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.
ENTRY 64
March 10, 2:35 a.m.
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.
ENTRY 65
March 10, 2:50 a.m.
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.
ENTRY 66
March 10, 4:30 a.m.
About twenty minutes ago, Waqar started death rattles. The gruesome wound on his arm is still oozing smelly pus. His insides must be getting worse. A reddish fluid is flowing from his intestines; he lost control of his bowels a long time ago. His panting sounds like a steam freight train climbing a mountain. He stops breathing suddenly, then gasps for breath as if he were drowning. His agony has put everyone on edge.
I take some comfort in knowing that he lost consciousness a couple of hours. If he were awake, his suffering would be horrible.
I feel absolutely helpless. A human life is ending before my very eyes, and I have no drugs or knowledge to prevent it.
Usman and Shafiq recite suras monotonously, clutching a Muslim rosary. If this is hard for me, it must be terrifying for them. They’re thousands of miles from home, watching a friend die. I saw disgust in their eyes when Waqar started shitting blood.
Violent death isn’t a pretty sight like in the movies, where the hero falls with a smile and some last words for his beloved. Death is terrible, dirty, and very painful, if you’ve got what Waqar has. Those guys don’t seem to know that. I didn’t know that either a few weeks ago, but I saw a few dead on the way here, and that hardened me.
Viktor and I have a very serious problem. We know, or suspect, what will happen to Waqar in a few hours, but we’ve decided not to do anything for now. In the first place, we’re unarmed. That severely limits our possibilities. In the second place, neither Usman or Shafiq will shoot Waqar. Not surprising. He’s their friend, after all.
I laughed bitterly at that. The group from the Safe Haven must’ve felt the same way when they left that poor devil locked in the bathroom. Now, thanks to their “love for their fellow man,” we have this freak show on our hands.
Kritzinev is totally drunk and out of it. He keeps mumbling incoherently in Russian. From time to time, he laughs, doubled over with tears running down his cheeks into his beard, as if someone’s told him an extremely funny joke. At one point he screamed like a madman at the gate, where the undead are still pounding away outside. He pulled out his gun, but Pritchenko leaped up like a deer and grabbed it before he could shoot. Kritzinev glared at him and then collapsed, unconscious, drunk as a skunk. Just as well.
Now we have a weapon. Neither Usman or Shafiq made any move to take it away. That’s something.
The undead are still out there, mercilessly beating against the door. It’s an awful, grating sound. I think their numbers are growing, but I have no way of knowing for sure.
Waqar’s death rattles are becoming more frequent, one every ten minutes or so. The end is near.
ENTRY 67
March 10, 7:58 a.m.
The sun is coming up. Faint rays of sunlight filter through slits in the metal gate. From time to time those things’ shadows block the light as they wander back and forth. The store smells of blood, shit, sweat, fear, and pus. Waqar died ten minutes ago in terrible agony. Usman and Shafiq are reciting a funeral oration that sounds like a mantra. They keep watch on the body with one hand on their AK-47s and the other on a Koran. Pritchenko and I are keeping watch, too, but for other reasons.
Waqar will rise again any time now. Or something that looks like Waqar. There are no words to define our anguish as we wait. My hand is trembling as I write this in my journal. It looks like a six-year-old’s handwriting.
Viktor and I are breathing fast, and our hearts are racing. We know we’ll see one of those things born from a comrade-in-arms, if not a friend. When he returns, he’ll be the predator, and we’ll be his prey.
Waqar’s agony has been horrific. Two hours after he lost consciousness, small purple spots, the size of a dime, spread all over his body. Waqar’s circulatory system failed. It couldn’t send oxygen throughout his body, so he slowly suffocated.
Three hours later, something creepy happened. Delicate capillaries and veins in Waqar’s circulatory system became visible on his skin. You could trace them perfectly, like in a med-school drawing. I had no way to measure his blood pressure, but I’d estimate he was running hot. His heartbeat was wildly irregular. Sweat poured off him, but I wouldn’t let Pritchenko dry him off without gloves. If the Ebola virus is transmitted by contact with sweat, this disease must be too.
The sad truth is, nobody knows shit about this disease. In another time, in a better world, this kid would’ve been fighting for his life, quarantined in an ICU, monitored by a regiment of doctors and nurses. Now he lay there in agony, in his own excrement, on the floor of a looted, dirty store in the middle of a city abandoned and dead. Like all of Europe and the whole fucking world.
At three and a half hours, his veins became visible; the vena cava and aorta were like thick cables. Excessive blood pressure burst the small, delicate veins under his skin. Waqar was starting to look an awful lot like the things that have tormented me for months. By now, we all knew, even the Pakistanis, that Waqar was becoming one of them.
After four and a half hours, he lost consciousness and started bleeding profusely from the mouth, ears, and eyes, and I suspect the anus and penis (no one had the courage to check). Except for Kritzinev, who was passed out, we watched that t
errifying spectacle, frozen, not saying a word, too scared to react. In the background, a chorus of groans and thumps against the increasingly weakened gate greeted the birth of a new member of the legion of the undead.
At four hours and forty minutes, Waqar shook with spasms that looked like an epileptic seizure. His body arched to incredible heights, and his limbs flailed away on the ground. His head pounded rhythmically against the concrete. We couldn’t do anything. With each contraction, with each jolt of his limbs, he sprayed blood mixed with pus and excrement into the four corners of the room. Unless I’m mistaken, if even a drop of that goo came in contact with an exposed part of the body, it could be lethal.
I ordered Pritchenko and the Pakistanis to stay back in the front room while I used an old Plexiglas display case as a shield and observed this horrible death. I don’t know if Waqar could feel anything, but I prayed his mind was long gone.
Four hours and fifty-five minutes into the coma, Waqar’s body lay still. Even after ten minutes, I didn’t dare leave the precarious protection of Plexiglas to approach the still-warm body. He didn’t seem to be breathing. I wasn’t sure. I decided to get a little closer, just six feet. The body lay motionless in a pool of red liquid. The smell was nauseating. I squatted down beside the body to see if he was breathing (not for all the gold in the world would I have knelt in the middle of that mess). He wasn’t.
Suddenly, Waqar’s gummy, bloodshot eyes flew open. He opened his mouth and let out a deep death rattle. I got the fright of my life. With panicked scream, I jumped up, took a couple of steps back, and fell on my ass on the concrete. I was terrified that Waqar’s body would get up.
But nothing happened. As I tried to calm the runaway beat of my heart, Viktor, Shafiq, and Usman peered through the door, drawn by my unmanly shriek. I didn’t feel one bit ashamed. Anyone in my place would’ve been scared shitless.
Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End az-1 Page 18
