The helicopter. A temporary solution to our problems. Prit and I had talked about it so often over those long, wonderful months. The forestry heliport where Pritchenko had parked his helicopter was less than eight miles as the crow flies from Meixoeiro Hospital. We’d plotted the best way to get there on a road map, combining the Ukrainian’s and my memories of the area. It was feasible to get there via secondary roads and abandoned firewalls that didn’t appear on maps. We wouldn’t be in much danger, since we’d be traveling through unpopulated areas. We’d planned to make a run to the helipad in October, when the rain would hide our movements from the undead, and then fly the helicopter to the hospital and fill it up with supplies. But that fucking fire had forced us to move up our plans.
In theory our plan didn’t seem too complicated, especially since the fire wasn’t moving in that direction. But a sudden shift in the wind could change all that. For now, we were driving in an area that seemed safe. Meanwhile the fire was devouring the huge hospital complex, reducing it to rubble that glowed in the distance as flames leaped out the windows on the upper floors. That fire was moving through the valley at an amazing speed. I could make out the backlit shapes of the buildings on the outskirts of Vigo. If the fire wasn’t stopped, it would devour the city, burning it to the ground in hours. And the only thing that would stop it was a heavy downpour.
The old world of mankind was definitely over. The new world, the world of the undead, the Cadaver World, had taken its place, gradually destroying every trace of our presence on earth. I had a terrifying thought. We scattered survivors were the last of our race.
There weren’t any obstacles in our path until the last mile, where a landslide had blocked the road. We traveled the rest of the way along an old firebreak that ended near the boulder where I’m sitting now, writing this. From the top of the hill, about two thousand feet above sea level, we have a rare view of the entire Ria Vigo, part of the Ria Pontevedra, and several miles inland. There are no signs of life anywhere. Human life, that is.
The base was completely deserted and had been for several months, judging by the thick weeds growing up to the door. It took a good five minutes to hack our way to the fenced-off area.
ENTRY 86
Three Hours Later
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To our relief, Prit’s helicopter was still at the base. It’s an enormous PZL W-3A Sokól with an elongated nose. Its body is painted red and white, its blades black and white. It rested on its oversize tires with all the doors open. On top of the cabin was a huge hump in which, Prit explained, were located the two monstrous turbines that drive the thing. The interior is spacious and wide. In addition to the pilot and copilot, it could fit ten people, although usually the fire brigades had only nine members, to give them more leg room.
Using a small tractor, we rolled the huge machine on to the tarmac. From where I’m sitting now, I can see Prit perched between the blades. He’s got the turbine housing open and is tuning up one of the motors. I’m glad the Ukrainian’s here. Not only has he proven to be a great companion, but thanks to him, we can get out of here.
The fire is now devouring the area north of Vigo. With high-powered binoculars, I’ve spent the last three hours scanning the horizon all the way to the city limits, about ten miles away. I can’t see many details through the thick black smoke. There are frequent explosions as the fire devours vehicles, service stations, gas pipes, and the thousands of flammable things in a city that size. I’m so glad I’m not there.
Smoke also keeps me from getting a look at the port, which is wrapped in a dense cloud of ash and soot. I wonder if the Zaren Kibish is still anchored in the bay or if they managed to get out.
Wherever I point the binoculars, I can see them. The undead. Thousands of them, swarming everywhere. I imagine the fire will force them out of the city, and they’ll roam the fields and small towns and suburbs, looking for something to sink their teeth into. God knows what they’ll find. I’m sure the fire trapped many of them in the maze of Vigo’s streets, but from what I can tell, most got out in time. On the way, we passed a few of them at a safe distance, but it’s only a matter of time before they make their way here.
So we’d better get the hell out of here. And go far, far away.
We’ve chosen a destination—Tenerife in the Canary Islands. It’s the logical choice. Anywhere on the European continent, we’ll have the same problems as here. These days, this part of the world is no place for humans. We’re sick of it. I’m tired of living like a cornered animal. We need a place where there’s peace, food, electricity, and, most importantly, people. Man is a social animal; he needs to be around other humans. We’ll go crazy if we don’t have new faces, new people, new ideas. If we don’t find a bigger group of people, I’m afraid we’ll lose part of our humanity.
On the helicopter’s radio, we picked up some very weak transmissions, full of static. We’re sure they’re military transmissions regarding air traffic at Los Rodeos Airport in Tenerife. That airport is still operational, so we assume there’s an enclave of people. Lucia reminded us that the sea and airspace around the islands had been closed to keep more people from fleeing there. But that was months ago. They might welcome a new group of survivors now.
I kept going over the one problem I foresaw: the enormous distance we’ll have to travel. Over a thousand miles from this part of the peninsula to the Canary Islands. The range of a helicopter like the Sokól is around 250 miles, so we ruled out flying in a straight line. Our only alternative is to fly over the peninsula, across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tarfaya, Morocco, the town closest to the islands. Then, just a couple of hours’ flying time separate us from the island of Fuerteventura.
