Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End az-1

by Manel Loureiro

  Fortunately, the fence had a simple bolt, not a padlock. Wire was twisted around the bolt to hold the gate closed. It was pretty sloppy, but complicated enough to stop anything that wasn’t human.

  I drove through the gate and closed it behind me, then stopped in front of a hut. It was very small, roughly the size of a bedroom, but solid, with no windows. Its metal door locked with a key. After a few minutes, I finally forced it open with a crowbar I had in my trunk.

  It was dark and dusty inside, lit only by a skylight and light from the door. In the middle of the room were some pipes, gauges, and valves used to purge air from the lines. I don’t know if there’s still gas in them, and I don’t plan to find out. I’m not going to touch that stuff for anything in the world. The last thing I need is to gas myself or blow myself up.

  I settled in and slept for almost twelve hours, then slept all day today, too. This is the first time in weeks I’ve been able to rest, without that constant pounding and moaning. It’s great. I could stay here forever. But it’s not especially comfortable. Plus, I’m down to about half a liter of water, and I’m getting thirsty.

  ENTRY 49

  February 10, 8:11 p.m.

  Before all this started, I didn’t believe in fate. I thought signs and omens were just old wives’ tales. This morning, as I study the keys to Miguel’s boat, I’m not so sure. Maybe his plan to head to his boat was a sign. Signs from the gods may not be irrational when the whole world has gone to hell in this merciless apocalypse.

  I am sitting on the substation roof, soaking up the morning sun. The temperature has gone up a little over the past few days, but the skies are cloudy, so any time the sun comes out I’m grateful to soak it in after days of being cooped up and scared.

  I have a plan. I’m going to do exactly what I told Miguel was impossible: head for the marina on Orillamar Avenue, get on his boat, and set a course for any place that’s safer, with electricity, water, food, and people. In a word—paradise.

  Pontevedra is situated at the far end of the ria—that is, an inlet—of the same name. It’s only a mile or so from shore to shore at its widest point, with Tambo Island in the middle. Over the centuries the island has been a Celtic settlement, a religious site for the Germanic Swabian tribe in the 400s, a medieval monastery, a lazaret where they quarantined lepers, and, most recently, for many years a weapons depot for the naval base in the nearby town of Marin. Deserted since the 1970s, the island is now a nature preserve, one of the last tracts of pristine land in the densely populated area around Ria Pontevedra. That’s my destination.

  When everything started going to hell, more than one person probably thought of taking refuge on Tambo Island. There are military buildings, barracks, and warehouses on the island. It’s accessible only by boat and is surrounded by strong currents. I’ll bet the military took control of it. It may be the safest spot for miles. It’s perfect. There was just one little problem—finding a boat that could reach it. That wasn’t going to be easy. My idea was kind of risky, but it might work.

  In a dusty corner of the substation were two large blue watertight plastic barrels. Judging from the labels, they once contained chemicals, but now they’re empty. It took some work, but I finally fit them into the Astra by laying the backseat down flat. That left just enough room to squeeze in the backpack and the cat carrier. I left behind the shotgun ammunition, since I’d lost the rifle back on my street. Now my arsenal was reduced to four spears and a Glock with only thirty rounds after my futile shooting spree.

  When I turned the key, the motor made a scary grating noise. My harrowing escape down that tortuous, bumpy little road has definitely damaged something. All the blood rushed to my feet, and I felt faint. If the car wouldn’t start, I was a dead man. I wouldn’t make it very far on foot in a populated area. I turned the ignition again and again, cursing under my breath. Oh, Jesus, let the motor start. Come on, come on, let’s go, let’s go!

  With a muffled explosion, the motor started up, gasping and panting. Shouting for joy, I put it in first and rolled toward the main road, without a backward glance at that odd refuge. When I reached the county road, I headed for the main highway. Once I got there, things would get dicey fast. I figured it was about half a mile to the next turn.

  The road proved to be even shorter than I thought. When the intersection came into view, I laid the loaded Glock on the passenger seat and floored it. Speed would be crucial. With squealing tires, I turned and headed north. The road looked deserted, but looks can be deceiving. Several of those creatures hovering around some houses nearby perked up when they heard my motor. With a roar, I sped away from them. I just had to go one mile. Just one damned mile. In a hundred yards, I encountered my first problem. An accident. A blood-splattered two-car pileup took up almost the entire road, leaving only a narrow passage on the left shoulder. I maneuvered around the wreck carefully so I wouldn’t get stuck.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp blow on the passenger window. Out of nowhere appeared two hands, followed by a battered body. The thing slapped the window and wailed over and over. My heart almost flew out my mouth.

