Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End az-1

by Manel Loureiro

  I squeezed the trigger. The spear took off with a faint hum and pierced the back of the soldier’s skull. He stopped in his tracks and collapsed with a dull thud. I rushed over to the body. He seemed to be dead dead now, but I couldn’t be too careful. I laid the speargun and the umbrella on the ground and started to wrestle with the loops of his backpack. Blood clots on the clasps prevented me from loosening the straps. Sweat was pouring down my back. I looked over and saw that one of those things had stuck its arm into the trough and was feeling around for the source of the sound. In moments, they’d grab it and tear it apart. Then I wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Something must have caught the attention of the woman with the crushed hip, because she turned in my direction. Had she heard me, smelled me? I don’t know, but she saw me.

  With that strange gait, she walked toward me, slowly because she was dragging one leg. Her balance was pretty shot. I only had a few seconds. I struggled clumsily to load another spear in the gun. Sweat rolled into my eyes as I pulled back the rubber sling. Four yards. I finally got everything set. Three yards. I raised the gun and aimed at the woman’s head. Two yards. I fired.

  The spear hit the woman hard. She stopped and fell forward like a sack. But the situation was deteriorating by the minute. One of the monsters had grabbed the bear and was shaking it. He’d managed to empty out its batteries, and its cymbals were silent now. The sound of the woman falling made everyone look in my direction. I had to hurry. Time was running out.

  I grasped the soldier’s body by the leg and started dragging it toward my open front gate, toward salvation. There was no time to loosen the clasps. I had to drag the body and the backpack with me. As I neared the gate, another one of those things suddenly came around a parked car. Shit. I hadn’t seen that guy before. The speargun was hanging from my shoulder, but I didn’t have time to load another spear. I let go of the soldier for a moment and steadied the umbrella shaft with both hands. With all my might, I struck the creature’s temple with the ivory handle. I don’t know if I killed it, but I do know the bone in its left temple cracked and it collapsed on the ground. I dropped the umbrella, grabbed the soldier’s body, and made it through my front gate, slamming it behind me, just in time. They were just a few yards away.

  I left the soldier’s body in front of the front door and threw up. I’ve been drinking for nearly twenty-four hours. I’m drunk. Now these things know I’m here. But I’m alive. And if you’re alive, you can fight to live another day.

  ENTRY 37

  January 29, 5:14 p.m.

  If things keep on like this, I’ll go crazy. They’ve been pounding nonstop on my front gate for hours. I can hear them no matter where I am in the house. It’s horrible. And all that moaning! Jesus Christ! They’re destroying my nerves. I’ve been drinking too much, I know, but I don’t know what else to do.

  Miguel, my neighbor, isn’t any help. Instead he’s a pain in the ass. He’s hung up on the idea that we should head to the marina, get his boat, and sail somewhere else. But he doesn’t have the nerve to do it alone. He’s driving me crazy with his constant complaining. He’s insufferable.

  I tried to get him to see things clearly, but he won’t listen. The roads are either cut off or blocked by abandoned cars, accidents, collapsed bridges. It’s insane to think about the trip as if everything were normal. Anything can happen. And the consequences could be fatal. You have to plan things out if you’re going to survive.

  Tonight I got up the courage to climb up to my attic. It’s a small space under the roof, barely more than a closet. I haven’t been up there for two years because it’s full of my wife’s stuff. The day after her funeral, my sister and her boyfriend put all her things up there. Until three weeks ago, when the technician installed the solar panels, no one had been up there. There’s dust on everything. Over the musty smell, I can still detect a familiar scent—her perfume, which still permeates her clothes. My heart shrank, and I collapsed on an old couch with tears streaming down my face. I’ve been crying like a baby for hours, holding her old sweater. I miss her so much. Thank God she doesn’t have to witness all this.

  After a while I calmed down. Something’s still broken inside me; I mourned for a while and vented. The stress I’ve been under is brutal. Taking refuge up here for a few hours was a good idea.

  The technician’s footprints in the dust went from the trapdoor to below the skylight. There were some bits of wire and a plastic bag of leftover screws. The remains of the installation. Silent witness that someone did his job what seems like a million years ago. I wonder what became of that guy. Maybe he’s one of those things wandering around.

  I opened the skylight and let in some cold air. I tied myself to some buttresses and climbed very carefully onto the roof. The last thing I needed was to break my leg! Next to the skylight is a flat surface you can sit on. The roof slopes down from there and is covered by the iridescent solar panels. It’s about a twenty-foot drop to the ground, where these things have tirelessly massed in front of my gate. Falling is definitely not a good option.

