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 only 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.
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.
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 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.
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, especially 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.
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.
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.
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.
My sanity is the main reason I need to escape. Man’s a social animal. He needs to interact with other people. I haven’t spoken to another human, besides my neighbor, in weeks. I need to talk to someone. Pouring my heart out in this journal is therapeutic, it helps me let off steam—but it’s not enough. I talk to Lucullus as if he were human. Lately our “conversations” have been too frequent. That’s one more sign I need to leave.
I’m not using the solar panels and storage batteries in the basement correctly. They were designed to provide electricity in case of a power outage or if the voltage drops for a few hours, not to keep the electricity flowing all day. So it was probably inevitable that I would overload the system. At noon on Saturday, I turned on the microwave at the same time I was heating something up on the stove. The kitchen light was on, too. It was unforgivable; I wasn’t paying attention.
We take electricity for granted. I simply forgot I was using up the dwindling reserves in the basement. The batteries were very low, since I’d run the electricity all night to boil tap water. When I turned on the microwave, the voltage dipped and burned out the fucking microwave…and the motors of the freezers in the basement. All my frozen food thawed in a heartbeat. I buried the food next to my neighbor’s body, but not before stuffing myself with everything I could save.
My situation’s even graver now. I didn’t find anything special in my neighbor’s pantry—some canned food, pasta, a couple pounds of moldy potatoes, and dozens and dozens of packets of powdered soup, freeze-dried coffee creamer, and minute rice. The only good thing about powdered food is that it’s lightweight, so I can carry it in my backpack. But its nutritional value is questionable, and I need to build my strength up. Not to mention its “delicious” flavor…
I didn’t find much else in the house. There were no weapons except a double-barreled Zavala shotgun. The only ammunition I found for it was lead pellets. They wouldn’t penetrate a human skull, not even at close range. You have to get very close to the target, and that’s too close when it comes to those things. Miguel could’ve attested to that, if he weren’t buried in the backyard. And it’s terribly loud. Still, I took it and the ammunition, fifteen pellets in all. You never know.
I tore the place apart looking for the keys to his boat. I don’t have a clear idea what I’ll do when I leave here. For now my plan is just to get out in one piece. I have no idea what to do after that. I can’t rule out the boat, no matter how dangerous and far-fetched that idea is. Then it dawned on me where the keys were: in the most logical place. With a sigh, I went back out in the yard and started digging up Miguel’s body. I’d just buried him four hours before. If this keeps up, I’ll become an expert gravedigger.
Burying a person is hard, but digging him up is harder. He appears little by little—first his hands, then his body…and that awful smell. And it hits you he’s really dead. Fighting the nausea, I checked the pockets of his overalls. There were his keys, along with his wallet and a bag of some white powder. Poor guy. He was a dick, but he didn’t deserve to end up like this. No one does.
I covered him up again and went back into his house. The best discovery I made was that the house used bottled gas to heat water. One of bottles was still full. After twenty days with no hot water, a bath sounded like a dream. I filled the tub to the brim, grabbed a good bottle of wine from my house, and soaked all Sunday afternoon in a huge cloud of steam. I’d earned it. I got the feeling it’d be a long time before I did that again. The next few weeks will be intense…if I live that long.
I’ve halfway figured out how to get out of here and not get eaten alive before I get past the front door. My plan still has a lot of loose ends, but I think they can be solved. I’ve had almost three days to relax, eat well, and build up my strength. Now it’s time to act.
February 7, 1:12 p.m.
It’s hard to decide what to take when you know you won’t be back for a long time. It’s even more complicated when your life depends on what you take. Any extras were out. I piled my survival kit, everything I considered essential, on the living room floor. I have a sixty-liter water-resistant backpack I used to take scuba diving. It still smells like the ocean and reminds me of all the good times I had with my wife. I also have a sleeping bag and the heavy coat I got off the dead soldier. I took my laptop, the shortwave radio, some clothes, an extra pair of shoes, and the freeze-dried food from Miguel’s house. I also threw in the army first-aid kit with the morphine, antibiotics, and analgesics; a five-liter jug of fresh water; a small toiletry bag; some photographs I couldn’t leave behind; a notebook and some pens; my camera; and all the batteries in the house. The backpack was filled to the top. In a smaller bag that clipped on to the backpack, I packed all the Glock and Zavala ammunition and a couple of flashlights. One of the flashlights was filled with xenon. I used to use it on night dives. It devours batteries, but it’s bright as a lighthouse. All that weighed a ton.
