“The land route to the Texas oil fields is impractical,” the captain explained. “Those oil fields are infested by millions of Satan’s children and the roads are impassable. We’d need a fleet of trucks just to reach the wells. On top of that, the trucks wouldn’t provide us with enough protection once we got there, let alone transport all the oil we need. The drilling platforms in the Gulf of Mexico are out of commission due to hurricanes and lack of maintenance. This is the nearest reliable oil supply. Besides, Reverend Greene said that this is the Lord’s will, so it must be.” He shrugged as if that explained everything.
Prit and I exchanged a knowing look, but kept our mouths shut. I discreetly stepped on his foot just as a smart remark was about to pop out of his mouth.
Let it go, I mouthed.
So there we were in Luba—population about seven thousand—on Bioko Island, part of Equatorial Guinea. The island would have been just another forgotten corner of Africa if the country’s dictator, Theodor Obiang, hadn’t had it surveyed in the eighties. The survey revealed that Bioko was floating on a sea of oil. Eager to get their hands on the wealth lying beneath them, the Guineans started drilling almost immediately. The port in Malabo, the country’s capital, proved too shallow, so the multinational companies doing the drilling created a deepwater port in the nearby town of San Carlos de Luba.
I had to admit that Reverend Greene’s choice was a good one. We were anchored near a charming tropical city whose port looked to be in pretty good condition; its deep waters allowed our ship to sail right up to the oil rigs. With only seven thousand inhabitants before the Apocalypse, the number of Undead was much lower than in other ports with oil rigs. But seven thousand were still way too many.
The small, sonar-equipped Zodiac pulled alongside the ship, but didn’t stop to be raised up by the crane. Instead, it motored along parallel to the Ithaca’s bow, almost on the other side of the ship, about three hundred feet away.
Prit elbowed me. “Look at that,” he murmured, pointing to a covered area on the ship’s deck about two hundred feet from the bow.
I trained my binoculars on a spot where the tangle of pipes and hoses was sectioned off by a metal barrier about four feet high. It ran from one side of the ship to the other and was topped by barbed wire. No door seemed to connect it to the rest of the ship.
“Whaddya you think that’s for?” I asked.
“Not a clue. You?” Pritchenko replied.
“I have no idea. It could be a line of defense in case some Undead get on board, or maybe it’s to ward off a pirate attack on the high seas. These people have traveled thousands of miles. Who knows what’s going on in other parts of the world.”
“Well, my gut tells me it has something to do with those guys.”
The Ukrainian pointed at the bow again. About three dozen people emerged from a hatch on the far side of the barrier. Through our binoculars, we watched them file out in orderly fashion. They wore US Army fatigues and were heavily armed. A tall, muscular black guy with a shaved head and tattoos covering one arm quickly organized the men and women into five-person squadrons. Then they unrolled a net like the one we’d climbed up on and scrambled down to the Zodiac as it swayed rhythmically against the tanker. Three other Zodiacs appeared from around the other side of the tanker. When all the boats were full, Captain Birley radioed his orders and the boats approached the dock, which was filled with Undead.
“See that?” Prit asked, glued to his binoculars.
“Yeah. That dock is crowded with Undead. They’ll have a helluva time getting through.”
“I don’t think they’ll have much trouble,” Prit replied. “But did you notice there’s not a single white person on those teams?”
I looked closer. Most of the soldiers were black, Native American, or Latino, and a couple were Asian. The rest of the soldiers looked puny next to the tattooed giant running the operation.
“What’s so unusual about that? Even before the Apocalypse, the American army was full of Latinos and blacks.”
“Yeah. And a lot of white country boys who enlisted when their farms failed. I don’t see a single one down there. If any of those soldiers are white, I’ll shave off my mustache.”
Prit was ex-military; his trained eyes picked up on things like that. Once he pointed it out, it did seem strange that there were no white soldiers.
Just as I was about to ask Strangärd about the soldiers, the boats reached the dock and they started to disembark. From the deck of the ship, we had a clear view of the harbor. I grabbed my binoculars—I didn’t want to miss a single thing. For once, I was watching all that shit from a safe distance instead of being in the thick of it.
As if he’d read my mind, Prit whispered, “Too bad we don’t have any popcorn.”
I didn’t answer him because the action was starting.
The first boat landed at the dock alongside the oil deposits. About thirty Undead were wandering around. They were all black except for one white guy wearing a torn REPSOL oil company uniform—he must’ve been a technician. Four of the Undead had on army fatigues. The strap of an assault rifle was wrapped around one guy’s leg. His calf was in shreds and the bone was sticking out. The rifle was in pieces. The poor devil must’ve been dragging it around for months, the way a prisoner drags his chain.
The other two boats landed nearby and the soldiers climbed onto the dock, but one of them slipped on the ladder. He comically waved his arms in the air trying to get his balance, then hit the water with a loud splash.
The sound set the Undead in motion. Hundreds of rotting heads whipped around in unison and headed for the end of the dock. The other soldiers were busy dragging their comrade out of the water and didn’t notice the tide of Undead until the monsters were nearly on top of them. The scene gave me chills.
“Those filthy beasts amaze me,” commented one of the officers as he leaned on the rail. “It’s like those sons of bitches have fucking telekinesis or something.”
“You mean telepathy, dummy,” another voice said. “And you better watch your language. If the captain hears you blaspheme like that, you’ll get a look at those Undead up close.”
As the two officers chatted away, the soldiers on shore were running down the dock. One group opened fire on the Undead. The gunfire broke the town’s silence.
“According to our calculations, they have twenty minutes,” said Captain Birley, who had silently appeared beside me.
“Calculations?”
“Yes. Based on the soldiers’ speed, the estimated number of Undead, and the size of the town, we calculate that, in twenty minutes, there’ll be so many of those evil creatures that our helots won’t be able to get out of there. So they’d better hurry.”
The first row of Undead had fallen like bowling pins, but more kept coming. One group of soldiers was out in front and about to be surrounded. The group’s leader realized the danger they were in and ordered his team to retreat, but it was too late. About thirty or forty Undead had already gathered and were almost within arm’s reach. One of the Undead lashed out at the nearest soldier and grabbed his rifle. The soldier pulled away and tried to recover his rifle, but another Undead pounced on him. Before anyone could do anything, the Undead sank his teeth into the soldier’s neck. He let out a gut-wrenching howl you could hear all the way up to the Ithaca’s deck. With a twist of his head, the Undead ripped off a piece of the guy’s neck just before another soldier shot him in the head. But it was too late. The man lay sprawled on the ground, blood shooting from his carotid artery as his heart kept pumping. The group continued their panicked retreat as the poor guy bled to death on the boiling pavement.