Refueling along the way will be a problem, to say the least. We have no idea what to expect at airports and airfields along the way, or even if they’ll still be there. You can’t get helicopter fuel at a gas station. It has to be the kind of fuel you can only get in refineries and airports. I’ve racked my brain, but haven’t come up with a solution.
This morning, Prit and I pored over the map and debated all the possibilities our limited range allowed. The Ukrainian was in favor of flying south along the Portuguese coast, refueling in Oporto, Lisbon, Huelva, Tangier, Rabat, and Casablanca, and then heading for the islands.
After our experience in Vigo, landing on the outskirts of a metropolis like Oporto that once had hundreds of thousands of inhabitants sounded like a nightmare. I was in favor of heading for the interior, to unpopulated areas, filling up at heliports and small airports like this one. I realized that the chances of finding “dry” airfields without a drop of fuel were considerably higher than in a large airport. Even so, I thought my plan was preferable to negotiating a big city.
Either option involved a lot of risks. To put it bluntly, a journey full of horrors.
The solution, once again, came from Lucia. While Prit and I went on and on about the plan, she was listening, gazing thoughtfully at the bottom of the helicopter. Suddenly, she interrupted us.
“Prit, what’s that?” she asked, pointing to a strange basket bolted on to the belly of the giant Sokól.
“That?” said the Ukrainian. “That’s the bambi.”
When he saw the strange look on our faces, he explained. “The bambi is what we call the bag we fill with water to put out fires. I usually carried crews to the fire and then unfolded the bambi, filled it in a nearby river, and emptied it on the flames. I repeated the process over and over.” He smiled. “It was my job, you know?”
“How much does it hold?” Lucia asked, with an intelligent gleam in her eyes.
“About five hundred gallons. I don’t see what the hell difference that makes,” Pritchenko snapped.
“Wait! I think I know where she’s going with this,” I chimed in. “Five hundred gallons are—”
“Of course! Two tons! Instead of carrying water, we carry fuel. Our range would be...”
Lucia looked inquiringly at Pritchenko, but he’d already
turned his back on us, grabbed some paper, and made some quick calculations. After a few minutes, he gave a couple of satisfied grunts, turned, smiled, and winked.
“I think it’ll work. We fill the tank to the brim. With a five-hundred-gallon tank of fuel hanging below, we could get there without refueling anywhere. It’d be close, especially if we run into a headwind. But we just might make it.” He stopped and stared into space and did more calculations in his head. “We just might make it,” he repeated with a sparkle in his excited eyes. “Yes, it might work.”
My chest swelled with joy. We were getting out of here. I couldn’t believe it.
So now, while Prit puts the finishing touches on the Sokól’s turbines, a shiny mountain of barrels filled to the top with helicopter fuel are stacked neatly on the edge of the track, inside a huge, superstrong transport net. The plan is to hang that huge bag from the belly of the helicopter, where the bambi would normally be. Each time we need to refuel, Prit’ll land the helicopter in a clearing and pour some of those barrels into the helicopter’s tank. A piece of cake after all we’ve been through.
The helicopter is loaded with our belongings, and everyone’s ready to leave at first light. Lucia and Sister Cecilia are resting inside the hangar. Prit just closed the hood of the turbines, looking very satisfied.
I’m sitting on this huge rock at the end of the heliport. Lucullus is curled up at my feet, chewing on my shoelaces. The sun is setting over the river, casting golden sparkles on the water. It feels strange to think I may never see this landscape again.
We’re the last train leaving the station. If there’s anyone left in this area, I’m afraid his chances are slim to none.
Chances are slim that someone will come here in the future. But just in case, I’m leaving a copy of my journal in a plastic envelope on a table in the hangar. What if everything goes to hell and something happens to us along the way? At least if someone reads this, he’ll know that for nine long months a group of people fought hard for their lives. We never surrendered. We always kept in our hearts the most noble, beautiful feeling that sets human beings apart: hope.
Okay. I’m going to take a nap. Tomorrow will be a crazy day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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Photo © Pablo Manuel Otero, 2012
An international bestselling author, Manel Loureiro was born in Pontevedra, Spain, and studied law at Universidad de Santiago de Compostela. After graduation, he worked in television, both on screen (appearing on Televisión de Galicia) and behind the scenes as a writer. Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End, his first novel, began as a popular blog before its publication, eventually becoming a bestseller in several countries, including Spain, Italy, and Brazil. Called “the Spanish Stephen King” by La Voz de Galicia, Manel has written three novels in the Apocalypse Z series. He currently resides in Pontevedra, Spain, where, in addition to writing, he is still a practicing lawyer.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
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Pamela Carmell’s publications include Matilde Asensi’s The Last Cato (HarperCollins), Belkis Cuza Malé’s Woman on the Front Lines (sponsored by the Witter Bynner Foundation for Poetry), Antonio Larreta’s The Last Portrait of the Duchess of Alba (a Book-of-the-Month Club selection), and the short-story collection, Cuba on the Edge. She is also published widely in literary magazines and anthologies.
Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End Page 31