With all that weight, I moved at a snail’s pace. I had to carry all this to my escape vehicle. I knew that the key to my survival would be agility, but I couldn’t do without any of these things. On top of that, I had to carry the rifle, the pistol, and the speargun slung across my chest, as well as a carrier with a frightened Persian cat inside. I’d only have one hand free to fight off those monsters. It was going to be awkward. I sure as shit couldn’t fight off a bunch of them.
Miguel’s street was full of those things. Two or three dozen of them wandered up and down, attracted by the shots from the other day. The scene from my window was disgusting. About thirty bodies with ghastly wounds, their clothes stiff with dry blood, swayed aimlessly in the road. A handful of them banged on my door. I saw no way to clear the street of those monsters so I could reach Miguel’s vehicles parked out front. There were too many of them, and they were too scattered for the clanging-bear strategy to work this time.
The scene on my street was slightly different. Out of the big group that had been milling around, I could only see four from my window. Most of them had gone to Miguel’s street the other day when they heard him shooting. That’s so ironic. I was getting a shot at survival, thanks to his pointless death. The four on my street were clustered around my front gate. I had to figure how to move them away from there. I thought I knew how to do it, but I’d only get one shot. If I failed, I was screwed.
Once everything was packed, I set the bags in the entranceway, next to the front gate. Lucullus was very nervous. It took a lot of scratching behind his ears and whispers to persuade him to get into his carrier. He’s never liked it. He always sits in the passenger seat. But I couldn’t risk carrying the cat in one arm with those things after us. Sorry, Lucullus. If those creatures caught me, it’d mean certain death for you, my little friend. You’d have no way to escape.
I pulled on the wetsuit and checked the three guns. I walked through the house one last time, my eyes gliding over everything that was so familiar. I might not ever see it again. My whole life was here. I was setting off for an unknown destination with no assurance I’d be alive in half an hour. It was crazy. My living room, my kitchen, my study (I never painted it a color I really liked), the couch my little roommate scratched up. I went up to the attic in tears and looked around. I grabbed one of my wife’s old sweaters. When she died, I’d packed away all her things. Now I was abandoning them forever.
I wiped my tears and headed to the backyard to set my plan in motion. The next time I write in this journal I’ll describe what I did. If I don’t write any more…well, obviously, something went wrong and there’s a new undead walking around town in a wetsuit. But I won’t go down without a fight. I’m terrified—but I’m determined.
February 7, 9:01 p.m.
I’m alive. Exhausted, horrified, and in shock—but alive. Lucullus is fine too, even better than I am. We’ve taken refuge in a fairly safe place. I lost some supplies along the way, but I’m still battle-ready. My God, there are thousands of those things! I should write all about it right now, but I’m exhausted. I’ll write some more tomorrow, after I’ve gotten some rest.
Today, I shot a gun for the first time in my life. I’m sure it won’t be the last.
February 8, 12:39 p.m.
The winter sun in Galicia is really tepid. Some people would say it’s weak. Its caressing rays aren’t very strong on icy mornings like today, but at least it warms your bones a little. Better than nothing. Lucullus and I are lying on the roof of our little makeshift shelter, hoping to get on with our journey. As we ate a breakfast of beans from self-heating cans, images of the terrible day we had yesterday replayed over and over in my mind.
It was unbelievably terrifying. Yet I feel more alive now than I have for three weeks. When I went over the wall into my neighbor’s yard, I wasn’t sure my plan would work. The further I got into it, the more doubts I had. But I couldn’t turn back. I raced across Miguel’s yard into his pitch-black house. Those things were all riled up. Somehow, they knew I was on the other side. A couple of them had even made it through the front gate and were pounding on the boarded-up windows downstairs. The noise was deafening. I carefully climbed the stairs and opened the bedroom window; I was sure they couldn’t see me up there. Down below was Miguel’s delivery van, parked right out in front. He had complained several times that junkies tried to break into it, looking for amphetamines or Rohypnol, the so-called date rape drug, even though he didn’t distribute those drugs. So he installed a powerful alarm in the van. It woke me up many nights when he accidentally tripped it. I wanted to see how those things reacted to all that honking.
I gripped the Zavala rifle, loaded two cartridges, then calmly aimed at the van. The mob under the window kept on banging on the door, unaware I was right above them. I fired. The blast from the rifle sounded like a cannon in the morning silence, amplified by the sound of the van’s windshield bursting into a million pieces.
The alarm went off immediately with honking, flashing lights, and a loud, steady siren. The effect on the crowd below was electric. Most of them surrounded the van and started rocking and shaking it. A few spotted me in the window. They crowded around below, stretching their arms toward me, looks of hatred in their glazed eyes.
