Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

by Manel Loureiro

I haven’t slept well for several nights. For a cocktail that’ll blow your mind, mix together one part stress, one part anxiety, and a shot of that constant, merciless, monotonous pounding. I considered taking sleeping pills, but I’m leery of chemically induced sleep. If those things got in somehow while I was under the influence of Valium, I’d never know what hit me. I’d be a nice, warm, sleeping meal served up on a silver platter. So, no thank you, no Valium.

  I’ve thought about playing music, but if I turn it up loud enough to drown those things out, I’ll attract hundreds of them straight to my door. Like a fucking pied piper. So that’s out. I put on headphones, but I can’t stand them for very long. Every couple of minutes, I think I hear them breaking down the steel gate and climbing up the stairs after me. In bed at night, I’ve ripped the headphones off, trembling, clutching a gun I really don’t know how to use. I’m getting so paranoid. If I don’t figure something out soon, I’ll go crazy.

  Since yesterday, three things have happened—one good, one average, and one bad. The good news is that when I was messing around with the shortwave radio, twisting the dials back and forth like I’ve done for days with no luck, I suddenly picked up a signal. It’s weak, with a lot of static, but I clearly heard a human voice. I jumped for joy and hugged Lucullus so hard he glared at me all day. It’s a military station that broadcasts news and advisories. Apparently, they still control the Canary Islands. The government and the royal family have taken refuge there. I heard a message from the king. I couldn’t understand most of what he said, because of the static. But I’m absolutely positive it was him.

  They said that the Canaries are completely full of refugees from the peninsula. They’re running low on fuel, food, and water, so they urge people not to go there. Army units will divert any boat or aircraft attempting to reach them. Those bastards! They’re like the Titanic survivors who used their oars to beat back anyone who tried to climb into their lifeboats. They’re sitting pretty in their lifeboat and are afraid they’ll tip over and sink if too many of us climb aboard. They’re telling us politely but firmly to stick it up our ass. Hey! We’re just trying to survive.

  It’s a huge relief to know I’m not the last survivor on the face of the earth. So to hell with them! If the Canaries are secure, there must be other places with people, food, conversation, heat, and hot water. God, I’d kill for a hot bath.

  The fifty-two regional forces had already been reduced to forty, and now they’ve been consolidated into four main units. Their strength has been extremely reduced. The number of casualties is appalling. The poor guy wrapped in plastic on my porch could testify to that. There’ve been dozens of desertions and “lost” units. They have only enough resources to defend the few Safe Havens that have managed to survive, but they don’t know for how long. Until the last bullet, I guess. The outlook is really bleak.

  The average news is that I heard gunshots again today, coming from the southwest, somewhere between downtown and the road to La Coruña. It was nearly sunrise. A series of quick pops like pistols and then a series of hiccups I’d say were assault rifles. That went on for about half an hour and then suddenly stopped. Either there was no one left to shoot at, or none of the shooters survived.

  The bad news is that for twenty-four hours I haven’t heard anything from my asshole neighbor. He doesn’t answer when I call to him over the wall. His evil, ugly mutt, Lucullus’ sworn enemy, usually prowls around the wall, waiting for my cat to slip and fall. An hour ago I heard a horrible yelping inside his house. It sounded like someone was killing the poor thing. Then the yelping stopped. A little while ago, I peered over the wall. I didn’t see the dog or its owner. Those posts Miguel stacked in the backyard are the only witnesses to whatever’s going on over there. I’m afraid I won’t like it, whatever it is.

  ENTRY 41

  February 1, 9:00 p.m.

  * * *

  Murphy’s Law says when things can go wrong, they go really wrong. The jerk who wrote that book must be really happy with himself. If he’s still alive. No one gives a shit about his ideas these days. Everyone has to cover his own ass in this new world of the “not living.”

  I spent most of the morning leaning over my garden wall, trying to get my idiot neighbor’s attention without making a lot of noise. I finally gave up. I went back inside, feeling really uneasy. What if something happened to him? I ran through the list of all the accidents that moron could have suffered, everything from falling down the stairs to slipping in the tub. As I fixed a cup of instant coffee, I kept thinking that one of those things might’ve bitten him when he went on his insane outing. But I quickly dismissed it. Wouldn’t he have told me? When I saw all the blood on him, it had occurred to me that he was hiding something. Would that idiot lie about something that important? I didn’t want to believe that.

