Marcelo suddenly fired his machine gun over our heads. Terrified, Prit, Broto, and I threw ourselves to the ground; lead flew just inches over our heads like buzzing flies. Only Tank and the sergeant remained standing, unflinching. When I dared to look up, the Argentine was glaring down at us, his eyes bright with anger.
“Sorry, folks, we don’t have time to air our dirty laundry. The Undead are headed this way and we’re getting the hell outta here!” His face red with rage, Marcelo waved Pauli into the tank. As she climbed aboard, she looked away for a split second.
That was enough for Tank.
The German pulled a small pistol out of his boot and shot the lame soldier as he struggled up the side of the tank. The soldier flew backward and crashed to the ground. A red stain spread across on his chest. With the measured precision of a professional gunman, Tank didn’t miss a beat. He turned to Marcelo and fired twice. The first bullet hit the Argentine’s arm and he let out a scream of pain; the second bullet just barely missed his head. He took cover behind the metal plate that shielded the turret. Tank advanced steadily, still firing, trying to climb into the vehicle, his bullets crashing against the metal shield.
Just then, Pauli popped out of the hatch like a jack-in-the-box, her face contorted with hate, and fired four bullets into the German commander’s chest.
For a second, Tank gasped like a fish out of water. He locked eyes with Pauli, just inches from her face. He fell to the ground, with a look of disbelief that he, Kurt Tank, the great survivor, had been gunned down—by one of his own soldiers.
Other shots rang out on our left. Marcelo, his right arm bleeding, opened fire on the sergeant, who was clawing up the hatch of the tank. The Argentine’s bullets shook the sergeant like a rag doll and he collapsed in the dust next to the German.
For a split second, the silence was so thick I thought I’d drown. I watched with horror as Marcelo aimed his MG3 at us. Death danced in his eyes.
We’re dead. It’s over.
“Hold your fire!” Pauli screamed. “Don’t shoot, Marcelo! Wait a fucking minute!”
The Argentine’s expression didn’t change. We didn’t dare move a muscle, as we lay there, unarmed and defenseless. At that distance, his MG3 would cut us in two before we made the slightest movement. Marcelo finally exhaled and relaxed his trigger finger. I nearly died of relief.
“Listen carefully! You civilians shouldn’t be caught in the middle of all this!” Pauli said, standing very erect in the hatch. “But these are difficult times in the struggle for freedom and the future of the human race. They require sacrifices from everyone. Including you.”
This is amazing! She’s giving a fucking speech! From Prit’s expression, I knew he was thinking the same thing, but we were smart enough to keep our mouths shut.
“It’s time to take a stand! Illegitimate republic or legitimate government? Are you with us or against us? The Airbus at Cuatro Vientos Airport should be in the hands of loyalists by now. If you support the true prime minister of Spain and King Froilan, there’s a place for you on that plane. Otherwise, you’re on your own!”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d heard about the political tensions on the islands, but I never dreamed I’d get caught in the middle of a civil war. I wasn’t even clear which side was right and which was wrong—or if there was a right or a wrong side.
Pauli was waiting for an answer, so I stood up and said, “My wife’s in Tenerife and so’s my friend, Sister Cecilia, who’s seriously ill. Those medicines could mean the difference between life and death for her. I can’t abandon them. I’ve gotta get back to them. I’m not going to Gran Canaria.”
“What about you, Pretyinko? That terrorist government means to throw you in jail. Here’s your chance to be free and serve the representatives of the people.”
“It’s Pritchenko, ma’am,” the Ukrainian replied, regally. “True, they want to put me in jail. But both islands’re full of spies. In Tenerife, if they found out we’d collaborated with you, they’d make our friends pay. What’s worse, they’d say we ran away like cowards. Viktor Pritchenko has never run away, and I’m not going to start now.”
The Slavic peasant’s code of honor, I thought, looking down to hide a smile.
“Besides,” Prit said, throwing his arm over my shoulder, his terrifying, blue eyes boring into Pauli. “I never leave a friend behind. If he stays, I stay. We’re a team. Comrades, him and me. That’s how it’s been and how it’ll always be. Kapish?”