  A few new creatures have arrived, drawn by the noise made by the things congregated at my door. Broken Hip’s body is lying in a heap in the middle of the road. There’s no trace of the other guy. The thump on the head I gave him mustn’t have been enough to send him back to hell. Too bad.

  Normally I had a spectacular view of the city at night. Now I was amazed at how completely dark it was. Most nights I could see thousands of lights, but tonight there was utter blackness. The electricity was definitely off. And they sure weren’t planning to send a team in to fix it. I lit a cigarette and thought things over.

  When all this started, people quit showing up for work. Power plant operators, too. So for two weeks now, those plants have been operating on automatic pilot. I tried to remember the way a friend’s boyfriend, an engineer, explained it to me. A thermal power plant that runs on coal or fuel can only be set on automatic for twenty-four hours before its boilers run out of fuel. In theory, a hydroelectric or wind-powered plant could stay on indefinitely, but it requires skilled technicians to repair any damage done by around-the-clock use. It could last about two weeks before its systems started to fail. Parts would be tough to get now. It’s horrifying to think of a nuclear plant operating with no one to make repairs. Chernobyl, the guy said with a sad smile, is an example of a nuclear power plant that wasn’t maintained properly. I hope the report was true, that the nuclear power plants have been disconnected.

  So I guess the whole country is dark, or soon will be. The electric company had a contingency plan if a plant or two failed, but all of them failing at once must have caused the entire system to collapse. In one fell swoop, they’ve sent us back to the nineteenth century. Except that we’re struggling to stay alive, surrounded by walking corpses. That’s a helluva picture.

  I stubbed out my cigarette and went back inside. It’s cold. I haven’t looked through the soldier’s backpack yet. I hope it was worth it. Let’s see what I find.

  THE JOURNAL

  ENTRY 38

  January 30, 6:38 p.m.

  The last twenty-four hours have been a disaster. Just when you think nothing else can go wrong, reality sneaks up behind you with a new surprise.

  As if I didn’t already have enough problems with those monsters beating mercilessly on my door for the last two days, there’s something new on the horizon. Because of the widespread power failure, the Internet has ceased to exist. Kaput. That’s it. My blog’s dead. So’s the entire Internet. All I get is the white Explorer screen. The servers closed down days ago. That mine lasted this long was a miracle. It’s amazing how much we depend on electricity for everything. We’re back in the nineteenth century, with all its drawbacks. I don’t know if I can handle it.

  I’m going to keep writing entries in this journal. I need to record what I see and feel. I need to set my thoughts down on this blank page or I’ll go crazy within a couple of months. This journal will speak for me; it’s the o
nly place where I can confide my experiences. If I really fuck up, at least there’ll be a record of how I lived through these terrible times. And that’s some fucking comfort.

  I got up my courage and went back out to the front patio. I opened the door as stealthily as I could and peeked out. The soldier’s body was lying where I left it, right inside the gate. Here, the noise those things made was deafening. I placed my hand on the steel gate and felt the vibration from their pounding. They know I’m on this side of the gate and are frustrated that they can’t catch me.

  I sat on the front steps and lit a cigarette as I studied the body. For the first time I got a good look at one of those things up close. It was starting to smell really bad. Putrefaction and rigor mortis must slow way down when they mutate into those monsters. Once they are really dead, that process seems to move at a normal pace. A sticky liquid flowed out of the hole in his skull and formed a clot on the tile floor. I didn’t think I’d ever get that spot out, but I guess that doesn’t matter now. His skin was yellowish, waxy, and his circulatory system was drawn on his skin like delicate lace. Combined with the terrible wounds on his face, the effect was chilling.

  I got up my courage, put on the latex gloves I’d found in the medicine cabinet, and pulled a heavy, black, well-oiled gun out of his holster. On one side was the word “Glock,” and on the other, an eight-digit serial number. I think it’s loaded. That was the first time in my life I’d held one of those things. I studied it carefully. I felt much better having a real gun. I know it’s psychological, but the feeling of security is wonderful.

  On his belt were two cartridges that matched the ammunition in the gun. There were fifteen rounds in each, so when the gun was loaded, I had a whopping forty-five bullets. Now I’d have to learn to fire it without shooting myself in the foot.

