Using my last ounce of strength, I splashed up to the sailboat. It was forty feet long, with graceful lines and a polished transom bearing its name, the Corinth. My new boat. My salvation. I grasped the gunwale in the stern and dragged myself on board. I figured out why no one had taken this boat—and what I’d have to do to sail it.
ENTRY 51
February 13, 11:26 a.m.
* * *
It’s pouring rain. The morning sky is a leaden gray. Violent gusts of wind are blowing out of the north, sweeping sheets of rain against the portholes in the cabin as the Corinth rides out the waves. The wind is whistling through the rigging, and rain is pounding the deck. I’m holed up in the cabin with a steaming cup of coffee, trying to get my thoughts together and plan my next move. There must be a powerful storm raging out on the open sea. Its undertow is rocking the boat. My boat. My new home.
When I boarded the Corinth, I wasn’t thrilled with what I saw. Someone had tried to seize the boat but had failed. The pieces of the puzzle were coming together.
Dried blood was splashed across the deck. Splintered fiberglass and an ugly scar on the boom backed up my theory that someone had fired a weapon. I could picture the scene. Night fell at the Safe Haven. A tide of creatures broke through the lines of defense. The civilians panicked. Hundreds of people rushed to boats moored in the harbor, looking for a way out. There wasn’t room for everyone, so it was dog-eat-dog. Proof of that struggle was everywhere. From the looks of it, they took the fight to the decks of the boats as they shoved off, overloaded, half-sunk, fleeing the doomed city.
The river must have dragged down many bodies that day. The image makes me sick. But something went wrong on the Corinth. On closer inspection, I figured out what.
The Corinth is forty beautiful, sharp, aggressive feet long. The deck is trimmed in chrome and teakwood. A real beauty. The interior is wide and spacious, comfortable yet compact, what you’d expect in this type of boat. I couldn’t understand how anyone could have bypassed this gorgeous sailboat. Even the harbor’s security boat, an old wooden barge, had been requisitioned.
The Corinth was anchored not at the pier but at the mouth of the river, tethered to the muddy river bottom. Instead of the usual nylon rope, it had a chain on its anchor. These days, chains are almost never used on sailboats because of their excess weight. Most sailors prefer the very high-tensile-strength rope mountain climbers use.
The previous owner of the Corinth must have been old-fashioned. To raise that heavy anchor, you had to use a small electric motor located next to the hawse hole in the bow. The chain is drawn up through that hole. On the horrific night the Safe Haven fell, a large number of people must’ve boarded the boat, hoping to escape out to sea. Some of them shot at other fugitives (and were shot at, judging from all the blood and bullet holes), while someone tried to weigh anchor. That person had no clue what to do. He didn’t know the anchor was attached to bolts sunk deep into the silt at the bottom of the river. Instead of slowly winding the chain up, thereby releasing the suction that held the anchor at the bottom of the river, he ran that motor at top speed. It overheated and burned up.
The guy must have been too terrified with what was going on around him to realize he was overloading the winch. By then it was too late. With the motor burned out, there was no way to weigh anchor. Someone had tried to chop off the bracket with an ax (it was still in the hawse hole) but only succeeded in stripping the finish off the fiberglass. They couldn’t cut the chain, and time was running out. A boat that couldn’t sail served no purpose, so they must’ve abandoned it for another boat. End of story.
Now I was on the deck of the Corinth, trying to figure out how to free the anchor. I had to get the boat going at any cost. There was a way, but it meant getting wet again.
I dried Lucullus off and settled him in the cabin. Then I dived back into the dark waters of the Lérez and swam toward the yacht club. Once I got there, I headed for a protected corner where I could check out the main entrance. The gate was locked. Monsters were wandering around on the other side of the gate, unaware I was there. Signs of fighting were everywhere. The survivors must have locked the gate behind them to keep those things (or other survivors) from attacking them. Great! That meant I probably wouldn’t encounter any walking dead on the premises.