Pauli studied us for a moment with both contempt and amazement. She shook off her thoughts, then turned to Broto, standing next to us, his hair caked with dirt and dust.
“What about you, Broto? Are you coming or staying?”
David turned and studied us for a few seconds. Then he swallowed, coughed loudly, and bent down to pick up Tank’s pistol, which was lying on the ground at his feet.
“Don’t get me wrong, you’ve been fucking great to me. You really helped me out. But all that’s waiting for me in Tenerife is a jail cell. On Gran Canaria, I got nothing to lose and everything to gain. I’m going with them. Sorry, pals.”
“Okay, kid. No hard feelings,” Prit said, disappointment in his voice.
“Enough with the speeches!” Marcelo’s voice boomed. “Let’s go! You two, hand your backpacks to Broto. Get a move on, tenderfoot.”
We did as we were told, and Broto loaded our backpacks into the hatch. Marcelo kept his MG3 trained on us and didn’t take his eye off us.
“Hold on, Marcelo!” Pauli blurted out. She jumped off the Centaur and raced over to the other tank sitting just a few feet away. She raised the hood, leaned over the engine, took out her knife. She cut out a bunch of wires, then stuck them in her pocket.
“Nothing personal. We don’t want you following us… not for a while anyway.”
“This is cold-blooded murder,” I stammered. “Without that tank, we’re dead. You know that as well as we do.”
“Not true,” she replied, as she slipped back into the Centaur. “I’m sure somewhere in this shit hole there’re spare battery cables. But by the time you get that heap fixed—if you get it fixed—we’ll be flying toward Gran Canaria.”
“We don’t have any weapons!” Prit protested.
“Not my problem. You made your choice,” Pauli recited in a singsong tone. “Hey! Don’t say I never gave you anything.” With that, she threw the Ukrainian’s combat knife at his feet, then closed the hatch and drove away in a cloud of black smoke. We watched as it disappeared around the corner. The sound of its engine rang in our ears over the deathly silence of Madrid.
45
MADRID
A fine rain started to fall as the Centaur disappeared in the distance. The pinging grew louder as big raindrops hit the dusty pavement, but I didn’t notice. We were alone, unarmed, with no transportation, in a huge, deserted city infested with Undead. A despairing moan escaped my throat.
“Cheer up,” the Ukrainian said, patting me on the back. “It could be worse.”
“Oh yeah? How? How it could be worse?”
“Calm down,” Prit said as he picked up his knife. “We’ve gotten out of tighter spots, right? Don’t worry. We’ll get out of this mess, too. All we gotta do is start that thing. Now, think. Where can we get some battery cables before things get ugly around here?”
Just then I heard a groan behind me that made my hair stand on end. I braced myself, looking around for the Undead, but there were none in sight. I heard the moan again. Confused, I looked down and saw the sergeant’s hand move feebly.
“Prit! He’s alive!”
He had four bullet holes in his chest, but he was still alive. When I grabbed his hand, he looked up at me. He had a hard time focusing on my face and when he tried to speak, all that came out of his mouth was bloody foam.
“Take it easy, friend,” I said. His nametag read Jonás Fernández. “Listen Sergeant, keep your eyes on me, okay? Come on! Stay with me, Jonás. Prit’ll get the Centaur started, then w
e’ll get the hell outta here.”
“Shit!” Prit bellowed in a fury. “That bitch ripped out the battery cables! Even if we find a replacement, I can’t splice it without tools. This heap won’t start without a battery! Son of a bitch!”
The blood drained from my face. The Undead could show up at any moment.
“Prit.” I pushed a lock of rain-soaked hair out of my face and tried to keep the fear out of my voice. “This man’ll die unless he gets medical attention right away and we’re not going to be much better off if you don’t think of something, dammit!”
“There’s nothing we can do!” Prit said, pounding his fist on the side of the Centaur. “Without a battery we’re dead!”
The Ukrainian straightened up and stared at me. “We’ve got to think of a way out, fast! Maybe if we take that wide street… La Castellana. Or maybe the subway tunnels.” The Ukrainian’s mind was racing.