  His lack of common sense could cause me loads of problems, but he was the only other living person around. Plus, he generously gave me the fence posts I asked him for. I owed him. I never dreamed I’d repay that debt by driving him through a city devastated by death and chaos to get to a boat that might not even be there. It was a really stupid plan, but he was obsessed with it. When I wouldn’t go with him, he’d tried to go alone. He blew it before he even got to the corner.

  But I didn’t want to be left alone. I was panicking.

  Maybe he was stoned out of his mind. Lately he’d been doing a lot of cocaine. Maybe he’d snorted one line too many, or maybe the shit his dealer sold him was cut with something lethal. My imagination was getting the best of me. I pictured him lying on his kitchen floor in his stupid striped overalls, blood running out his nose, dying twenty yards from me while I was scratching my balls. I set my cup in the sink and went in the backyard.

  I went to the storage shed and dug out the rope I use to resurface after a deep dive. The rope has thick knots every eighteen inches to help me calculate the depth. That way I can surface slowly, decompress, and not get the bends.

  Now I was going to slide down that rope into his yard. I tied one end to the chimney of my barbecue pit and unrolled the rope over the wall into my neighbor’s yard. It was freezing cold. A soft blanket of frost covered his lawn and the piles of posts. Except for those things’ constant pounding and their terrifying groans, it was absolutely still. Without a second thought, I climbed up the ladder to the top of my side of the wall, swung my legs over the ledge, and slid into my neighbor’s yard.

  When I reached Miguel’s yard, it occurred to me I was only wearing a sweater and jeans. The only weapon I had was some cable cutters in my pants pocket. Yes, sir. You’re really prepared...now that takes balls. I was just about to go back and get the right equipment when I heard a rustling inside the house. I’d look really stupid if I showed up in my wetsuit, speargun in hand, only to find him lying on the couch, drinking a beer, listening to music with headphones on. No, I’d rather risk it. I had my pride, after all.

  I crossed his yard, stepping carefully onto the unfinished deck. The smell of sawdust and varnish was really strong. Tools and empty paint cans were scattered everywhere. Inside, the house was dark and gloomy. I gently knocked on the back door and called to Miguel. Nothing. But when I reached for the handle, all hell broke loose.

  The window on my left broke. Out came that thing’s arms and head. It wasn’t Miguel, but it had been. Poor fool. He’d just wanted to “surprise me.” Then one of those things had bitten him.

  Now he was screwed. To make matters worse, he was trying to fuck me up. I ran like hell for the wall. I must have banged my ankle on some posts, because it’s now the size of a tennis ball. When I got to the wall, I turned and saw Miguel trying to wriggle through the window frame. He must’ve cut himself. Dark, infected blood streamed down his left arm, soaking his clothes. I stood there like a dick, mesmerized. I snapped out of it only when he got all the way out of his house and started toward me. They might look slow, but they’re really fast!

  I started scrambling up the rope. It’s not easy, especial
ly when you know if you slip, you’re dead. Or worse. He was right behind me. I think he touched one of my boots. When I reached the top of the wall, I looked down at him. He was angry, mean, covered in his own blood. He was one of them.

  I went inside and grabbed my camera, an HP 735 digital camera. It was old, but it had a fantastic Pentax lens. I took a couple pictures of that howling thing down there so I could study it later and not be in any more danger.

  Now I’m in the kitchen, looking at the pictures on my laptop. I can hear him scratching and banging on the wall. I need to do something about him, but I haven’t come up with anything. I have to decide. Tomorrow.

  ENTRY 42

  February 2, 7:54 p.m.

  * * *

  I spent the whole day thinking about what to do about that thing scraping my wall. The decision got harder and harder to make. Most people would end his suffering. If he was suffering.