So far, so good. I rushed back down into the yard. I didn’t have much time. Between the gunshot and the alarm, all the monsters in a one-mile radius would be drawn to this area in minutes. It would become a hot spot. I scrambled down the ladder like a monkey back into my yard. When I put weight on my poor ankle, a stabbing pain shot up my leg all the way to my eyes. For a moment everything went white and I almost passed out. No time to stop. I went in my house and upstairs to my bedroom to take a quick look.
I sighed with relief—my plan was working. Three of the mutants on my street were shambling toward the van. That blaring noise drew them like moths to a flame. For some reason, the last creature left on my street decided to cross the embankment at the end of the street. He’d probably fall, but that didn’t matter. He wasn’t close enough to stop me from getting to my car.
Breathing hard, I ran to the foyer, slung the backpack on my back, and crossed the speargun and the small bag over my chest. Then I knocked down the wooden posts that braced the gate and poked my head out. The coast was clear. For the second time in a month, I ventured outside. Only this time, I was setting off on a journey, and I didn’t know if I’d survive.
Clutching Lucullus’s carrier and the Glock, I crossed the road slowly, heading for my car, keys dangling from my wrist. I grabbed the keys and pressed the release button. My first mistake. With a double beep and a flashing light, my car opened, but that got the attention of the creatures on all sides. They turned and headed right for me. Shit. I had to move fast. I opened the driver’s door and threw the backpack in the backseat with so much force that the bag flew open and some of my gear fell out. Out of habit, I went around the car to the passenger side to settle Lucullus in his seat.
My second mistake. As I came around the car, I saw a man in his twenties with long hair and goatee. He had on a filthy, torn black shirt and was missing both legs below the knees. I wondered how he’d lost them. He was lying on the ground, right behind the car. I don’t know when he crawled there or how long he’d been waiting, but he startled me. I took a step back, but he still managed to grab my ankle (my good one, thank God) and sink his teeth in.
It all happened so fast. I stepped back so fast he couldn’t get a good grip on my ankle. Plus my wetsuit was too thick and pliable for his bite to pierce it. He did leave visible tooth marks in the fabric. With disgust mixed with pure terror, I dropped Lucullus’ carrier and grabbed the gun with both hands. I aimed right at his head, less than three feet away, and fired.
I’m no expert marksman, but I couldn’t miss at that distance. I was really nervous, so I shot him in the head several times. It was a gruesome sight! I still shudder at the memory. It’s not like in the movies. A bullet doesn’t make a small hole; it opens a gaping hole. Blood clots, bits of brain, and bone fragments flew everywhere.
Trembling, I leaned on the car, trying to catch my breath, but time was running out. The rest of the creatures were less than thirty yards away, approaching very, very fast. I grabbed Lucullus’s carrier off the ground and tossed it in the car. The poor guy meowed uncontrollably, scared to death. Before I got into the driver’s seat, I aimed at the things coming from the main street and fired. My third mistake. I didn’t have a clue how to shoot a gun, even at just thirty yards. All I did was empty the clip and make even more noise. Well, that was the least of my concerns. Every monster in the town must’ve heard the racket I was making.
I tossed the empty gun to the floor of the car and jumped behind the wheel. When I turned the key, the Astra coughed a couple of times, then started up. My blood ran cold. It hadn’t been started up in several days. For a moment I thought it was going to stall—then I’d be screwed for sure. It’s a good thing Opels are tough. Nothing fancy, but tough. I put it in first and drove toward the end of the street. I swerved to keep from hitting three of those things (I’ve prosecuted drunk drivers, so I know what a human body can do to a windshield and chassis upon impact) and turned on to the main street. The sight blew me away: a tide of nonhumans, hundreds of them, coming from downtown.
From the other side, there came several dozens more, eager for prey. I only had one way out—a country road at an intersection about twenty yards away. I floored it, made the turn, and—
February 9, 3:09 p.m.
As I was writing yesterday, with Lucullus in my lap, I heard a noise on the ground floor of our strange shelter. I climbed down the stairs with my stomach in knots, gun in hand. I looked all around but didn’t find anything. False alarm. Maybe stress and exhaustion are starting to play tricks on me. Or maybe I’m hallucinating. Or worse—battle fatigue.
Back to my story. When I was in the car at the intersection of my street, the situation was not encouraging. Hundreds of those things were coming from downtown with that strange gait, deceptively slow looking but really fast, taking up the entire street. It was the grisliest sight you can imagine.