“Prit.” I pointed to the wounded sergeant. “What the fuck do we do with him?”
As an answer, Prit patted his knife. We couldn’t take him with us if we had to make a run for it, but we couldn’t leave him either. Helpless. A tasty snack for those bastards.
I took a deep breath, trying to muster up my courage. I could justify shooting an Undead monster but not taking a human life.
“Prit…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. Just then Sergeant Fernández weakly lifted his arm, trying to get our attention.
“Back… back… up…” Then he choked as a fountain of dark red blood gushed out the corner of his mouth.
“Sergeant, take it easy.” I loosened his flak jacket to make him more comfortable. “We’ll get some backup, don’t worry.”
“Back-up… you idiot…” Impatience flashed in the sergeant’s eyes as he coughed up red phlegm. “The… back-up… battery…”
“Back-up battery?” Prit pounced on his words. “Where is it?”
“In… the… turret.” Rain mixed with the blood pooled around the sergeant. “Same terminals… and… voltage.”
Before he finished talking, Prit had already scrambled up the Centaur like a monkey and slipped inside the turret. As the Ukrainian tinkered around inside, I lifted the sergeant’s head so he could breathe better. I didn’t know what else to do. Even if I’d had some medical training, I was pretty sure Jonás was beyond hope. He must’ve known that too, as he stoically endured the pain that had to be tearing him up.
“Here it is!” Pritchenko stuck his head out the turret, triumphantly cradling a rectangular box. “Just give me a couple of minutes and it’ll be ready!”
We didn’t have much time. Around the corner of the parking lot appeared three staggering Undead.
“PRIT!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Hurry! We’ve gotta go NOW!”
I threw an arm around Sergeant Fernández’s shoulder and eased him as gently as I could through the Centaur’s hatch. Fortunately Sergeant Jonás Fernández, veteran of the Tercio Don Juan de Austria Regiment of the Spanish Legion, was feeling no pain; he’d passed out. Over my shoulder, I saw that the Undead had advanced half the distance between us and them. In a burst of bravery, I ran to the three backpacks we’d abandoned under the window back at the tower. The Undead saw me and started walking in my direction. I grabbed two of the backpacks and dragged them along the pavement. As I staggered toward the tank, I threw a wary glance over my shoulder. Those things were already about a hundred yards from us.
“Prit! Get that damn thing started! They’re right on our ass!” I shouted as I tossed the packs inside the tank.
“Almost… got it…” Sweat was pouring off the Ukrainian. His hands moved at lightning speed inside the belly of the engine. “All set! Get in! Get in!”
We scrambled into the Centaur and sealed the hatches overhead. Just in time. As we settled into the front seats, the Undead were roaring and beating on the sides of the armored tank.
“Start it, for God’s sake!” I yelled at Prit.
“Whadda you mean?” He looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “I don’t know how to start this thing!”
“What do you mean you don’t know how?” My eyes grew wide. “You’re the damned pilot!”
“Helicopter pilot!” Prit replied angrily. “In the air force, we didn’t have anything like this box on wheels! I thought you knew how to drive this thing!”
“Me?” It was my turn to be astonished. “Prit, I’ve never been in a tank in my life! I didn’t even serve in the army. I was a lawyer, dammit!”
“Tell that to our friends outside! Do you or don’t you know how to start this thing?”
“No! Of course not!” Suddenly, a flash of insight struck me with force. “Wait! The sergeant must know! Hey! Jonás! Wake up! Come on, Sergeant, open your eyes! We need you!”
Sergeant Fernández took a while to come around. His breathing had become spasmodic. From time to time, he vomited blood, which mingled with the blood coming out the holes in his chest. It was a wonder he was still alive.
In a wheezing, shaky voice, he told Prit how to start the tank. The ignition system was very durable and it still worked after over a year out in the open. But it was also painfully complicated. Prit got the ignition sequence wrong twice and had to start over. Meanwhile, dozens of Undead had gathered around the Centaur. Some even had climbed up on it and were walking above us, trying to get in. Even though the tank weighed several tons, it shook with all the Undead pounding on it. The noise was deafening. If we couldn’t start the engine, we’d be trapped in there until we died of hunger and thirst. That was a chilling thought.
