“Well, the scowling guy next to me is Marcelo. As you’ve probably guessed from his accent, he’s Porteño, from Buenos Aires.” She gave the guy a friendly nudge with her rifle.
Marcelo gave a quick nod, his grim expression unchanged. He was as stern as Pauli was congenial. They made a very odd couple.
“What’s the procedure?” Pritchenko spoke for the first time.
“It’s a no-brainer,” Marcelo said with a dismissive shrug. “We leave you on the quarantine ship. Once medical tests verify you’re clean, immigration officers will take care of all the paperwork. Quick and easy.”
“Marcelo makes it sound so cold-hearted, but we can’t be too careful,” intervened Pauli. “I imagine Alicia will oversee your case.”
“Alicia?” All those names were making my head spin after being cut off from the world for so long.
“Commander Alicia Pons is the head of transit and immigration services in Tenerife.”
“Oh! The Commander! To what do we owe the honor?”
“Very simple,” Marcelo replied. “If your story is true, you’re the first living beings to make it here from Europe in over eight months.”
A heavy silence filled the cabin, broken only by the occasional crackle of the radio. The silhouette of Mount Teide appeared on the horizon. We’d reached Tenerife.
We were returning to civilization.
Whatever that was.
11
The conversation died out. We were mentally and physically exhausted after what we’d been through over the last several hours. Most of our new countrymen weren’t very talkative either. Pauli babbled nonstop but Marcelo glared at us, mute and deeply suspicious. A glum silence soon spread through the tense atmosphere in the cabin.
In a matter of minutes, we were flying over land: the island of Tenerife. The crew on the helicopter said it was totally free of Undead, but after fighting those monsters for so long, I found that hard to digest.
The first buildings on the outskirts of Santa Cruz de Tenerife came into view. The sun was sinking slowly, casting the first shadows of night. The air had cooled considerably; heavy yellow clouds were forming in the distance. The drone of a half dozen conversations over the radio broke the silence in the cabin. Most were military transmissions, but chatter occasionally came over the airwaves, too.
Suddenly, over the loud speakers came a catchy song that had been popular about a year before. The radio operator must’ve liked it, since he let it play for a while before switching over to a military frequency for landing instructions.
“What’s wrong?” Lucia asked, alarmed, grabbing my arm.
“With me? Nothing. Why?”
“You can’t fool me.” She took my head in her hands. “You’re crying.”
Embarrassed, I wiped my hand across my eyes. Fat tears were rolling down my cheeks, leaving long streaks in the cement dust that still covered my face.
“It’s nothing. It’s just that that song…” My voice broke.
“Makes you think of someone, right? That happens to me a lot.” Lucia’s face darkened. “We all lost loved ones.”
I slipped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. I stroked her hair, inhaling its sweet scent.
“That’s not it. For the first time in nearly a year, I’m listening to music. I’d forgotten what that was like.”
Prit broke in. “You’re right. I hadn’t realized that until just now. A year without music. That’s strange… really strange,” he murmured to himself.
And it’s a good sign, I thought. Here’s a place where a radio station can broadcast music, any kind of music, a place that isn’t plagued with those monsters, where people live normal lives, where they want some entertainment. A good place, all things considered.
Just then, I detected movement on the ground below. My hand instinctively reached for the sheath strapped to my leg. Then I remembered they’d confiscated my spears when I got onboard.
I peered into the fading light and tried to make out the scene below. A group of about fifteen people was walking slowly up a hilly, winding road. That was all I saw since the helicopter was flying at full speed. I did notice that they were all armed.
As we rounded one last hill, the port of Tenerife appeared before us. The helicopter flew swiftly over city streets, where thousands of people were going about their daily lives. Ecstatic, we crowded around the helicopter doors, gazing down at a scene that was rare in the world now.
“Look, Prit! People! People as far as the eye can see!”
The Ukrainian laughed loudly and a smile spread across his face beneath his immense mustache. “We did it! We did it!” A childlike joy lit up his face as his eyes darted from one place to another.
Sister Cecilia laughed like a little girl, giving thanks to God and to a long list of saints. Lucia pointed out everything, trying to absorb the images forever.
After a few minutes, we had left that urban sprawl behind. My anxious eyes refused to relinquish that image of vitality, which fell away too soon.
The helicopter flew back over the ocean, to the far end of the dock, where a number of large ships crowded the harbor. Anchored a considerable distance away was a ship painted a dull navy-gray. The strange structure in the front ended abruptly and its stern resembled a small landing strip. It looked like some nitwit navy engineer had left half of the ship back at the shipyard.
The L-51 painted in huge white letters on the side identified it as part of the Spanish fleet. We were going to land on one of the strangest ships that ever sailed. Up until a few months ago, it had been an amphibious assault ship. As we flew over the ship’s stern, I read the name on the hull and smiled at the bitter irony. After nearly a year dancing with death for thousands of miles, I was back home.
The ship was named Galicia.
12
By the time we landed on the Galicia’s deck, the sky had turned blood red. Marcelo pointed to the sliding door and motioned for us to climb out. Suddenly, the atmosphere grew tense. The Argentine made a show of drawing his side arm in case of trouble. Even jovial Pauli was all business, with a serious look on her face. The large revolver she was holding looked like a cannon in her small hands. If she fired that gun, the recoil would probably propel her backward. Both the pilot and copilot were also armed with handguns. They’d turned around and faced the cabin, convincing us to leave the relative safety of the helicopter and jump onto the deck.
A warm wind filled with the scent of fertile land reached our noses when we set foot on the Galicia’s deck. Two small choppers with bulbous glass covers also sat on the landing pad—reconnaissance helicopters, I guessed. I glanced up at the ship’s mast. I could just make out the Spanish flag flying overhead in the half-dark of twilight. A flag I didn’t recognize fluttered in the breeze below the national flag. It was dark blue with the shield of Spain in the center, but above the shield was a crown sitting atop a wall instead of just the crown. Most of the other ships flew the same combination of flags.
I scratched my head, trying to understand, but soon I had more important things to think about. A dozen people clad in hazmat suits filed out a door at the base of the superstructure. Polarized visors covered their faces so I couldn’t make out their gender or age. From their height and gait, I concluded that most were men, and three or four were women. As they got closer, I automatically stepped closer to Prit, who instinctively covered my back.
“I don’t like this one bit, man,” the Ukrainian hissed, his eyes glued to the group.