For the love of God! All those bodies—with wounds and amputations, covered in blood, pale, that awful look in their eyes—headed for my car, with a bloodlust, a longing to catch me. Damn it! You have to see a walking corpse in person to understand how terrifying it is. The sight of hundreds of them trying to catch you would make even the most laid-back person’s hair stand on end.
The situation was no better at the other end of the street. There were fewer, but too many for me to drive through them without hitting one. If the crash didn’t kill me, those things would. I only had one way out: the country road.
I live in an area that’s been developed relatively recently. There are still some narrow country roads that wind through old farms, though they were being transformed into streets with buildings or town houses like mine. I knew there was one of those roads straight ahead. I didn’t see any of those things on it, so it was my only choice.
I floored it and turned on to the smaller road, bouncing over a huge pothole. In the rearview mirror, I could see that a mob had gathered and was following me. To my horror, I realized that the engine noise would attract dozens of these creatures anywhere I went. All I could do was drive so fast they couldn’t catch me, and they’d lose my trail. Sounds easy in theory. Fucking hard in practice.
That road was not exactly a highway. It was wide enough for one car. In places, its surface was just a bed of rocks and huge potholes. On top of that, I didn’t know where it led. If it was a dead end, I was in serious trouble. I drove slowly, about fifteen miles an hour. I had to stop often and maneuver around a pothole, so those things never lost sight of me. Lucullus meowed plaintively in his carrier with each jarring bounce the Astra made. I was terrified and knew just how he felt.
I gripped the wheel really tight. The car lurched along. Once I heard a terrible creaking sound coming from the motor. That didn’t bode well. I drove too fast through an especially narrow point and left both mirrors and the rear bumper lodged between two stone walls. I didn’t give a shit. I had to get out of there no matter the cost.
A moment later, I ended up on a wider country road and had no idea how. I braked hard, throwing up a cloud of dust. There was nothing in sight. Not a soul, living or dead. I could see Pontevedra off in the distance, sitting on the banks of the Lérez River, silent, unchanging…dead. Here and there, columns of smoke rose from burning embers. I stared at long black scars where entire streets had burned to the ground.
I guess when the electricity failed, transformers and substations broke down and started the fires. There was no one to put them out.
I shook my head in disbelief. The only sound was the hum of the motor. As the dust cloud settled, I righted Lucullus’ carrier in the passenger seat and whispered a few words of reassurance. No time for petting; he was going to have to tough it out for a while. I had to decide which way to go now.
Suddenly I knew where I was—the damn secondary highway I’d tried to use to get out of town almost a month ago. The one where I was stopped at the checkpoint. Well, I wasn’t likely to run into a checkpoint now. If by some chance I did, I’d cover them with kisses as long as they took Lucullus and me into their custody. I’d played the Lone Ranger too long.
I rolled along the deserted road for a couple of miles. Not a soul was in sight, aside from two bloody figures staggering around in the distance on the edge of a cornfield. A small river between them and the road would stop them from following me, but it was only a matter of time before more of those things showed up. I finally came to the checkpoint. Cement blocks were the only memorial to the troops stationed there. They’d been put there to cut off the road, but someone cleared them away later. You could see the scrape marks they left on the cement as they dragged the blocks across the road. I don’t know who moved them, what they did with the cement blocks, or where they went.
I continued for a mile or so, getting more and more worried. It wouldn’t be long till I came to the main intersection. That would mean more homes and more cars blocking the road. And more of those things—a lot more. The county road ran through an undeveloped part of the belt around the city, but it was the exception. The rest was densely populated, so there were probably thousands of bodies wandering around. I couldn’t forget the huge crowd following me. Many would get lost down other roads, or they’d stop. However, I felt sure a few would reach that spot.
Plus, the sun was setting. Nighttime is as dark as a well in an urban area with no electric lights. It would be suicide to continue. I had to find a place to hide. Fast.
Just when I thought I’d never find shelter, I came upon the perfect refuge on a small hill in the middle of a field thick with prickly broom plant. I spotted its little orange roof and sighed with relief. I know that kind of building well: substations along the pipeline that pumped oil across Galicia from north to south, to major cities. It would do nicely.
I eased on to the road leading up the hill. It grew narrower and narrower, overrun by vegetation. I almost ran into the high mesh fence. I could only see the gate. The rest of the perimeter fencing was completely covered by a thick layer of vegetation at least 150 feet high. You couldn’t reach the fence without hacking through that jungle with a machete, and I seriously doubted those monsters could do that. The only access to the substation was down this road. It was a great place to spend the night.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I crossed the dock on high alert. When I reached the fish market, I pressed my back to the wall and poked my head around the corner. I saw two of those creatures, a young man and an elderly woman. They stood stock-still in the middle of the walkway, looking strangely desolate. The pouring rain plastered their clothes to their bodies. After nearly a month out in the elements, their clothes were starting to wear out. Now they really looked like something out of a horror movie. As if they hadn’t before.
