As I climbed up, I heard the Undead stream into the cupola of the tower. Prit grabbed the back of my wetsuit and pulled me up. Sister Cecilia quickly drew the ladder up behind me. I gasped when I looked back down through the trapdoor. Dozens of rabid Undead were crowded around below, trying to reach us.
I’d made it by a hair.
Relieved, I looked over at Pritchenko but his shocked expression made me turn around. I peered at the helicopter hovering overhead and was stunned by what I saw. And yet, there it was, right in front of my eyes: the helicopter, painted in camouflage, had tilted when they threw us a ladder. On the door, in big, bold letters were the words ARGENTINA AIR FORCE.
9
An army helicopter from Argentina.
In the Canary Islands.
Moroccan soldiers, Argentine helicopters… What the hell was going on? I hoped someone at the top of that ladder had the answer.
A gloved hand at the end of an arm in a drab olive uniform helped me into the cabin. When we were all on board, the helicopter flew off, circling the runway at full speed. I lay on the floor, panting, feeling the nausea that washed over me every time I had a brush with death. I sat up and tried to collect myself. I didn’t want the first impression that bunch of strangers had was me throwing up out the chopper’s door.
I turned to smile at the man with the gloved hand. He was tall and thin, in his thirties, wearing a flight suit, his face partially covered by a helmet and mirrored goggles. The guy spoke before I could get a word out.
“Up against the bulkhead, please,” said the voice, polite but firm with a distinct Argentine accent.
“Hello, my name is—” I stuck my hand out to my savior but stopped short when the guy pointed the barrel of his rifle at my stomach.
“Sir, up against the bulkhead… NOW!”
I raised my hands and, with my eyes glued to the rifle, moved to the aft bulkhead, where the rest of my “family” was lined up. Lucia looked terrified. Sister Cecilia wore an expression the Christians must’ve had when they faced the lions in Roman times. Stripped of his rifle, Prit shot fire from his eyes; his whole body boiled with rage. Given the slightest provocation, he’d break someone’s neck. I knew my friend was capable of that and more, so I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s see what’s going on here.”
I turned and faced the front. The cabin of this helicopter was a lot smaller than the Sokol’s, so we were just three feet from our new traveling companions, a man and a woman, both dressed in fatigues. Up front, the pilot and copilot had their hands full controlling the helicopter, which was shaking violently, caught in a stream of hot air. The copilot was talking to someone over the radio. I couldn’t hear what he was saying on account of the noise coming from the rotor, but the musical rhythm in his voice left no doubt he was from Buenos Aires.
Argentines, like the helicopter. But their flight suits had the Spanish Air Force insignia embroidered on the right sleeve. When the woman leaned over and said something to the man, her accent was unmistakably Catalan, from northern Spain.
“Sorry for the reception!” she shouted over the noise. “But rules are rules. Nothing personal, but until you pass the quarantine, we have to follow protocol.” She paused for a second and then looked at us curiously. “Are you Froilists?”
“Froilists?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s that?
With a wave of her hand, she said, “You’ll find out soon… if you live that long.”
That didn’t sound very promising.
“Where’re you from?” asked the tall Argentine. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, he didn’t take his eye off us, especially Pritchenko. The finger resting on the trigger of his rifle said Don’t do anything stupid. This guy knew what he was doing.
“Pontevedra… I mean Vigo, in Galicia,” said Lucia.
“You’re from the Peninsula?” Clearly he didn’t believe us.
“Yeah! So?” His smartass tone had pissed me off. “We flew to the Canaries along the African coast. Then one last jump to Lanzarote, where we ran out of fuel and now… you guys…” I left my words hanging in the air.
I shot our interrogators a challenging look. It was their turn. They looked at each other and relaxed a bit.
“Hey! Take it easy!” The Argentine said, more to Pritchenko than to me. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from or if you’re telling the truth. The most important thing is we don’t know if you’re infected or not. Until we know for sure, we have to take precautions, okay?”
I finally got it. This was one of the last outposts of survivors; of course they’d take every precaution and quarantine us. Our saviors didn’t know if we were infected with the virus that created the Undead. With a shiver, I realized that if they had the slightest doubt, all the welcome we’d get was some lead to the head.
“You’re serious… you’re from Galicia?” The Catalan girl turned to Lucia, with the same doubt in her voice.
“Of course we are!” Lucia exploded. “I flew over two thousand miles in that fucking Russian blender, crossed the Peninsula and the Sahara desert. I’ve had it up to here! Got it? I want a hot meal, a long shower, and I want to sleep for three days in a real bed! So don’t ask me if I’m serious, because I don’t feel like fucking around! Okay?” The pressure was too much. She broke down and sobbed.
I threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, stroking her hair. For all her tough-girl posturing, she was just a seventeen-year-old kid, robbed of her entire world. She had every right to explode.
“Where’re we headed?” I asked.
“Tenerife,” the Argentine guy replied, calmer. “One of the last safe places on the face of the earth.” He looked deep into my eyes. “We’re going home.”
10
The searing midday sun glinted off the Atlantic Ocean in a million flashes of silver. The silence was broken only by the cries from flocks of gannets and the clatter of the helicopter flying low. The salt-laden wind whistled through the open side doors and tore through our hair.
“How’re things in Tenerife?” I asked loudly, to be heard in the cabin.
“Sorry. Can’t say,” said the tall Argentine tersely. “Until the authorities make a ruling on you, the less you know, the better.”
The petite, thirty-something woman with the Catalan accent chimed in, “Even if you pass the quarantine, immigration services’ll have to approve you. It’s not up to us.”
“Immigration Services? What’re you talking about? I’m a Spanish citizen. So are the two ladies. And Prit’s papers are in order. We don’t need permission to be on European soil… at least we didn’t used to.”
The woman’s intelligent eyes glistened and she shook her head. I was puzzled to see her pull on latex gloves. “Things have changed a lot since the Apocalypse. The situation is very complicated. Rules, regulations, and laws from before have gone out the window. The Canary Islands are no paradise—they’re the Wild West.” There was a thick silence in the helicopter as her words sank in. “But we’re always thrilled to come across humans in the midst of all this shit,” she said with a broad, sincere smile, as she stuck out her latex-clad hand. “My name’s Paula Maria, but everyone calls me Pauli!” she exclaimed in a lively voice. “Welcome back to civilization!”
“Thank you, Pauli.” I shook her friendly but prudently gloved hand. “This is Lucia. In the corner is Sister Cecilia, and the charming guy with the dashing mustache is Viktor Pritchenko, from the Ukraine.”