We quickly checked out the dealership. Nothing. All the doors and windows were closed and barred, except for the bathroom window Prit had broken. It was too high and narrow for those things to sneak in, but we wanted to take every precaution.
We wrestled a panel from one of the cubicles against the broken bathroom window. It wouldn’t withstand a heavy blow, but it would do for the short time we’d be there.
Bone tired, we collapsed in a room that adjoined the manager’s office. It was a room with no windows, stacks of files, a tiny bathroom with a shower and, surprisingly, a fold-out bed. What the hell was that bed doing there? Prit snooped around the room like a bloodhound. He picked up something from underneath the cot. With a sly smile, he held up some wadded-up lacy burgundy panties.
Well, well. This must be the manager’s bachelor pad. Way to go, you bastard. It’d been some time since that guy got laid. If he were still alive, he had better things to think about.
Overflowing with newfound energy, Prit tossed every drawer. I stepped into the bathroom and peered into the mirror. Out of habit I turned on the tap. To my surprise a stream of rust-colored water gushed out, popping with all the air built up in the pipes.
I figured the dealership had its own water tower, so it still had running water. Running water! If there was water, there had to be a gas or battery-operated water heater somewhere. I went back to the bachelor pad, where Prit was stretched out on the bed, leafing through a pile of old magazines. I left my friend comfortably settled there and started my search, armed with a flashlight.
Behind the hallway that connected the offices to the garages were some steep stairs that disappeared into the darkness underground. I got up my courage and started down the steps, my back pressed to the wall, a cocked speargun in one hand and the flashlight in the other. The basement was cold and dry. It looked like a very old repair shop that had been completely renovated.
Surrounded by a thicket of cobwebs and tons of boxes of old brochures was a large modern water heater hooked up to an orange bottle of butane gas. Once I was sure the basement was safe, I climbed down the rest of the way. I shook the bottle. Empty. The pilot light had been on for weeks and used up all the gas in the bottle.
Disappointed, I turned around in the dark. As I started back up the stairs, I hit my knee so hard I saw stars. I shone the flashlight on what I’d run into. It was a mesh cage containing half a dozen sealed bottles. Fucking great!
Parting the cobwebs, I replaced the empty bottle with one of the full ones and pressed the button to purge the system. When I pushed the power button, a flickering blue flame appeared. I shouted for joy. We had hot water!
I raced up the stairs as Prit came walking out of the office, carrying a box full of keys to the Mercedeses. In a cheerful mood, we went into the showroom, where dozens of vehicles waited, neatly parked, ready to drive out the door.
As we strolled around looking for our new car, Prit and I had a little argument. He had his heart set on the fire-engine-red CLK cabriolet. He said it was a rocket, perfect for escaping at full speed. I finally convinced him that even though that convertible was fast, it wasn’t the wisest choice for driving on roads infested with undead.
I pragmatically chose a huge GL, the largest SUV Mercedes made, with four-wheel drive and lots of horsepower. We could drive off road in that beast if we encountered an accident blocking the road. Plus, it could push aside more undead than the sports car.
Prit grumbled and accepted my reasoning, casting a longing look at the convertible. We set to work and exchanged its battery for a brand-new one we found in the garage. Then we loaded our stuff, including an increasingly restless Lucullus.
A sudden, loud noise made us jump out of our skin. I threw myself on the floor, feeling around for my speargun, as Prit cocked the AK-47. We looked around for the origin of the sound. A couple of yards from us, beating on the armored glass window, were two undead, watching us with empty eyes, roaring with rage.
It was a gruesome sight. Since I’d offed my poor neighbor, I hadn’t had an opportunity to study those monsters up close when I wasn’t running or fighting for my life. I eased up to the glass, an arm’s length away. That drove them nuts. They wanted me. They wanted my life. My blood. Fucking bastards.
Something dawned on me. A newly transformed undead, my neighbor for example, had pallor mortis, thousands of burst veins visible on its skin, bloodshot, vacant eyes, and homicidal behavior. The two men outside, though covered in bumps, cuts, and scratches, looked exactly the same. Those guys showed no trace of putrefaction, unlike a normal corpse. No rigor mortis, no decomposition…nothing. Amazing. They were dead. No doubt of that. The terrible gash in the neck of one of them was proof. But something kept then moving…and stalking.
Clothes worn thin from months outdoors was all that indicated they’d been that way for a while. I was sure their appearance hadn’t changed one iota since they were attacked. That had some disturbing implications. Over the past few weeks, I’d entertained the hope that over time these bodies decayed or even “died.”
That didn’t seem to happen. The passage of time didn’t seem to affect those monsters. I didn’t know what to think. Maybe they stay that way for months, even years. Maybe they’re eternal. How the hell should I know? I’m no scientist. I don’t have any data on their condition. I just know they’re somewhere between life and death. If I didn’t want to end up like them, I had to keep on the run and not get caught.
A bitter taste rose in my throat. As a species, a race, a planet, we were really screwed. I punched the glass in rage, right on one of those monsters’ faces. He didn’t flinch.
Prit watched me in silence, guessing my thoughts. Finally he came over and tried to calm me down. He said that when we got his helicopter, we’d find a place the monsters hadn’t gotten to.
I shook my head bitterly. Nice words. We had a long way to go before I’d feel completely safe.
We parked the SUV in front of the gate. Prit checked the tire pressure while I took my first hot shower in many weeks. It was heaven. The jet of water hit my back and my head. Clouds of steam curled around my body. I stood there for about twenty minutes, enjoying that wonderful feeling. Then, with scissors and new razor blades I’d found in a bathroom drawer, I shaved the beard I’d had for weeks. I didn’t look like a bum anymore. Something so ordinary before the apocalypse was now a real treat. That’s how far things had slipped.
ENTRY 78
April 16, 10:24 a.m.
When I got out of the shower, I found Prit in the manager’s office, hard at work. He’d cleared off the desk and set the black Samsonite case on it. He’d discovered a ton of tools in the garage, including a battery-operated grinder and a blowtorch. The Ukrainian was determined to open the damn case come hell or high water.
With my hair still dripping wet, I joked that if he found smokes in that case, he’d better share them with me, or else he’d wake up dead the next morning. Prit laughed and threw a piece of red tape at me. He said to make myself useful and find some gas for the SUV.
I left the office, listening to Prit singing softly in Russian, his voice drowned out by the shriek of the grinder.