I headed for a door at the back of the building, the warehouse where oxygen bottles were refilled. I’d been there many times. I even knew where they kept the key to the front door. Now I hoped to find equipment I could use to dive to the bottom and release the bolt that joined the chain to the anchor.
Just as I thought, the key was under a buoy next to the entrance. I slowly opened the door. In the dark, the room was terrifying. I thought I saw a figure looming in the background and fired a spear. Then I discovered it was a wetsuit on a hanger. Smooth move.
In one corner, covered by a tarp, was some diving equipment. It wasn’t new, but it would do fine. I checked the oxygen level in the tank and the regulators and put it on my back. I slipped on the flippers and looked around for a mask, but there weren’t any. Great. I’d have to dive into the murky waters and remove the pin in the dark with no mask. Once I had what I needed, I swam back to the Corinth. When I reached the chain, I dived down to the anchor. The bottom was about twelve feet down and dark as oil. I groped around and discovered that the anchor had caught on a rusty piece of metal sticking out of the river bottom. That’s why the engine had burned out. I patiently wiggled the brass bolt, gradually loosening it. Just as my fingers went completely numb, the bolt suddenly came out. I barely had time to grab on to the chain as the Corinth glided into the inlet, carried out to sea by the tide.
I climbed up the chain onto the deck and took off the diving equipment. I dried off for the first time in hours and dropped the small emergency anchor through the hawse hole. When the boat was secured, I staggered into the cabin, collapsed on to a berth, and slept for twelve hours. I’ve been anchored here for days, waiting for the storm to pass so I can head for Tambo.
ENTRY 52
February 14, 6:38 p.m.
* * *
Tambo Island is no longer an option. That sucks.
This morning, I dropped anchor fifty yards off the island in one of the small coves. From there, I could see some mutants wandering along the shore. Just a dozen or so, but that was enough. The island—and whoever had been on it—had fallen. Who knows when? I didn’t have a clue. And I had no idea if there were any survivors.
This was a tragedy. I’d watched the island’s familiar outline grow as the Corinth approached. Dozens of times over the years, I’ve sailed within a hundred yards of the island. I landed on it a few times, even though that’s banned. But I’d never headed there with so much enthusiasm. That made my disappointment even more painful.
I was about twenty yards from shore, considering how to reach land without running aground, when I saw a sailor come out from behind some trees, wearing a white uniform and a flat cap. Apparently he didn’t see me, because he headed back into the forest. I ran to the bow, waving my arms like a madman. Just then he stumbled on a rock and almost fell, revealing his left side. He was missing half his face, and his once-pristine white uniform was the rusty color of dried blood. His eyes were empty, lost, like the eyes of all those damn things. My shout of joy died in my throat. They’d found a way there. That’s fucked up.
I slunk back to the cabin and got drunk on cheap wine, my hopes fading as I gazed at the shore. So close and yet so far. I couldn’t even land. I counted at least a dozen of those things, but there had to be more. I wasn’t familiar with the island, so I didn’t know what surprises I’d find there. I had no backup if something went wrong. It’d be suicide.
I cried bitterly. I cursed and spat over the side in anger. Those monsters roamed along the shore, unaware that a few yards away, on the Corinth, fresh meat awaited them. They can kiss my ass.
That afternoon I made a decision. I weighed anchor and coasted along the western end of the
island until I reached a spring-fed creek I knew of. A small path was all that connected a steep cove to the rest of the island. I didn’t know if those things could maneuver down that winding path, but at least it would slow them down. Relying on that, I rowed ashore in the small inflatable dinghy stored on the Corinth and filled the water barrel I’d found on board. It held about fifty liters, more than enough for the journey I was planning.
Not a single creature showed up while I was at the spring. For a moment I toyed with the idea of hiking up the road and taking a look around, but I decided against it. I was no trained commando. I was barely armed. It cost me part of my sanity just to keep myself safe, let alone play the hero. If there were people in trouble on the island, I felt sorry for them. They’d have to fend for themselves. In this new world, only those who protected their own ass would live to see another day.
I rowed with some difficulty as I towed the filled barrel to the Corinth. Taking one last look at the island, I raised the anchor and set a course for the mouth of the inlet. To my new destination.