With a grinding screech, Prit finally got the tank in first gear and the engine coughed to life for the first time in a year. The Centaur lurched forward and stalled.
“Start it again! For God’s sake!” As soon as those words left my mouth, I started laughing hysterically, despite the seriousness of the situation. I couldn’t stop myself.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Prit looked at me as if I’d gone mad. “Think this is funny?”
He tried a second time. The Centaur bucked a couple of times, but didn’t stall. With a triumphant gesture, he looked at me and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He gave it some gas and the powerful diesel engine roared.
“Purrs like a kitten!” he said, satisfied, his eyes glued to the display panel. “Now, let’s get out of here!”
“We’ve got to get to Cuatro Vientos before they do. And they’ve got a head start.”
That wasn’t the only problem. The Centaur’s gas gauge was on reserve. I didn’t have a clue what obstacles we’d encounter in Madrid. I wasn’t even sure I could find my way to the airport.
“Get us the fuck out of here!”
Prit accelerated and the Centaur inched ahead, pushing against the mass of Undead in its way. After a few agonizing feet—and some crushed bodies—Prit finally got the hang of the controls and drove us out of the parking lot.
The Ukrainian and I looked at each other and high-fived. Our race against the clock had begun.
46
MADRID
“Prit, look out!”
The Centaur swerved and almost turned on its side as we dodged a pile of garbage containers in the middle of the street. With a groan, the vehicle righted itself and we continued down the center of the street as fast as we could. But after driving down La Castellana for a nerve-racking half hour, we had to face the fact that it’d take a long time to get out of Madrid.
That street was ten-lanes wide, so we had plenty of room to dodge the Undead along the way. Now and then, we had to zigzag around a car wreck or an abandoned checkpoint but otherwise, the road was clear. Side streets were cut off by mountains of cars that had served as barricades. Some of those piles had fallen over or had been pulled down by the Undead. Thousands of beasts were ambling down the street, like drunken pedestrians. Prit could drive around them, but their numbers were growing.
“Whadda ya think those barricades were for?” the Ukrainian asked, his eyes
glued to the road.
“Looks like they tried to secure a corridor that connected with roads outside the city,” I said, pressing my eyes against the periscope. “That would’ve given them a pretty good escape route.”
When the Ukrainian swerved, my chin came down hard on the edge of the periscope. I cursed under my breath, as I got a taste of my own salty blood.
“So, how come almost no one survived?”
“No idea. Their escape route must’ve been cut off farther down the line.”
“So, how’re we gonna get out?”
“I don’t know. Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.” I was lost in thought as we drove under the Gate of Europe, the twin leaning towers the locals called Torres KIO. One of those twenty-six-floor towers had burned to the ground. It was just a pile of twisted metal rising in the air like a rotten tooth. The Centaur shook like a cocktail shaker as Prit drove over scattered debris from those towers.
I got more and more uneasy as we moved through the heart of that dead city. La Castellana, usually full of traffic, was empty except for wrecks here and there. A thick layer of dust, debris, and ash covered the pavement. Trees had sprouted up, cracking the pavement. But what really got me down was the silence. The only sound was the growl of the tank’s diesel engine. The Centaur inched past several office buildings; their windows were broken out and looked like dark eyes glaring down at us. My heart raced wildly when I spotted what I thought was a group of friends gathered in the doorway of a restaurant. When we got closer, we saw it was a handful of Undead. They were coming out of the woodwork, drawn by the noise of the passing Centaur.
After a few minutes, we reached the Plaza de Cibeles—its marble statues and fountains had been a symbol of Madrid. Someone had broken off the head of the statue of the goddess Cibeles as she sat perched in her carriage. Across the goddess’s breast, a trembling hand had scrawled in red paint ISAIAH 34-35, referring to the passage “for the Lord’s anger is against all the nations and his wrath against all their hordes…” The bowl of the fountain was filled to the brim with skeletons dressed in rags. Some very deranged person had neatly lined up dozens of skulls along the rim of the fountain. As we drove past, I felt the lifeless eyes of all those skulls, with their menacing smiles, following us.
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