Flattened against the wall, I started forward, with the speargun and Glock ready. I came within four yards of them, but they didn’t see me; the storm, the growing darkness, and the rain hid me. Yet I was sure they sensed I was there. As I passed them, my nerves taut as piano wire, they snapped out of their trance. They began to stir, turning in every direction, trying to get a bead on me. Their senses may have diminished when they crossed the threshold of death, but they’d developed another “sense” that allowed them to detect beings. They knew I was close. Very close. It was just a matter of time before they located me. I had to hurry.
Slithering along walls, crouching between cars abandoned in the road, I made it to a nautical supplies store I knew of. Then I realized two things. First, the store’s wrought iron gate was down. I’m such an idiot. I hadn’t thought about that. How the hell was I going to get through the gate with no electricity and no key?
Second, about a dozen of those things were coming down the street toward me.
I needed a solution. Fast. Suddenly, I saw it. Parked in front of the store was a delivery van. I crawled across the hood of the van onto its roof. The rain was harder than I expected, and I almost slipped a couple of times. I became hysterical as those things got closer. Shit!
I finally managed to climb onto the roof of van. From there, the second-story balcony was less than three feet away, right above the store. I took a deep breath and jumped. Almost slipping on the moss growing on the ledge, I let myself fall inside the railing. The glass balcony door was locked, so I broke it with the handle of the gun. The pouring rain muffled the noise of breaking glass.
The balcony door opened quietly and smoothly. Inside the enclosed balcony, I could make out heavy wooden furniture. A musty smell assailed my nose as I stepped inside.
I eased up to the bedroom door. I reached for the glass doorknob, took a deep breath, jerked the door open, and jumped back.
Nothing. Just a dark room. Fumbling around in the backpack, I pulled out a flashlight, lit up the hall, and entered the dark room. A monstrously large antique canopy bed loomed out of the dark. The place smelled musty from the damp and from being closed up. But behind that smell, in the background, I detected a faint smell of decay. I pictured the worst.
I heard rain pouring through the downspouts in the background. From time to time, a powerful clap of thunder shook the house. The storm was right on top of the town. I admit I was scared to death.
Next was the dining room. On the other side of the room a staircase led downstairs. I figured this house and the nautical supply store on the first floor had been owned by the same person. As I started down the stairs, I heard a noise totally unrelated to the storm. It was a constant, rhythmic beat accompanied by…bells?
Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam! Then suddenly the noise stopped. Then it started up again, with those damn bells in the background. It was maddening.
The noise was coming from the floor I was on, not downstairs. From the back of the house. I could have ignored it and gone downstairs, looted what I needed, and left the way I came in. But I’m human. Besides being irrational, stupid, and unpredictable, humans are really curious. I needed to know what the hell was making that noise. Shaking, scared shitless, holding the Glock in my right hand and the flashlight in my left, I walked to the other end of the house.
I walked through a small living room with a TV, a couple of sofas, some two-month-old magazines, and a lonely kneesock left on a table. I came to another door at the other end. The noise was louder here. I was getting closer. When I reached the door, I looked through the keyhole. I didn’t see anything, but the smell of decay was more intense here. Holding the flashlight in my mouth, I jerked the door open, only to find a shorter hall with two doors.
Bam! The banging got louder, clearer, more intense. A whiff of rotten air stung my nostrils. Bam! I walked cautiously down the hall, trying not to throw up. Bam! Bam! I shone the flashlight all around; the hall was clear. All I saw were some lithographs of nautical scenes and the two doors. One of them was half-open and led to a bathroom. I carefully pushed the door. It opened with a creak as I flashed the light around the room. Empty.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! The creak of the bathroom door caused the jingling and blows to increase. No machine made that sound. Whoever it was, he’d heard me. Holding my breath, I planted myself in front of the door.
I still had time to turn around and leave. Whatever it was, it knew I was there, but it hadn’t come out. Either it couldn’t come out or it wasn’t interested in me. And I wanted nothing to do with it. But I had to know what the hell it was, so I grabbed the knob and yanked open that damn door.
