Manel Loureiro - Dark Days

As it landed, the Sokol kicked up a huge cloud of dust and sand. Before it could settle, Prit and I jumped out of the chopper, pistols in hand, our hearts in our throats, peering desperately through that ragged cloud for Undead staggering around the area.

After we made sure the parking lot was deserted, my heart quit racing. When the Sokol’s engines were turned off, a deathly silence spread over the parking lot. There wasn’t a single sound, not even birds chirping. The roar of the helicopter must’ve frightened them all off. Or maybe there were no fucking birds left in the area.

For a moment, I got the uneasy feeling we were the last people left on the face of the earth. Just then Lucullus got spooked and let out a strange meow that woke me out of my trance.

Pritchenko and Lucia ran over to the helicopter’s transport net, unhooked it, and folded it back, revealing the yellow drums filled with jet fuel. Pushing aside the empties, the Ukrainian rolled a full drum up to the helicopter. With a flick of his wrist, he popped the cap open and inserted a rubber hose, connected the other end to the Sokol’s tank, and let the fuel flow into the bird.

During the few minutes it took to fill the tank, we were extremely vulnerable. With the chopper on the ground, its cargo net open and highly flammable liquid pumping into its tank, a fast takeoff was out of the question. If any Undead had showed up, we’d have been screwed.

After making sure nothing was moving in the area, I motioned to Prit that I was going to grab a cigarette. All I found while scrounging around in the cabin were a couple of squashed, damp Camels. That pissed me off. We’d taken plenty of supplies and medicine from the hospital, but we were running really low on smokes.

I gazed over at the restaurant at the far end of the parking lot: dubious. It was a dive, but I’d have bet a million euros there was a cigarette machine by the door. The place looked deserted, so I decided to check it out.

Before I headed for the restaurant, I turned to tell everyone I was going. Prit and Lucia had their backs to me and were in a heated debate about how to stack the empty drums in the net. Sister Cecilia was taking a quick nap, glad for a break from those terrifying heights and to be back on terra firma. Lucullus was indifferent to me, as he groomed himself, oblivious to the world. I shrugged. I’d only be gone a minute.

The door was locked, so I looked around for another way in. Flower pots filled with wilted plants were lined up in front. A sun-bleached sign for ice cream lay on the ground next to a tattered umbrella, a dust-encrusted table, and a couple of plastic chairs. Tossed in the far corner, collecting dirt, was a denim jacket so faded its color was unrecognizable.

The door wouldn’t budge. I had better luck with one of the old wood-frame windows that opened into the kitchen. The passage of time and the heat generated by the grill had warped it, leaving it open a few inches at the top. I drew out my knife and stuck the blade in the gap to jimmy it open. After a minute or two, the latch broke with a dull crack . The window rose silently, leaving enough room for me to climb into the cool, shady interior.

I stealthily made my way into the kitchen, peering into the darkness. The change from bright light to shadows left me blinded for a few seconds. To make matters worse, the rotten smell took my breath away. I covered my nose with my sleeve. My eyes teared up and bile rose in my throat.

As I got accustomed to the half-light, I could make out details in the kitchen. The smell was coming from a huge, industrial freezer standing wide open. Hundreds of pounds of pork and beef had been rotting in there for months. On the counter, thousands of maggots swarmed over what had once been pork ribs and were even crawling on the handle of the knife lying beside the meat. Next to that, a pile of rotten tomatoes waited for someone to slice them for a salad that would never be served. On the stove was a scorched pan; the smoke it gave off as it burned had left a large ring on the ceiling. The gas jet remained open, but the gas had long since run out. It was a miracle the place hadn’t burned to the ground.

Judging from the scene, the folks in that greasy spoon had fled in panic, not stopping to do the most basic things. I knew exactly what had frightened them so much.

I eased the kitchen door open. A dozen tables covered with rotting food were arranged around the dining room. It looked like a still life in chiaroscuro some great artist had painted. A purse hung from the back of a chair, abandoned by its owner as she fled.

I looked around the charmless room till I spotted a cigarette vending machine next to the bar. A calendar, forever open to February, was stuck to the mirror, surrounded by bottles of cognac, photos of Real Madrid and team flags. I slipped behind the bar and rummaged through drawers crammed with receipts till I found a bunch of keys. I smiled, pleased to find that one of those keys opened the cigarette machine.

From outside came the muffled sound of metal cans clanking together, signaling that Prit and Lucia were closing up the cargo net and were ready to take off. I panicked as I pictured them taking off without me, leaving me in that dirty, forgotten corner, far from the hand of God. That was a ridiculous idea, completely unfounded, but to a mind with so little rest, it seemed plausible. I rushed around, stuffing as many packs as I could into my backpack, spilling cigarettes onto the floor. I even grabbed the cheap brands. Who knew where I’d find the next supply?

I was about to leave when I decided I’d better finally answer the call of nature. After flying for seven hours without a break, my bladder was about to explode. Prit bragged that he could piss into a bottle as he was flying. No doubt he could, but the idea of peeing in front of a nun and a seventeen-year-old hottie just didn’t sit well with me, so I’d held it. Until then.

I slung my rifle across my back and unzipped my pants on the way to the john to save time. As I stood at the urinal, I felt a huge sense of relief.

Just as I was zipping up, I saw a hand reflected in the chrome urinal. Behind that hand, an arm, then the rest of the woman. She was enormous, around two hundred pounds. What was left of her curly hair was in fat ringlets. Someone—or something—had eaten half her face and ripped her arms out of their sockets. I spotted a half-devoured arm lying in a pool of dried blood on the bathroom floor. The arm I’d seen coming through the door was attached to her shoulder by just a couple of tendons; it swayed wildly as she lurched from side to side.

Before I could turn around, the monster jumped on me and flattened me against the wall. I felt her breath on my neck and heard her teeth clanking against the barrel of the rifle on my back. Fortunately she didn’t have any arms, otherwise she’d have stopped me cold. I fought off her first onslaught, but the situation was still dire. Bracing my hands on the wall, I pushed back but the thing’s teeth had a firm grip on my rifle. Just then, my feet slipped out from under me.

We hit the ground and rolled. I wriggled free of her dead weight and started crawling to the door. I watched in horror as she ferociously chomped down on one of my boots. With my other foot, I flailed around wildly, kicking her in the gaping red hole that had once been her face.

I didn’t want to die. Not there in the filthy bathroom of that God-forsaken roadhouse, dragging myself along the ground with my pants unzipped.

With both hands I grabbed one of the spears I always carried in the sheath strapped to my leg (my spear gun was back in the helicopter). I raised it over my head and plunged it into the center of that creature’s skull. With a soft squish, the spear’s steel tip slid into her head till it reached bone, where it stuck.