“Oh, when everything kaput, they go. I don’t know where.”
My heart sank. Had Pritchenko’s helicopter disappeared in the chaotic days before the fall of the Safe Havens, or been stolen by another pilot or seized by the army? To my surprise, the Ukrainian shook his head.
“Not possible,” he said. “Helicopter damaged. Need cog tail rotor. Part small, but very expensive. Mailed from Kiev to Vigo.”
My temples throbbed as I guessed the rest. “Where’s that piece, Prit? Do you have it?”
The Ukrainian shook his head again. “Nyet. VNT make mistake. They know that part for a Ukraine, but give to wrong Ukraine.”
I plopped down in a chair, thinking at top speed. Ushakov or Kritzinev must have gone to the VNT office to pick up their fucking package. The employee couldn’t read the label in Cyrillic, so he gave him the package with Pritchenko’s part. The situation at the time was chaotic. A scared employee anxious to get the hell out and head for home wouldn’t have bothered to check IDs. The package was from Ukraine, and Ushakov was Ukrainian. When Prit showed up for his part, they discovered the mistake, but by then it was too late. The world was falling apart.
This is great. I have a pilot and a helicopter at my disposal. That changes the situation dramatically. I only need two things: a small helicopter part and a cat. And I know where they both are. On the Zaren Kibish.
ENTRY 72
March 14, 7:36 a.m.
The sun’s coming up. It’s really cold in the VNT warehouse. Prit and I plan to leave in fifteen minutes. The Ukrainian is checking the battery and tires of one of the delivery vans parked in the garage. They aren’t as safe as that ill-fated armored van we came in, but at least we’ve got four wheels to drive to the port. Or as far as we can get.
I’m jotting down these notes as my friend tunes up our transportation. We changed out of our torn, filthy clothes and into gray-and-black VNT coveralls we found in a dressing room. We couldn’t take a shower since there’s no water, so our odor and appearance still leave a lot to be desired. At least we don’t look like fugitives from the law anymore.
We talked at length about how we could swap the briefcase for Lucullus and the helicopter part. We finally had a plan. We spent hours working out all the details, but I think it’ll work.
This’ll have to be fast. Pritchenko’s just started the van and is signaling for me to raise the garage door. The engine sound will soon attract a mob of those creatures, and we still have to make a stop along the way.
I hope everything goes well. The next time I write in this journal I’ll have Lucullus.
Time to go. We’re off.
INFERNO
ENTRY 73
April 11, 2:14 p.m.
I surrendered the driver’s seat. I didn’t want to argue with Prit about his ability to “drive any heap on four wheels.” Truth is, the Ukrainian is a damn good driver, but he puts the fear of God in me.
Traveling from the port to the VNT office had taken nearly a week. We made it back to the port in just thirty-five minutes, ten minutes of which we spent trying to back out of a café window where we’d gotten stuck. A hair’s breadth from killing ourselves, the way I saw it. According to the fucking Ukrainian, just a small mental fuckup.
The fact is, we were just a few yards from the entrance to the port, almost back where we started. The tall buildings at the port hid the Zaren Kibish and the Corinth from view, but they were close by. And we were ready with a plan.
With a screech that set my teeth on edge, Pritchenko shifted gears and set off for the entrance to the port.
There’s an old military saying that a plan only works perfectly when you try it out on the enemy. We’d find out very soon that our plan was no exception.
The entire port gave off the pungent stench of rotting flesh. In the light of day, you could see that the entire Safe Haven was one big graveyard. Everywhere we looked were mountains of half-burned, rotting corpses.
The chuffing of the van drove away hundreds of gulls and fat rats with glossy coats. I shuddered when I thought about their diet. From time to time, a few staggering figures came out from between the wrecked warehouses and headed for our vehicle, but they were too far behind us. We were moving too fast for them to be a threat.
The Darwinian principle of survival of the fittest seemed to be working. Gradually only the toughest, fastest, or biggest sons of bitches were left. Or the luckiest, Prit said acidly. I was more and more convinced we’d get out of this alive. The mere fact that we were moving at top speed through an area full of those creatures would’ve paralyzed me with fear a few months ago. Now it just seemed like an everyday occurrence.
I told Prit what worried me most was not that there were so few survivors, but that there were so few female survivors. He thought for a moment, then started to tell a lurid tale about a girl from his village named Ludmila, nicknamed the Firefighter. Just as he got to the part about the straw, he hit the brakes. I almost flew through the windshield. We’d come to the Seguritsa alley, a few yards from where we’d landed what seemed like a million years ago.
Prit parked the van alongside a wrecked Beetle, leaving no way to get through, not even on foot. That makeshift barrier wouldn’t hold them for long, but it would give us time to carry out our plan. Let the dance begin.
ENTRY 74
April 12, 1:07 p.m.
As the Zodiac approached the Zaren Kibish, adrenaline roared through my veins. The salt spray soaked my hair as the freighter’s hull loomed ahead. With my right hand on the rudder, I clutched the black steel Samsonite briefcase with my left. A familiar bearded figure was leaning over the railing, staring through binoculars. Ushakov.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The salty air, the familiar scent of algae and burning fuel, took me back to better times. I opened my eyes, with the childish hope it had all been a nightmare. Instead I saw the ladder hanging over the side.
Gripping the briefcase, I started up the ladder to the Zaren’s deck. When I got to the rail, an eager Filipino hand reached for the case. I slapped the hand away and hit another sailor in the chest with the briefcase as I stepped on deck. I didn’t plan to let go of that briefcase. Not yet.
Ushakov pushed through a group of sailors and planted himself in front of me, his hands on his hips. There was a deathly silence on the deck.
On one side was Ushakov, surrounded by half a dozen burly sailors aiming Kalashnikovs at my chest. On the other side, there I was, dirty, unshaven, covered in cuts and bruises, wearing VNT overalls two sizes too big, bone tired, clutching a shiny black steel Samsonite briefcase. A real duel of Titans.
“Well, well, Mr. Lawyer!” Ushakov boomed. “You look awful! Where’s the rest of group?
“They’re not here,” I answered laconically.
“Kritzinev?”
“Dead.”
“My crew?”
“Dead.”
“Pritchenko?”
“He’s dead, too.” My voice cracked. “I’m the only one left, Comrade Captain.”
Ushakov’s face turned gray. I guess he hadn’t expected me to return. His greedy gaze was fixed on the case.