  Trembling with fear, I managed to drive away from that thing as I calculated my next move. Half a mile more. I passed several more abandoned or crashed cars. Some were splashed with blood; others must’ve been deserted in panic or madness. More of those things everywhere. Not a single living person in sight. Five hundred yards to my turnoff. Almost there. Three hundred yards. Two hundred.

  Two more of those things, a woman and a man, popped up in the middle of the road. I didn’t have time to swerve, so I ran into them. The man’s body bounced off my bumper and slammed into the windshield, shattering it. I hit the brakes. I couldn’t see out my broken windshield. Inertia propelled the man in front of the car when I braked. I think I ran over the woman.

  The car stalled. I tried to start it, but the motor was completely dead, the dashboard a constellation of red lights. There was nothing I could do. It was kaput. An absurdly funny thought came into my head—now I didn’t have to change the oil.

  I got out of the car. Just a hundred yards to go. I could almost see it. I strapped on the backpack and grabbed the cat carrier. Glancing all around, I opened the trunk and hauled out the two barrels. The hundred yards were all downhill, so the two barrels would roll there on their own. I sent them flying with a kick and started to walk. Just then the man got back up. He was about seventy, and he looked even more horrible after I’d run over him. I didn’t hesitate. He was about thirty yards from me. Before he got too close, I raised the Glock and fired. The first bullet went through his sternum, even though I’d aimed for his head. My second shot was at point-blank range and hit him in the face. That scene will haunt me for the rest of my days. I don’t even want to think about it. Once the body fell, I turned to the woman. She was still lying on the ground; it looked like she had a broken spine. I didn’t hang around to find out.

  I ran down the hill, almost tripping, and finally caught up with the barrels at my destination: the dock on the Lérez River. It was deserted, but I’d counted on that. In the summer there was a boat rental service, but that wasn’t what I’d come for. From there, the river flows downstream through Pontevedra and then empties into the inlet, right at the marina. My salvation. All I had to do was jump in the water and let the current drag me to Miguel’s boat. Those creatures couldn’t catch me in the water, and I could travel through the city without any danger.

  With lightning speed, I threw the backpack and the gun in one of the barrels and sealed it up. I put the carrier with Lucullus in the other barrel. He was meowing uncontrollably, upset by all those hardships. With a spear, I punched holes in the top of the barrel. A little water would get in, but at least he could breathe. I tied the barrels together with a rope and dragged them to the river’s edge. The water was dark and unfriendly.

  The monsters were right behind me. With a deep breath, I leaped into the water, dragging the barrels along with me. I nearly screamed when
I hit the icy waters of the Lérez. Hell, it’s February. It must be about 39 degrees Fahrenheit. It’s a good thing I was wearing my wetsuit. Even so, my body temperature plunged.

  The current slowly dragged me down the river as those things watched helplessly from the dock. A couple of them fell into the water but didn’t float back to the top. Either they stayed on the bottom or the current dragged them off—and away from me.

  My hand is cramping up as I write this, and Lucullus is demanding food. He and I are still recovering from that adventure and getting settled in our new home, the Corinth, a beautiful boat that appeared out of the blue.

  ENTRY 50

  February 11, 3:49 p.m.

  The cold is the worst feeling you can have in the water. Your muscles contract, your fingers gradually stop working, and you feel thousands of pinpricks all over your body.

  It seemed like an eternity since I’d cut holes in the hood of my wetsuit. It never occurred to me I’d wear it in the water again. Icy river water poured through those holes and down my neck as Lucullus and I glided downstream. The wetsuit’s thick layer of insulation was severely compromised.

  The river was slow and lazy at that point. I hadn’t realized that, this close to the mouth of the river, the combination of high tide and the river’s back current would slow me down. I’d calculated that the trip would only take a few minutes, but in reality it was an hour-and-a-half ordeal. Still, I figured I was getting close. I accidentally swallowed water a couple of times and noticed that it tasted briny—seawater and river water mixed together. I was getting close to the mouth of the Lérez River.

  My main problem was that darkness was falling over the water. In Galicia the sun sets early in the winter, around six. Visibility was getting worse.

