I stood up, strapped on my backpack, and groaned—it weighed a lot more than I thought. Prit handed me the flashlight and the Glock I’d carelessly left on the floor.
“This thing weighs a ton. I’ll be sweating like a pig in five minutes.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Prit said cheerfully and slung his equally heavy backpack over his shoulder. “Every week, my Aunt Ludmila lifted fifty sacks of potatoes that size at the kolkhoz, that collective farm the Soviets forced on us Slavs. Of course, my Aunt Ludmila weighed three hundred pounds, had a glass eye, and was ugly as sin.” Then he launched into a wild story about his aunt, a burning barn, and a dairy cow trapped in a mud pit.
Listening to Prit ramble on about his family, I wondered if the speed was kicking in. If he kept on chattering like that, I was going to strangle him.
“Then my cousin Sergei, who was still naked, jumped out the window with a hoe in his hand and—” Prit was still talking when two shots rang out on the other side of the shelves. In a split second, the Ukrainian’s cheerful chatter ceased. He cocked his HK and crept over to where the shots had come from. I struggled to keep up with him, half-buried under my backpack. Marcelo threw off his pack so he could man his MG3.
We reached the door as more shots rang out and I heard warning shouts. Three legionnaires were trying to hold back a group of Undead amassed at the door to the supply room. We’d run out of time—our presence was no longer a secret. The building rumbled as hundreds of creatures howled, beating the walls or clumsily climbing the stairs, heading right for us. In a moment the place would be swarming with them.
“We gotta get out of here!” one of the sergeants screamed.
“Head for the ground floor!” Tank yelled over the rattle of guns. “In the satellite photos, I saw some tanks in the parking lot behind the building. We gotta get outta here fast! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”
His words spurred us on. We closed ranks and headed for the stairwell. Every few feet, a group of Undead appeared out of nowhere, but the soldiers were well trained and they hit their marks every time. Yet it was slow going, just a few feet at a time. If they’d caught us in a larger space, we wouldn’t have had a chance, but being inside the building worked in our favor. The narrow stairs were our greatest ally. Those creatures could only attack us from the front or back, no more than two or three at a time.
Nestled in the center of the group, I focused on not getting out of step or tripping on the trail of bodies as we were leaving.
The deafening clack of the guns bounced off the narrow hallway. When a soldier in front needed ammunition, he’d turn and tap the shoulder of the man behind him. Broto and I grabbed those empty magazines and passed them to the soldiers behind us. Like magic, they filled those empties with ammo they carried in a backpack and kept walking. Gunshots tinged the darkness with a spectral orange glow. Flashlight beams swung wildly from side to side. The smell of gunpowder, blood, and sweat filled the air.
The soldier in front of me turned for a magazine. Just then an Undead came around a corner, wrapped his arms around the soldier’s neck and dragged him out of the group. I heard the guy’s desperate cry, but before anyone could do anything, the creature dug his teeth into the unfortunate soldier’s arm. Without slowing down, Tank raised his pistol and fired at the Undead that fell at his feet. Then he turned his gun on the wounded soldier.
“NO!” was all the poor devil had time to yell before Tank blew his brains out.
I froze. I knew the guy was doomed; it was the only humane thing Tank could do, but I wasn’t prepared for his brutal reaction. I felt the blood drain from my face.
Tank leaned toward me and said something, but deafened by gunfire I couldn’t make out a word he said. All I heard was a high, steady whine in my ears. Even the gunshots sounded muffled, as my ears were packed with cotton. Someone pushed me from behind and before I knew it, I’d taken the fallen soldier’s place at the front.
Three Undead swayed a few feet from us. On my right, Marcelo carried the MG3 on his back. The shooter would have to be a real Hercules to fire that gun without resting it on something. He coolly fired his pistol at everything that crossed his path. On my other side, the veteran sergeant with a scar on his neck leaned toward me and shouted something. I didn’t need to hear him to know what he meant.
Gritting my teeth, I raised my HK and started shooting.
42
I don’t know at what point things started to turn around. It’s hard to calculate time when you’re on dark stairs shooting at everything that moves. To be honest, I don’t think I contributed a lot to the team. Most of the time Marcelo and the veteran sergeant had already cleared out the Undead before I even aimed. However, once we made it to those stairs, we made better time and came across fewer creatures. Maybe the cacophony of gunfire bouncing around all the recesses on the stairs and in hallways made it hard for the Undead to locate us.
Whatever it was, it was a blessing. In just a few minutes, we’d used up almost all the ammunition that wasn’t defective. Once the magazines were empty, the soldiers threw down their rifles and grabbed their handguns with desperation in their eyes.
“Magazines! A fucking magazine, dammit!” Marcelo yelled.
“Here!” Broto said, sweating profusely. In a trembling voice, he added, “It’s the last one!”
To make sure the Argentine had understood him, he held out his empty hands. I turned to him in disbelief. We still had to go down a flight of stairs, cross the ground floor, go out the exit and head to the lot where supposedly the tanks were parked. Without any more ammo, we wouldn’t make it to the exit.
My eyes met Tank’s. He was in the right column near the back. The other sergeant and Prit covered our retreat, holding off any Undead that showed up. The German shot me a grim look and shook his head. There’s nothing we can do, his eyes said.
Just then, as if the gods took pity on us (or prolonged our suffering a bit more), we came to a landing with a window. It was tall and grimy and let in only a small square of dim light, but it was a window nevertheless. I pointed it out to Tank.
“We’re on the first floor. We can get out through that window! It can’t be very high!”
The German herded our group like a sheepdog to that window and stood in the most exposed position to protect the last men as they reached the landing. When we were all leaning against the wall, I breathed a sigh of relief. All we had to do was protect our flank, but our situation was still terribly compromised. There were only eleven survivors and we had less than half of our ammunition left.
“Get on my shoulders!” Pritchenko yelled in my ear so loud, I thought my eardrum would explode. Several hands grabbed my backpack and lifted me onto Prit’s shoulders. With a shove, Prit lifted my head level with the window.
The window was about two feet square. It looked like it hadn’t been opened since the building first opened its doors. Its hinges were ringed with rust; a layer of dirt let in only a thin film of gauzy light. I clung, white-knuckled, to the metal frame and looked out the window. I could barely make out a small parking lot. Over time, sand, ash, and cracks had obliterated most of the lines painted around the parking spots. At the back of the lot, two heavily armored, olive green vehicles sat quietly. Their cannons had been carefully wrapped to protect them. There wasn’t a soul around. Any Undead wandering around must’ve been drawn inside by our gunfire.
I jiggled the lock, but it wouldn’t budge. I didn’t have time to ponder the situation. With the butt of my Glock, I bashed the window. It broke with a loud crash and a shower of glass fell outside. Hurriedly, I brushed the glass off the frame and stuck my head out.