  Did he know what he was? Did he perceive reality the way I did? Do those things think or feel emotions? Is anything left of their old self? Or is their spirit completely obliterated when they die and are reborn? Do they remember anything from their former life? Do they sleep or dream? Hell, all I know about those predators is that they want to hunt me down. Like all the other humans, I’m their prey.

  Even knowing that, I had a hard time deciding what to do about Miguel. This guy was someone I knew. He was my neighbor, for the love of God. Although he was a complete moron, I couldn’t imagine stabbing him in the head with a steel spear. I’m no murderer.

  It took me three hours and half a bottle of gin to muster up the courage to end Miguel’s life. His shouting was driving me crazy, and that tipped the balance. I could hear him all over the house. His voice, tirelessly demanding my blood, was getting to me. I was becoming hysterical.

  Drunk, worked up into a frenzy, I grabbed the speargun. It took three tries to load a spear on the tightest setting. Stumbling, I climbed the ladder to the top of the wall and stuck my head over. As soon as he saw me, he shouted even louder, stretching his arms toward me, trying to grab me. He was just two yards away. Even a guy drunk on his ass could make that shot. I pulled the trigger, and the spear flew out with a sharp hiss. It entered his head with a crack right above his right eyebrow. He grimaced in surprise (or relief?) and collapsed like a sack.

  Then the dam burst. I started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t stop. Fat tears ran down my cheeks. A minute later, I was crying my eyes out, leaning against the wall, the speargun still in my hand. I’d murdered my neighbor from the top of the garden wall. I’d driven a piece of steel into his head. Just the day before, we were making plans and I was laughing at his lame jokes. Now I’d killed him. This is bullshit. I feel very alone. I’ll go crazy if this keeps up.

  I climbed down the rope into his yard, landing next to the body. When I put weight on the ankle I injured yesterday, pain shot through me. God, it hurts! I hope it’s only a sprain and not a broken bone. I limped over to a pile of wood and grabbed a thick rubber tarp. I dragged the body to a corner of the yard and wrapped it in the tarp. I should bury him. I should pray for him. Fuck, I don’t know if I’m still a believer.

  I studied his house for a moment. The back door was still closed. The window Miguel had come through was shattered. Broken glass and clotted blood covered the ground. A bloodstained curtain was sticking out. The house was dark and silent. And empty.

  I had to go in. I knew I should go in. I had to make sure there weren’t any more of those things inside, and that the wood door was still braced closed. The last thing I needed was a couple dozen of those monsters in his backyard. Then I remembered that Miguel was a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He must have a ton of samples somewhere. I could use some painkillers. Most importantly, his house faces the other street. Maybe there was a way out there.

  It was nighttime, and darkness obscured everything, so I couldn’t go in. Miguel’s house had no electricity. I wasn’t about to go into the lion’s den in the dark, drunk and without my wetsuit. No way. I’ll leave that for tomorrow.

  I climbed back up the rope and went home. I’m sober now, lying on the sofa in the dark, listening to the steady blows against my gate. I feel a dull, pulsating hangover coming on. I’ll try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll go in that house and come up with some kind of a plan. I’ve got to get out of here.

  ENTRY 43

  February 3, 5:07 p.m.

  * * *

  I’m sitting in the hammock in my backyard. The last rays of the cold winter sun are falling on this small rectangle of grass, warming my bones a little. Lucullus is napping contentedly in my lap, dreaming whatever cats dream about. It’s the most peaceful time I’ve spent in weeks. That’s the truth. If it weren’t for those things howling and pounding on the gate, I’d think it was a quiet Sunday afternoon. I almost feel like fixing hot chocolate and watching a movie. Unfortunately, it isn’t Sunday afternoon, and my neighbors are among the undead out there, eager to kill me. Plus I’ve been out of milk for two weeks. Life sucks.

  I slept until almost noon, recovering from my hangover. When I got up, I fixed myself a regal breakfast of a couple of cups of strong coffee and a bowl of beans out of a can and mayonnaise. My diet has become so monotonous over the last few days.

  Today I have to face several problems. First, the soldier’s body lying in front of the door. He’s been decomposing all week, and he’s starting to smell really bad. If I don’t do something, it could make me sick.

