“They had radios,” objected another legionnaire, pointing to a huge military radio lying between two bodies. “Why didn’t they radio for help?”
“No power, kid.” Prit shined his flashlight on the dark lights in the ceiling. “They must’ve realized how bad things were when the generators ran out of fuel and died.”
We were silent for a moment, imagining the anguish those people felt in their final moments. Tank and seven other members of the team walked in and broke the gloomy spell.
“We found the stairs!” said Tank. For a moment he was speechless as he looked around. Even with all his Germanic stoicism, he paled. Then he blinked and shook his head wearily. “Come on, gentlemen, we still have to go down two floors. Our job is only half done.”
Tank turned and walked out, not saying another word. We followed him, dragging our feet. That oppressive place was getting everyone down.
The staircase was located at the end of the ventilation duct. The door to the stairs was crisscrossed with thick chains. My eyes met Prit’s. It was the same system they’d used to seal off the doors at Meixoeiro Hospital in Vigo. I pictured some military pencil-pusher drafting protocol for what to do if you were entrenched in a building during an invasion of Undead. I’d love tell that genius how well his brilliant plan had worked.
Marcelo walked up with heavy-duty clippers and cut the chain with ease. He stepped aside and a group of soldiers crossed through the door. A second later, I heard a single shot, followed by, “Clear.” Then we all headed through the door. At the foot of those stairs lay the body of an Undead, bleeding from a shot to the head. I swallowed and eased past him.
If there was one Undead on that side of the door, there’d be more. A lot more.
40
For want of a nail… the kingdom was lost.
On account of a stupid accident caused by a panicked, terrified girl trying to save her life, Chaos escaped from Pandora’s box again. But at that moment, no one knew. Not even the heroes of this story. And they never would.
Eric and Basilio quickly checked out every inch of the lab. Basilio stepped to the door and motioned for Eric to stand in front of it. With a nod, the redhead took his position, ten feet in front of the door, gripping his beretta with both hands. Basilio slowly reached for the doorknob and flattened himself against the wall. If that damned girl was crouched on the other side, waiting to jump them, she’d be sadly disappointed.
He looked up at the Belgian, counted off three seconds on his fingers, yanked the door open, then jumped to the side.
A lot happened in a few short seconds. First someone completely naked barreled through the open door. Something, not someone, Eric thought, terrified by the Undead headed for him. The warm, sexual arousal the Belgian felt changed to cold, clammy fear. His eyes seemed to pop out of his head, he raised his beretta and shot the Undead twice at close range.
The first bullet pierced the creature’s neck, releasing a jet of thick, black blood. The second bullet hit him in the face, leaving a gaping hole where his nose had been. The thing collapsed in a heap, but Eric couldn’t relax as three more creatures rushed in.
Cursing in French, the redhead retreated a few feet from the creatures, firing his weapon as he went. Blood spewed like a fountain out of the gaping head of the next Undead, an African man, over six feet tall, and splashed all across Eric’s visor. Eric ran his gloved hand over the visor, which blurred his view completely and made matters worse.
A claw-like hand gripped his arm. Blindly, the Belgian elbowed someone—or something—hard and he fired blindly into another bulky shape coming at him. At that moment, he felt something grab his knee and then a burning pain shot up his calf.
The Belgian turned and fired twice at the Undead that had circled the table and ambushed him. Sweat poured down his face. It felt like a million degrees inside that damn hazmat suit. Through his blood-streaked visor, he could only see a narrow wedge right in front of him. That’s how the bastard had gotten the jump on him.
A piercing howl made his blood run cold. Backed into a corner and unarmed, Basilio faced two Undead at once. His eyes bloodshot, the sailor threw a right uppercut at the Undead that would’ve brought down an ox. The Undead didn’t dodge Basilio’s fist, and that sledgehammer punch didn’t even slow him down. The creature’s jaws snapped together like a rusty trap and broken teeth flew through the air. The other Undead seized that moment to sink its teeth into Basilio’s outstretched forearm, its fangs easily piercing the plastic hazmat suit and the thin cotton uniform underneath.
Basilio spun around like a tornado and let fly devastating kicks that would’ve made Chuck Norris proud. The creature dropped onto his back like a turtle, then struggled to stand up, chewing on that hunk of Basilio’s arm.
“Eric!” Basilio cried out in a ragged voice. “Fucking help me!
The Belgian’s face drained of all emotion as he shot the Undead on the ground. The creature died instantly, with Basilio’s flesh sticking out of his mouth, like a playful, little pink tongue. A sadistic smile spread across Eric’s face, even in that grisly situation.
The last two Undead had piled on top of Basilio. One of them had ripped off his headgear. The Belgian fired twice at one of them, who collapsed like a rag doll, but the other one was faster and clamped down on Basilio’s neck. With a muffled roar, Basilio made a last ditch effort and launched his assailant’s body over the table, sending test tubes, beakers, and microscopes crashing to the floor.
Eric fired his last two bullets into the Undead’s twisted body. He whipped around like a cobra, but he was the last man standing. Six Undead lay on the ground, their heads blown off.
Basilio Irisarri had slid to the floor and sat propped up against the wall. Eric watched in fascination as blood pulsed out of the wound in Basilio’s neck in time to the beat of his heart.
“Eric…” Basilio’s voice sounded strangely waterlogged. A clot of blood slid out the corner of his mouth, then down his neck and joined the river flowing between his clenched fingers. “Eric, help me the fuck up. Eric, I can’t…”
The Belgian pointed to his headgear and gestured that he couldn’t hear him. Then he shook his head and waved good-bye.
“No… you bastard…” Basilio gurgled. “Get me out of here…”
“Can’t hear you, Basilio. I don’t know if you can hear me, but this isn’t fun anymore. I’m hot and tired and I want a cold beer. I’d be willing to bet those beasts devoured your little slut. And in case you haven’t noticed, you’re dying.”
The burly sailor stared up at him, speechless. With each heartbeat, a little bit of life slipped away, out the terrible wound on his neck.
Eric pursed his lips and shook his head. “Gotta go, buddy.” He chattered away happily as he bent down and placed the empty beretta in Basilio’s free hand. “I don’t want you to think I’m deserting you or that I don’t care about you. I really do. So here’s a little souvenir. The authorities’ll think you’re responsible for this mess, not me.”
He looked around, with the pained look of someone whose yard was torn up in a night of crazy partying.
“Say hello to Satan for me, old pal,” he said. He looked at Basilio one last time, then headed back to the airlock. As he pressed the button to open the door, he heard the click of the beretta’s hammer. He turned and saw Basilio pointing it at him with his last ounce of strength. The old boatswain looked at the empty pistol in defeat, realizing he’d been scammed.