Jesus, I still shudder. That godforsaken room must’ve been the master bedroom. A quilt covered a huge bed. Lightning filtered through the half-closed blinds. At the foot of the bed, giving off an infernal odor, lay the body of a woman whose age I couldn’t determine. Clutched in her hands was a shotgun, pointing up. She’d stuck a gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger. The top of her head was gone. She’d been dead for weeks. Shining the light on to what was once her face, I saw fat white worms protruding from what remained of her mouth. I gagged and threw up in a corner for what seemed like an eternity. My small contribution to the hellish scene.
Bam! I got to my feet like a bolt of lightning, a trickle of vomit dangling from my mouth. I shone the flashlight and saw him. A little boy about three or four, strapped into a high chair, barefoot and wearing overalls.
He was one of them.
When I shone the flashlight on him, he started to squirm, and the high chair bumped into the wall, making the pounding sound I’d heard. Rattles attached to the front of the chair jingled and shook as he looked at me with empty, dead eyes, his little arms outstretched, trying to catch me. What a sight!
Disgusted, I backed into a corner and watched that little monster. The woman who lay at my feet must be his mother. When the little boy contracted the virus, it was too much for her. She saw what he’d become and didn’t have the courage to kill him, but she couldn’t go on living either. Trapped in the house, desperate, alone, she shot herself. That monster must’ve been strapped in that chair for weeks, unable to break free and search for warm-blooded, living beings.
That little monster never stopped swaying, agitated at the sight of me. With what little cool I had left, I raised the speargun and aimed at his head. A weak, threatening growl came from his dark, foul-smelling mouth. Trembling, with tears running down my cheeks, I pointed the speargun at the boy. I closed my eyes. And fired.
I know I did what I had to do, but I can’t help thinking he was practically a baby. It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever done. It will haunt me for the rest of my life.
I pulled out the bloody spear and wiped it clean on the woman’s clothes. I stumbled out of that room from hell. I had to get a hold of myself. I’d come here with a purpose. I had to work fast so Lucullus and I could live another day. I wiped away my tears and headed down the stairs to the store.
It was dark. Fucking dark. The stairs were black as a tunnel. In the halo of light from my flashlight, I could make out the steps and the wrought-iron railing, which twisted and turned in a complicated pattern. I was still trembling and had the bitter taste of vomit in my mouth. My tongue was dry as straw. I could’ve killed for a glass of water.
I started down the steps cautiously. They creaked and groaned. Outside, the storm raged, the wind blew with a fury, and lightning lit up the scene. It was an eerie scene, right out of a horror movie. But this was not a fucking movie. I was in the middle of all that shit. Suddenly, I felt the urge to run away as fast as I could and cower on the Corinth, but that wasn’t a viable option. Not anymore.
I finally reached the landing. The door was locked, but the key was in the lock. It turned with a loud click, and, presto, it opened.
Very carefully, I poked my head in and shone the flashlight on a shelf with fishing rods and reels lined up in neat rows. I was inside the sailing shop. Great. Gaining confidence, I took a few steps and swung the light across several shelves, my mind racing through my shopping list. I shouldn’t linger. In one corner I saw some sailboat harnesses. After the incident on the way here, I thought that would be a good “purchase.” I set the gun and spear on a nearby shelf and, pointing the flashlight toward myself, got engrossed in choosing a harness in my size. It almost cost me my life.
There was a roar, and a stack of fishing rods collapsed next to me. A pair of waxen white arms shoved them aside. The rest of the body followed. He was a man about forty, pale and ghostly, with dead eyes, his mouth ajar. One of them.
He closed in on me fast. Before I knew it, he was on top of me. My weapons were too far away to do me any good. His clawlike hands grabbed my arm, and his momentum pushed me backward, off balance. I stumbled and fell back against a display case, dragging the monster with me.
With a loud crash, we landed on a pile of compasses. The monster was on top of me, his entire weight pressed down on me. Somehow I got hold of his arms. With one leg bent between us, I kept his mouth away from my face. His expression was absolutely crazed; his jaw snapped open and closed, biting the air like a rabid dog. One bite nearly ripped off my nose.
As I held him off, my mind was racing. The bastard was so strong. I didn’t know if those things got tired, but of course I did. My arms cramped up. The situation was becoming desperate.
With one last effort, I rolled onto my right hip. The thing’s body crashed into the display case. Its steel corner dug into the base of his spine. A human would have writhed in agony, but he wasn’t fazed.
Now we lay side by side, like lovers entwined in bed, but I was certainly not feeling sexy. One of his arms was trapped under my body. Through my wetsuit, I felt his fingernails raking across my back. Fortunately the neoprene was too thick and the position too awkward for him to get a firm grip.