ENTRY 53
February 15, 2:19 a.m.
* * *
It’s a miracle I’m still alive.
The last few hours have been exhausting. As the Corinth approached the mouth of the inlet, conditions at sea grew worse. A powerful storm must’ve been raging near the Azores archipelago in the Atlantic Ocean, hurling wave after wave against the coast of Galicia. Typical winter gales. No one in their right mind would sail out in this shitty weather. But I had no other choice.
As I sailed away from Tambo Island, my head was reeling. My grandiose escape plan had just been to sail for the island and let the military, or whoever was in charge, take care of me. Discovering that the island was one more slice of hell was a huge blow. I had no idea what the hell to do next.
As I hoisted the water barrel on board with a pulley, I spotted the port of Marin on the southern shore of the inlet. It was completely empty. There too anything that floated had been used to escape. Even the docks at the naval base were deserted. Normally two or three navy frigates and even an aircraft carrier were docked there. Now it was a scene of devastation and chaos, with dozens of figures staggering around aimlessly, covered in blood.
Where the hell had all the people sailed off to? They couldn’t have just scattered to the four winds. They must’ve gone ashore somewhere. Maybe another Safe Haven. Or maybe they set a course for Vigo. It’s one of the largest ports on the European Atlantic coast. And it’s just twenty nautical miles away.
That’s it! The Safe Haven at Vigo must still be holding out! Anyone with a boat would head there, confident they’d be safe. With those thoughts percolating in my head, I quickly pulled up the anchor and set off for my new destination.
Maybe it was fatigue or the excitement of getting under way. Maybe I was so anxious to get out of there, I wasn’t paying attention. In any case, my mistake was unforgivable. I’ve lived my whole life by the water. I know when conditions aren’t right for sailing. This time I didn’t pick up on them. All the clues—dirty gray waves, seagulls flying low, wind gusts out of the north—should’ve set off alarm bells. But my mind didn’t register them. All I could think about was getting out of there as fast as I could.
After three or four hours, it became crystal clear that the sea was going to be very choppy. Fifteen-foot-high waves shook the Corinth like a nut in a shell. Curtains of water crashed onto the deck, drenching me as I clutched the tiller, stubbornly trying to make it to the mouth of the inlet. If the storm was this fierce in the inlet, what was the open sea going to be like?
The wind blew mercilessly. The seaworthy Corinth sliced through the waves like a knife as I peered at the coast through the foamy spray. It was clear I wasn’t going to make it very far. I decided to head to a little port named Bueu, a couple of miles from the mouth of the inlet. I’d hunker down there until the weather improved.
Convinced I was doing the right thing, I made the second mistake of the day. No matter how much experience you have at sea, never get overconfident. That’s exactly what I did. As I turned toward the coast and angled the Corinth into the wind, the spinnaker started to flap. I left the cockpit in the stern and went to the bow to tie it up. Suddenly a wave struck the hull and knocked me off balance.
In the blink of an eye, my entire body was hanging overboard, with one ankle caught in a loop in the line. I was slammed against the boat as we headed for shore with no one at the helm. My head and shoulders hit the hull hard. I blacked out for a moment but came to fast with waves breaking right on my face, nearly drowning me. The situation was really dangerous. If I couldn’t get back on board, I’d either drown upside down or I’d fall and be set adrift as the boat crashed onto the rocks on the shore. Lucullus certainly couldn’t sail the boat. Cats make lousy sailors.
After a few anguished minutes, a sudden change in wind tilted the Corinth to the other side. Suddenly lifted up and hurled against the gunwale, I grabbed one of the cleats and hoisted myself back on board. Soaked and dazed, I pointed the Corinth toward the port of Bueu. The ship slowly responded to the wind and gradually stopped shaking. In seconds, we were speeding for the port with the wind at our back.
I started trembling violently. I’d almost lost my life. I could’ve been injured or killed in a ludicrous way or set adrift, which was the same thing. My stomach was churning so badly that I stuck my head over the side and threw up all the salt water I’d swallowed.
