that ladder had the answer.
A gloved hand at the end of an arm in a drab olive uniform helped me into the cabin. When we were all on board, the helicopter flew off, circling the runway at full speed. I lay on the floor, panting, feeling the nausea that washed over me every time I had a brush with death. I sat up and tried to collect myself. I didn’t want the first impression that bunch of strangers had was me throwing up out the chopper’s door.
I turned to smile at the man with the gloved hand. He was tall and thin, in his thirties, wearing a flight suit, his face partially covered by a helmet and mirrored goggles. The guy spoke before I could get a word out.
“Up against the bulkhead, please,” said the voice, polite but firm with a distinct Argentine accent.
“Hello, my name is—” I stuck my hand out to my savior but stopped short when the guy pointed the barrel of his rifle at my stomach.
“Sir, up against the bulkhead… NOW!”
I raised my hands and, with my eyes glued to the rifle, moved to the aft bulkhead, where the rest of my “family” was lined up. Lucia looked terrified. Sister Cecilia wore an expression the Christians must’ve had when they faced the lions in Roman times. Stripped of his rifle, Prit shotfire from his eyes; his whole body boiled with rage. Given the slightest provocation, he’d break someone’s neck. I knew my friend was capable of that and more, so I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s see what’s going on here.”
I turned and faced the front. The cabin of this helicopter was a lot smaller than the Sokol’s, so we were just three feet from our new traveling companions, a man and a woman, both dressed in fatigues. Up front, the pilot and copilot had their hands full controlling the helicopter, which was shaking violently, caught in a stream of hot air. The copilot was talking to someone over the radio. I couldn’t hear what he was saying on account of the noise coming from the rotor, but the musical rhythm in his voice left no doubt he was from Buenos Aires.
Argentines, like the helicopter. But their flight suits had the Spanish Air Force insignia embroidered on the right sleeve. When the woman leaned over and said something to the man, her accent was unmistakably Catalan, from northern Spain.
“Sorry for the reception!” she shouted over the noise. “But rules are rules. Nothing personal, but until you pass the quarantine, we have to follow protocol.” She paused for a second and then looked at us curiously. “Are you Froilists?”
“Froilists?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s that?
With a wave of her hand, she said, “You’ll find out soon… if you live that long.”
That didn’t sound very promising.
“Where’re you from?” asked the tall Argentine. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, he didn’t take his eye off us, especially Pritchenko. The finger resting on the trigger of his rifle said
Don’t do anything stupid
. This guy knew what he was doing.
“Pontevedra… I mean Vigo, in Galicia,” said Lucia.
“You’re from the Peninsula?” Clearly he didn’t believe us.
“Yeah! So?” His smartass tone had pissed me off. “We flew to the Canaries along the African coast. Then one last jump to Lanzarote, where we ran out of fuel and now… you guys…” I left my words hanging in the air.
I shot our interrogators a challenging look. It was their turn. They looked at each other and relaxed a bit.
“Hey! Take it easy!” The Argentine said, more to Pritchenko than to me. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from or if you’re telling the truth. The most important thing is we don’t know if you’re infected or not. Until we know for sure, we have to take precautions, okay?”
I finally got it. This was one of the last outposts of survivors; of course they’d take every precaution and quarantine us. Our saviors didn’t know if we were
A gloved hand at the end of an arm in a drab olive uniform helped me into the cabin. When we were all on board, the helicopter flew off, circling the runway at full speed. I lay on the floor, panting, feeling the nausea that washed over me every time I had a brush with death. I sat up and tried to collect myself. I didn’t want the first impression that bunch of strangers had was me throwing up out the chopper’s door.
I turned to smile at the man with the gloved hand. He was tall and thin, in his thirties, wearing a flight suit, his face partially covered by a helmet and mirrored goggles. The guy spoke before I could get a word out.
“Up against the bulkhead, please,” said the voice, polite but firm with a distinct Argentine accent.
“Hello, my name is—” I stuck my hand out to my savior but stopped short when the guy pointed the barrel of his rifle at my stomach.
“Sir, up against the bulkhead… NOW!”
I raised my hands and, with my eyes glued to the rifle, moved to the aft bulkhead, where the rest of my “family” was lined up. Lucia looked terrified. Sister Cecilia wore an expression the Christians must’ve had when they faced the lions in Roman times. Stripped of his rifle, Prit shotfire from his eyes; his whole body boiled with rage. Given the slightest provocation, he’d break someone’s neck. I knew my friend was capable of that and more, so I put a hand on his shoulder to calm him down.
“Easy, pal,” I whispered. “Don’t do anything stupid. Let’s see what’s going on here.”
I turned and faced the front. The cabin of this helicopter was a lot smaller than the Sokol’s, so we were just three feet from our new traveling companions, a man and a woman, both dressed in fatigues. Up front, the pilot and copilot had their hands full controlling the helicopter, which was shaking violently, caught in a stream of hot air. The copilot was talking to someone over the radio. I couldn’t hear what he was saying on account of the noise coming from the rotor, but the musical rhythm in his voice left no doubt he was from Buenos Aires.
Argentines, like the helicopter. But their flight suits had the Spanish Air Force insignia embroidered on the right sleeve. When the woman leaned over and said something to the man, her accent was unmistakably Catalan, from northern Spain.
“Sorry for the reception!” she shouted over the noise. “But rules are rules. Nothing personal, but until you pass the quarantine, we have to follow protocol.” She paused for a second and then looked at us curiously. “Are you Froilists?”
“Froilists?” I asked, bewildered. “What’s that?
With a wave of her hand, she said, “You’ll find out soon… if you live that long.”
That didn’t sound very promising.
“Where’re you from?” asked the tall Argentine. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, he didn’t take his eye off us, especially Pritchenko. The finger resting on the trigger of his rifle said
Don’t do anything stupid
. This guy knew what he was doing.
“Pontevedra… I mean Vigo, in Galicia,” said Lucia.
“You’re from the Peninsula?” Clearly he didn’t believe us.
“Yeah! So?” His smartass tone had pissed me off. “We flew to the Canaries along the African coast. Then one last jump to Lanzarote, where we ran out of fuel and now… you guys…” I left my words hanging in the air.
I shot our interrogators a challenging look. It was their turn. They looked at each other and relaxed a bit.
“Hey! Take it easy!” The Argentine said, more to Pritchenko than to me. “We don’t know who you are or where you come from or if you’re telling the truth. The most important thing is we don’t know if you’re infected or not. Until we know for sure, we have to take precautions, okay?”
I finally got it. This was one of the last outposts of survivors; of course they’d take every precaution and quarantine us. Our saviors didn’t know if we were
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