We’re trapped.

I’m worried about Waqar. He’ll kick the bucket in a few hours if we don’t get him out of here. It baffles me how completely irresponsible these people are. Coming to shore without even a basic first-aid kit, just a few odds and ends of medications! Our provisions are running low, too, I noticed when I rifled through the Pakistanis’ backpacks.

I guess they thought this would be a walk in the park: reach the VNT office, grab the package, and get back on board. Idiots! This is hell on earth, and in hell, any problem can become a tragedy in a heartbeat.

Like now.

It’s 2:46 a.m. I’m so exhausted I can’t sleep. Waqar’s starting to rave.

I don’t like this one bit. Waqar’s semiconscious. He’s still raving in Urdu, but from time to time, he goes into a kind of trance and
has seizures. The wound on his arm is swollen and red and is leaking a clear liquid with a repulsive smell. When I tried to wipe it with gauze, he came to, screaming in pain, blindly pulling away from me. That reaction isn’t normal for someone with internal bleeding. I studied the wound more carefully. It’s more like a deep scratch on the inside of his arm, about eight inches long.

I can’t help thinking the worst. I don’t remember seeing the scratch when we pulled him out of the van. He must have gotten it later, and I can only think of one way. I looked up from the wound. Viktor’s blue eyes were wide, watching me intently. I didn’t have to say anything. He knows what I’m thinking. It’s just a scratch...could it be enough to change him? Waqar passed out again.