But now I had one arm free. Amid the confusion, the flashlight had fallen off the shelf, so we were in complete darkness. I ran my free hand over the nearest shelf above my head, groping around for something, anything. I grasped a heavy, cylindrical object and, with all my might, slammed it down on the creature’s head. It didn’t slow him down. I hit him again. Nothing. I knew you couldn’t knock out those sons of bitches with a blow to the head, but knowing that wasn’t going to save my life. Then something happened as I took my last swing.
A slippery, greasy liquid poured down on me. At first I thought the thing was bleeding, but it was too sticky and thick to be blood. Then I thought he’d vomited on me. I was disgusted, and I drew strength from that thought. I lowered my other arm and, with my bent leg, kicked his body and pulled away. I slid away surprisingly fast and crashed into another row of shelves.
The blow made me see stars. A million white, green, red, and blue dots danced before my eyes. Slipping and sliding, I stood up as I heard the thing fall less than three feet from me. Leaning on the display case, I realized it was the same one I’d set my weapons on. I groped around for my gun, praying the flashlight hadn’t fallen on the floor. Behind me, that thing struggled but couldn’t get to his feet.
Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead. Suddenly, my fingers found the butt of the Glock. I turned and fired into the dark.
The shot sounded like a cannon in the confined space of the store. My ears ringing, I tried to grasp what I’d seen in the flash of light from the first shot. Correcting my aim, I fired three more times.
The roar of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder engulfed the room. The thing just stopped moving. Gasping for breath, I swung the Glock in all directions, squinting in an effort to see in the darkness. I bent down and felt around for the flashlight. Finally I found it and shook it, relieved that it wasn’t broken. I turned it on and surveyed the scene.
It looked like a hurricane had hit the place. Display cases were lying on the floor, overturned in the struggle. The creature’s body was leaned against a wall as if he were asleep. Blood was gushing out of a huge black hole in his forehead.
The floor was covered with a thick, oily substance. I bent down to inspect it. I realized I’d hammered on his head with a can of boat motor oil. It had split open and spilled all over us. Thanks to that, I was able to slide free, and the monster had slipped several times, giving me time to find my gun. A simple can had saved my life. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I was covered in motor oil from head to toe. I must’ve looked pretty grim, standing there amid the devastation, the dark, sticky oil running down my body. As the adrenaline roared through my body, it sank in that I was still alive. If it hadn’t been for that can of oil and a lucky shot, that bastard would be snacking on me, and I’d be one of them. I felt sick to my stomach again, but I had nothing left to vomit up.
He must have been the child’s father. Now I understood how the little boy got infected. His wife had locked her husband down here in the store when she saw what he’d become, and run back upstairs with her little boy, not knowing he was doomed too. That sucks.
The metal gate was locked in place, and there didn’t seem to be any more creatures in the store. But the sound of gunfire had drawn a small crowd that was banging on the other side of the gate.
I had to do three things: secure the area, find what I’d come for, and figure out how to escape this madhouse. And I had to hurry.
February 22, 6:15 p.m.
Was it Roosevelt who said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself”? But he was never locked in a store in the dark, pumped full of adrenaline, covered in motor oil, with dozens of eager monsters banging on the gate six feet away, determined to kill him. I’m sure he would’ve been afraid. Fucking afraid.
As I looked at the pile of rags lying at my feet, the magnitude of the situation hit me. I collapsed, exhausted and trembling, on to a pile of rain slickers and stared at the gate, which shuddered with every blow.
There were no other noises, not even thunder. The storm had dissipated after venting all its fury. The gurgle of rainwater streaming through the gutters was all that remained of the storm that had raged over Bueu while I was fighting for my life.
I leaned against the shelf and struggled to sit up. I looked around, every sense alert. I quickly checked out the store to make sure there were no more surprises. There was no other exit, just a small bathroom and a storeroom with neatly piled merchandise. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for a rust-colored bloodstain in one corner. That must be where the guy had gone through his transformation, alone in the dark, lying on the floor like a dog. I shuddered at the thought.
I didn’t have much time. In a matter of minutes the place would be surrounded, and I’d be done for.
I rushed around, shoving half the store into my backpack: two complete sets of charts of the Spanish and North African coasts—one drawn by the Spanish Navy and one by the British Admiralty (still the best), a high-quality GPS with a plotter connection, a couple of compasses, dozens of flashlight batteries, signal flares, a telescopic fishing rod, a box of hooks and fishing line, a safety harness, a spare wetsuit, two high-tech spearguns, and two dozen long, ominous, molten steel spears. Three loaded spearguns were definitely better than one.