  I locked Lucullus up in my bedroom. All I needed was for him to jump on the body and then lick himself. After I wrapped the body in plastic, I dragged it out to the backyard, trying to keep from retching. The smell it left in the foyer, hallway, and living room was indescribable. I considered dousing the body with gas out of the lawn mower and setting it on fire, but that grisly idea made me stop and think. I don’t know whether those things can smell or how well they can see. If they can see, then a column of smoke rising in a clear blue sky would draw them in droves. My only choice was to bury him in the backyard.

  Resigning myself, I set to work digging a shallow grave in the corner of the yard, next to the barbecue pit. The ground was soft and muddy, so it was easy. I used a small spade, the only garden tool I could find. I slid the body into the hole and covered it. Then, dirty and sweaty, I sat down next to the mound. I lit a cigarette and considered the irony of the situation. This humble grave digging in my backyard was probably the most luxurious funeral held for weeks. Maybe the only one.

  I threw the butt on the ground and went back inside. I washed up a little, wincing at the freezing cold water, then fixed some food for Lucullus and me. Today, more canned food. I’m down to canned sardines. That goofy cat is thrilled with this diet.

  I got everything ready for the toughest task of the day. I pulled on my wetsuit and checked my speargun. I only had the three spears left. The fourth one was in my hapless neighbor’s head. I didn’t even have the umbrella handle; I’d left it lying on the street when I killed one of those monsters. The soldier’s gun was my last line of defense.

  The Glock felt huge and dangerous in my hand. I still wasn’t sure how to use it, but at least I’d identified its parts: trigger, safety, magazine release, etc. It was loaded, but I’d try not to use it. I knew what those things did when they heard a noise. If I shot the gun, I might take out a few, but the noise would draw dozens more in minutes. I’d save it for another time.

  After saying every prayer I knew, I climbed the ladder back over the wall and eased down into Miguel’s backyard. Everything was the way I’d left it. His body was still in the corner, in a gray heap, wrapped in plastic. Warily, I went over to him, gave a couple of tugs, and pulled the spear out of his head. I must be getting desensitized because this time I didn’t throw up. Interesting. If I survive long enough, I could become a textbook psychopath.

  I left the spear on the grass and carefully walked toward the house. It was still dark and silent. I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it
. Locked. I should have known. I’d have to go in the way Miguel came out yesterday—through the window. I slipped inside, careful not to cut myself on the blood-soaked glass. It was a disgusting scene. The damn dog, or what was left of him, was lying in a corner, ripped to shreds. He looked like he’d been attacked by wolves. The dog must’ve been concerned and gone over to his dying master, only to find he’d turned into a ruthless predator that tore him to pieces in seconds. Life’s a bitch.

  I quickly checked the house. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. It was empty and safe. None of those monsters had gotten in. The front door was armor-plated. They could beat on it for centuries, and it wouldn’t budge. I went upstairs and glanced out the window. I could see the entire street and two cars parked out front. One was a delivery van with the logo of Miguel’s company on the side. The other was a Mercedes, also Miguel’s; the door on the driver’s side was hanging open. There was blood on the upholstery and a corpse lying next to the car. Another one was not far away, lying halfway between the front door and the car. Miguel must have brushed against them. That’s what cost him his life.

  After I’d checked out the entire house, I breathed a sigh of relief. The size of my territory had doubled. What’s more, that street offered some interesting possibilities. I might be able to get out that way.

  I grabbed a box of powerful painkillers off a table and went home. It’d be dark soon, and I hadn’t brought a flashlight. I didn’t want to wander around a strange house in the dark. I’ll come back tomorrow, when I can scavenge to my heart’s content. That’ll also give me time to come up with a plan.

  ENTRY 44

  February 6, 5:57 p.m.

  * * *

  It’s been days since I sat down to write in this journal. I’m really drained emotionally. Those monsters keep up their slow, steady pounding. They can’t knock the door down like that, but they’re shattering my nerves. If I stay here much longer, I’ll be safe, but I’ll run out of food. And I’ll go insane. I need to come up with a plan—fast.