infected with the virus that created the Undead. With a shiver, I realized that if they had the slightest doubt, all the welcome we’d get was some lead to the head.
“You’re serious… you’re from Galicia?” The Catalan girl turned to Lucia, with the same doubt in her voice.
“Of course we are!” Lucia exploded. “I flew over two thousand miles in that fucking Russian blender, crossed the Peninsula and the Sahara desert. I’ve had it up to here! Got it? I want a hot meal, a long shower, and I want to sleep for three days in a real bed! So don’t ask me if I’m serious, because I don’t feel like fucking around! Okay?” The pressure was too much. She broke down and sobbed.
I threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, stroking her hair. For all her tough-girl posturing, she was just a seventeen-year-old kid, robbed of her entire world. She had every right to explode.
“Where’re we headed?” I asked.
“Tenerife,” the Argentine guy replied, calmer. “One of the last safe places on the face of the earth.” He looked deep into my eyes. “We’re going home.”
10
The searing midday sun glinted off the Atlantic Ocean in a million flashes of silver. The silence was broken only by the cries from flocks of gannets and the clatter of the helicopter flying low. The salt-laden wind whistled through the open side doors and tore through our hair.
“How’re things in Tenerife?” I asked loudly, to be heard in the cabin.
“Sorry. Can’t say,” said the tall Argentine tersely. “Until the authorities make a ruling on you, the less you know, the better.”
The petite, thirty-something woman with the Catalan accent chimed in, “Even if you pass the quarantine, immigration services’ll have to approve you. It’s not up to us.”
“Immigration Services? What’re you talking about? I’m a Spanish citizen. So are the two ladies. And Prit’s papers are in order. We don’t need permission to be on European soil… at least we didn’t used to.”
The woman’s intelligent eyes glistened and she shook her head. I was puzzled to see her pull on latex gloves. “Things have changed a lot since the Apocalypse. The situation is very complicated. Rules, regulations, and laws from before have gone out the window. The Canary Islands are no paradise—they’re the Wild West.” There was a thick silence in the helicopter as her words sank in. “But we’re always thrilled to come across humans in the midst of all this shit,” she said with a broad, sincere smile, as she stuck out her latex-clad hand. “My name’s Paula Maria, but everyone calls me Pauli!” she exclaimed in a lively voice. “Welcome back to civilization!”
“Thank you, Pauli.” I shook her friendly but prudently gloved hand. “This is Lucia. In the corner is Sister Cecilia, and the charming guy with the dashing mustache is Viktor Pritchenko, from the Ukraine.”
“Well, the scowling guy next to me is Marcelo. As you’ve probably guessed from his accent, he’s
Porteño
, from Buenos Aires.” She gave the guy a friendly nudge with her rifle.
Marcelo gave a quick nod, his grim expression unchanged. He was as stern as Pauli was congenial. They made a very odd couple.
“What’s the procedure?” Pritchenko spoke for the first time.
“It’s a no-brainer,” Marcelo said with a dismissive shrug. “We leave you on the quarantine ship. Once medical tests verify you’re clean, immigration officers will take care of all the paperwork. Quick and easy.”
“Marcelo makes it sound so cold-hearted, but we can’t be too careful,” intervened Pauli. “I imagine Alicia will oversee your case.”
“Alicia?” All those names were making my head spin after being cut off from the world for so long.
“Commander Alicia Pons is the head of transit and immigration services in Tenerife.”
“Oh! The Commander! To what do we owe the honor?”
“Very simple,” Marcelo replied. “If your story is true, you’re the
“You’re serious… you’re from Galicia?” The Catalan girl turned to Lucia, with the same doubt in her voice.
“Of course we are!” Lucia exploded. “I flew over two thousand miles in that fucking Russian blender, crossed the Peninsula and the Sahara desert. I’ve had it up to here! Got it? I want a hot meal, a long shower, and I want to sleep for three days in a real bed! So don’t ask me if I’m serious, because I don’t feel like fucking around! Okay?” The pressure was too much. She broke down and sobbed.
I threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, stroking her hair. For all her tough-girl posturing, she was just a seventeen-year-old kid, robbed of her entire world. She had every right to explode.
“Where’re we headed?” I asked.
“Tenerife,” the Argentine guy replied, calmer. “One of the last safe places on the face of the earth.” He looked deep into my eyes. “We’re going home.”
10
The searing midday sun glinted off the Atlantic Ocean in a million flashes of silver. The silence was broken only by the cries from flocks of gannets and the clatter of the helicopter flying low. The salt-laden wind whistled through the open side doors and tore through our hair.
“How’re things in Tenerife?” I asked loudly, to be heard in the cabin.
“Sorry. Can’t say,” said the tall Argentine tersely. “Until the authorities make a ruling on you, the less you know, the better.”
The petite, thirty-something woman with the Catalan accent chimed in, “Even if you pass the quarantine, immigration services’ll have to approve you. It’s not up to us.”
“Immigration Services? What’re you talking about? I’m a Spanish citizen. So are the two ladies. And Prit’s papers are in order. We don’t need permission to be on European soil… at least we didn’t used to.”
The woman’s intelligent eyes glistened and she shook her head. I was puzzled to see her pull on latex gloves. “Things have changed a lot since the Apocalypse. The situation is very complicated. Rules, regulations, and laws from before have gone out the window. The Canary Islands are no paradise—they’re the Wild West.” There was a thick silence in the helicopter as her words sank in. “But we’re always thrilled to come across humans in the midst of all this shit,” she said with a broad, sincere smile, as she stuck out her latex-clad hand. “My name’s Paula Maria, but everyone calls me Pauli!” she exclaimed in a lively voice. “Welcome back to civilization!”
“Thank you, Pauli.” I shook her friendly but prudently gloved hand. “This is Lucia. In the corner is Sister Cecilia, and the charming guy with the dashing mustache is Viktor Pritchenko, from the Ukraine.”
“Well, the scowling guy next to me is Marcelo. As you’ve probably guessed from his accent, he’s
Porteño
, from Buenos Aires.” She gave the guy a friendly nudge with her rifle.
Marcelo gave a quick nod, his grim expression unchanged. He was as stern as Pauli was congenial. They made a very odd couple.
“What’s the procedure?” Pritchenko spoke for the first time.
“It’s a no-brainer,” Marcelo said with a dismissive shrug. “We leave you on the quarantine ship. Once medical tests verify you’re clean, immigration officers will take care of all the paperwork. Quick and easy.”
“Marcelo makes it sound so cold-hearted, but we can’t be too careful,” intervened Pauli. “I imagine Alicia will oversee your case.”
“Alicia?” All those names were making my head spin after being cut off from the world for so long.
“Commander Alicia Pons is the head of transit and immigration services in Tenerife.”
“Oh! The Commander! To what do we owe the honor?”
“Very simple,” Marcelo replied. “If your story is true, you’re the
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