I’d just learned an important lesson. The undead weren’t the only things that could kill me. Accidents, disease, hunger—all the normal causes of death—were just lurking in the shadows, waiting for their chance. If I weren’t careful, they’d catch me. I’d only been thinking about my stalkers. I’d forgotten something very basic: man is a fragile being.
I’m now anchored in the port of Bueu, a safe distance from the dock, while the storm rages on. The coast is dark and silent, jolted by flashes of lightning that light up the buildings’ ghostly silhouettes. The roar of thunder shakes the entire boat.
I know they’re there, on the shore. I think they know I’ve arrived. But that’s not the worst part. I’ve realized I need something basic. To get it, I’ll have to go ashore tomorrow. Right where those things are. Into the mouth of the wolf.
ENTRY 54
February 16, 10:13 a.m.
* * *
I’ve never liked rain. That’s a pretty futile way to feel, since rain’s a regular part of life in Galicia. However, as I watched the rain fall on the small fishing village of Bueu, I decided, in the end, it was not so bad. It might even help me.
The storm lasted for nearly twelve hours. Rain and wind lashed the coast. The sea, shaken and stirred, was an ominous steel gray. Normally the fleet would stay moored in the harbor and sailors would drink a hot toddy in the bar. But as far as I can tell, there’s no fleet and no sailors. Not living, anyway.
Despite being sheltered behind the Port Bueu breakwater, the Corinth pitched violently in the remnants of the powerful storm. The wind shook the rigging and dragged sheets of rain across its deck. The scuppers could barely keep up with all the water. I could just make out the buildings onshore. Five minutes out in that storm and you’d be soaked to the bone.
Yet this weather gave me the edge. The wind and rain would cover up any noise I made on land. And visibility was really low. This time, the weather was my ally.
I had to go ashore. I badly needed nautical charts. The fugitives who attacked the Corinth couldn’t get the boat out of the harbor, so they looted anything they thought they could use, including the charts. Without them, I risked hitting a shoal or debris in the water. Plus in their flight they tried to start the GPS built into the control panel. All they’d accomplished was to break the LCD screen. It was of absolutely no use. Although I only had to sail along the coast to Vigo, my experience at Tambo taught me not to take anything for granted. After Vigo, my path might lead me someplace else, and I needed to be prepared.
Besides
, my supplies were getting really low. I could stand a couple of days on half rations, but Lucullus looked at me indignantly each time he got a whiff of the meager rations I served him.
I don’t know what Lucullus thinks of all this, but I’m sure what really bothers my little friend more than being scared and bounced around and getting wet is the catastrophic state of our pantry. I don’t want a cat mutiny. I’ll give him credit, he’s holding up like a champ. He’s the only company I’ve had for almost a month. If it weren’t for him, I’d be half out of my mind.
I’d made a decision; now I had to come with a plan. The prospect of going ashore was really frightening. I didn’t know what I’d find beyond what I could see from the deck. So my plan was just to reach the shore, get what I needed with as little hassle as possible, and get the hell out of there. I’d have to wing it the rest of the time.
I put on my wetsuit and grabbed the Glock, its two magazines, the speargun, and four spears. I strapped on the empty backpack and climbed down into the Corinth’s lifeboat. The rain and pounding waves nearly drowned me. I ignored the cold rising up my legs and rowed cautiously toward the dock on the deserted shore.
As I rowed, I noticed that the usually muddy, oily water at the port was strangely clean. The environment had changed amazingly fast after just a couple of weeks with no humans. I hardly saw any animals except birds. There are hundreds of them, especially gulls. I shuddered when I recalled that, besides eating fish, gulls are scavengers. Lately they must’ve had all the carrion they could eat.
I finally reached the steps to the dock. I tied up the lifeboat and quietly climbed the stairs. I glanced around. The storm was still raging over the deserted dock. The pounding of the rain and the wind whistling through the streets combined with the rhythmic din of thunder. The wind lashed my face, dragging rain across my eyes. I couldn’t see or hear anything more than five yards away. It was perfect.
Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End Page 11