  In addition to the ammunition for the Glock, I found several cartridges that looked like ammunition for an assault rifle. Two of them were empty and still smelled of gunpowder. The poor guy lying at my feet had had time to shoot off at least two full magazines. Of course, there was no trace of that gun. When those things grabbed him, he must have dropped it. Who knows where it is now.

  The backpack was a treasure. I found a sleeping bag, a large army camouflage poncho, a compass, a map with several battle plans noted on it (probably the defensive lines that contained those monsters during the evacuation), some smokes, a first-aid kit, including three vials of morphine and, best of all, some army rations. The cans are great. The reservoir in the bottom is filled with a reactive substance. Add water, and it generates intense heat so you can eat hot food without a fire or a kitchen. They’d come in handy when I had to get out of here. I’m coming to the realization that sooner or later I’ll have to move. If I stay here, those things will finally get in, or I’ll starve. The only problem is how to get out of here. And where to go.

  I dug into one of the lower pockets and found the guy’s wallet. That fucked up my whole day. His name was Vincent; he was only twenty-eight, from a small town just twenty miles from here. He had pictures of a girl (his girlfriend?) and a cute dog. A guy whose life they stole. A guy I drilled three spans of steel into to survive. Hell, I get sick thinking about it.

  With a lot of effort and some throwing up, I pulled the spear out of his head. I put it in a pan of boiling water and left it there for about six hours. It took half a line of stored electricity to boil the water that long, but I wanted to kill any germs there might be on the spear. Then I put it back in the sheath with others. Now I have four spears. I can see the other two from my window, one next to the bear and the other stuck in Broken Hip. They might as well be on the moon for all the good they’ll do me.

  I don’t know what the hell to do with the body. I don’t see how I could throw it over the wall. Those bastards would see me. So I’ve wrapped it in a sheet of plastic for now. I’ll think of something.

  If that weren’t enough, my neighbor’s gotten all worked up. I suspect he’s on something. I made the mistake of telling him about my adventure with the soldier. Now he thinks we can blast our way through the city to his boat. How do I make him see that reality is different? I risked my life to get just halfway down the street and kill only two of those things. Crossing the city with thousands of those monsters on the loose is something else again. We’d have to plan carefully, not go out with our guns blazing and a gram of cocaine coursing through our veins, not knowing what we’d find around a corner.

  He’s fixated on my wetsuit, and now he’s wearing some overalls that look idiotic. He’s sure to do something stupid if we don’t get moving soon. I have to think. Fast.

  ENTRY 39

  January 31, 11:49 a.m.

  I was sitting quietly in the kitchen when I heard shooting. It sounded like a shotgun blast coming from next door. My neighbor! What the hell was that asshole up to? Was he trying to attract all the walking dead in a one-mile radius? Jesus, you could hear those shots all over the fucking city!

  I climbed the ladder to the top of my garden wall and peered into his yard. I didn’t see anything but some posts he’d stacked there for a deck he’ll never build. I called his name softly. No answer. Miguel, you idiot, what the hell did you do?

  I could hear the noise those things were making on Miguel’s side of the street. It sounded like they were pounding on a wooden door. They’d found a way to get through his steel gate, and now they were banging on his front door.

  I was wondering how the hell I was going to climb down into his yard when I saw him through a window. He told me he was okay. He said he’d tried to get to his car so he could surprise me and pick me up at my front door. But there were dozens of those things on his street, so that plan hadn’t worked. They were inside his front gate, too. “I killed two of them,” he said with a huge grin. You asshole. Now there were at least a dozen of them out there, drawn by the noise he made when he shot those two monsters.

  His overalls were torn and bloody. He told me one of those monsters tried to grab him by the neck, but he took him out, no sweat. All that blood belonged to “those shits,” he said. He looked really pale. I sensed he was lying. Years of trying cases in court have taught me all about mankind’s shortcomings. I’m good at picking up the little signals we give when we’re not telling the truth. This guy is hiding something. There’s got to be more to his story.

  Now I’m in the kitchen, heating up a can of soup, thinking over the situation. Lucullus is curled up in my chair. I don’t like it. Not one bit.

  ENTRY 40

  February 1, 10:58 a.m.

  I went on a drinking binge again last night. Now, as I write this, I’m paying the price. This hangover’s a bitch. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but since all hell broke loose, I’ve hit my liquor cabinet hard. I’m down to the dregs. That’s probably for the best.

  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 sud
denly 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.