  Floating through the city in the dark, I ran the risk of not seeing the marina and overshooting it. If that happened, the tide and the current would sweep me into the heart of the inlet. That was a death sentence. With the low water temperature and no one to rescue me, I’d be a frozen corpse by the time I reached open water, or lying numb and helpless on a riverbank at the mercy of whatever awaited me there. I didn’t have the slightest fucking idea what to do about it.

  Darkness crept up the riverbanks. At least I wouldn’t be visible. I grabbed a plastic bag floating next to me and covered my head with it. From the shore I’d look like a couple of barrels tied together with a plastic bag stuck to their side. Drifting trash. Nothing interesting. The perfect cover.

  I was approaching the bridges that connected the two shores of the Lérez as it flowed through the city. The first bridge worried me the most. It was the nearest to the water, since the river was at its highest point there. If one of those creatures was standing on that bridge, it wouldn’t have far to jump to trap me. As I floated under the bridge, I didn’t look up. If something or someone was up there, it didn’t see me.

  As the river rolled on, its banks transformed into an urban landscape with buildings slowly rising around me. Its wide streets were deserted except for those things, hundreds of them, covered with blood, mutilated or intact, roaming up and down the streets.

  The scene was shocking, especially the silence. The total, absolute, dismal silence. Nothing but the sound of water flowing around me. The city was dark and dead. The impact of this bullshit crisis was everywhere. Cars abandoned in the streets with their doors hanging open. Traffic accidents people had just walked away from. Some stores were open; others had their gates closed. Tons of paper, plastic bags, and trash were blowing down the empty streets. Dead traffic lights, broken streetlamps. The wind whistled through that ghost town. A void. Devastation. The apocalypse.

  My vision grew increasingly limited. After a few minutes, the outlines of that canyon of buildings had become a blur. The anxiety was wearing on me. I’ve never liked being in the water at night, not knowing what’s around me. I clung to the barrels and tried to peer through the darkness to make out any threat lurking there.

  My fevered imagination raced along unbridled. At least thirty times, I thought I’d passed the marina, and each time it was a false alarm. Suddenly the ghostly form of the yacht club came into view, dimly lit up by the moonlight. I’d made it!

  The Pontevedra Yacht Club was built on stilts on the banks of the Lérez River. Trying to splash as little as possible, I kicked my numb legs and swam for those posts. I planned to climb onto the pier, bypass my Zodiac, and head for Miguel’s boat. Piece of cake. Three minutes, tops.

  Hoisting myself up onto the pier took a titanic effort. After two hours in the water, my arms were asleep. When I finally got up, I lay on the pier, gasping like a fish, totally exhausted. If one of those monsters had showed up right then, I would have been a snack in seconds. I couldn’t move a finger, let alone defend myself.

  I stretched out with my eyes closed and listened hard. I couldn’t hear a thing. So far, so good. I struggled to sit up and wrangle the barrels onto the pier. But first, Lucullus. I took his carrier out of the barrel. With numb fingers, I struggled to unlock the latch. The poor guy was scared, confused, hungry, and wet, but alive. My little friend deserved a prize. He’d endured a river journey, barely complaining, terrified but stoic.

  I walked toward the boat, backpack and carrier in hand. When I got to the main dock, I froze. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were no boats. Not a single one. Not even my Zodiac. Every boat had disappeared. But how?

  I sank to my knees, too tired to think, my mind a blank. My worst fear had come true. There were no boats. When the Safe Haven fell, the terrified survivors must’ve run to the docks, hoping to escape on anything that floated.

  The masts of two sailboats stuck out of the water; the rest of those boats sat on the bottom of the river. Too heavy a load or lack of expertise, I guessed. They hadn’t gotten far. Gradually I noticed more. My heart stopped. Blood and bullet holes were everywhere. Signs of a fight on the pier. A fight to the death over a boat. Survival of the fittest. A scene from hell. My God…

  Suddenly it hit me. Maybe all was not lost. I remembered I’d seen sailboats on the other side, anchored far from the pier. Boats on the waiting list for a slip. A pain in the ass for their owners, since every time they wanted to take their boat out, they had to be ferried to them in a Zodiac. Maybe the mob hadn’t boarded them. Maybe there was one left. I stuck Lucullus back into one barrel and my backpack into the other. As quietly as I could, I dived back into the dark waters of the Lérez.

  I swam just a few strokes, but it felt like I’d swum the English Channel. My hope was fading as I swam closer. Nothing…but…wait! In the distance, with Venus reflected in the waters, I could see a swaying mast. There was one left!

  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.