I stuffed all that into my backpack. As I climbed the stairs to the top floor, I started laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop. With those spearguns, my backpack, my torn wetsuit, my body covered in oil and blood, I must’ve looked like some wacko slasher.
Once upstairs, I went into the kitchen for some provisions. The last thing I wanted to do was run around town, dodging monsters, looking for a store that hadn’t been ransacked. When I left home, I’d toyed with the idea of going to the shopping center for some groceries and supplies. But it dawned on me that, in the last days of the Safe Haven, loads of people must’ve had the same idea. The armed forces had probably plundered every store in the country to feed the multitudes in the Safe Havens.
Fortunately, the pantry was really well stocked—pasta, canned goods, tomato sauce, rice, and flour. I also took some bags of sugar and five pounds of coffee. I was about to leave when I discovered a large supply of baby food. I stood there looking at all those jars lined up, knowing I’d killed the baby that food was intended for. The thought turned my stomach.
With tears in my eyes, I packed up the baby food the little boy’s mother had so lovingly stored away. Not for me, but for Lucullus. He’d love it. On my way out, I discovered a wet bar. I took a couple of bottles of gin and half a carton of Marlboros. Great! I planned to have a smoke when I got onboard to help me sleep. And forget.
My backpack wasn’t completely full, but it weighed far too much, considering I had to dodge that howling crowd all the way to the dock. I peeked out the front window. There was no way out there. About two dozen ghostly, soaking wet undead had packed into the narrow street in front of the store.
I tiptoed back to the kitchen. The window opened onto a narrower street. It was deserted. I stuck my head out and looked to the left. I could see the sea. That would be my escape route. I went back down to the store and cut about ten yards of the heavy-duty rope used on boats. Back in the kitchen, I tied one end of the rope to a radiator and cast the other end out the window. All I had to do was climb down and make it to the end of the street before those bastards saw me. Piece of cake!
But first I had to raise the blinds. They were rain-soaked, so I had to yank them up with all my might. It sounded like a machine gun in the dead silence of the street.
I shimmied down the rope and landed carefully so I wouldn’t aggravate my injured ankle. I ran toward the end of the street, easily dodging a couple of those creatures along the way, one at an intersection and another behind a telephone booth on the opposite side of the street. I kept running and didn’t look back. I didn’t dare. In my fevered mind were images of a horde of bodies filling the road, following me in silence, cornering me in a blind alley, and finishing me off.
Fortunately, the street wasn’t a dead end. It ran parallel to the one I’d come in on and ended at the port. I stayed out of sight, crawling along the breakwater, slowly approaching the lifeboat. This return trip took almost three times as long. I slipped on the rocks, got all banged up, and nearly cracked my head open. By the time I reached the boat, I was soaked and scared out of my wits. In a normal world no one in his right mind would crawl over algae-covered rocks pounded by the last waves of a storm with the wind furiously pushing against him. But this is no longer a normal world.
Darkness was falling when I finally scrambled onto the dock and made my way to the little boat. As I paddled gently through the swell toward the Corinth, my blood froze. Something was moving on deck! Those bastards had gotten out there somehow!
Suddenly, the shadow on the deck stood perfectly still, as if it had spotted me. A howl greeted me. Lucullus! My poor cat, confused and upset at being left alone for so long, had gone on deck, looking for me. It breaks my heart to think about it. As I approached the Corinth, I could see the little guy, drenched and shivering, but proud, at the ship’s rail. He’d kept watch on deck, riding out the storm, waiting for me. Atta boy.
With the last of my strength, I climbed on board, hauled up the lifeboat, and emptied out the backpack. I took a long shower and dried Lucullus off (he never stopped purring), then we sat down in the cockpit to eat, staring at the silent, dark streets of Bueu, where just hours before I’d nearly lost my life.
It would be dawn soon. After an unimaginable week, the storm had subsided. It’s time to continue our journey. To our next destination. To hope.
February 23, 6:00 p.m.
Good thing the only mirror on board was the little one above the minibar. I was spared the look of excitement on my face as the Corinth approached Vigo.
The last few hours have been intense, exhilarating, and liberating. At first light, I raised the anchor and let the boat slide lazily away from the dock to the center of the inlet, riding the tides and the current. The silence was broken only by screeching gulls and cormorants as the Corinth drifted away from shore. The morning was cool and bright, with no trace of the terrible storm. A perfect day for sailing.
Before this hell, fishing boats would be heading out. You might even see a sailboat zigzagging in between tankers headed for the port of Marin. But yesterday morning I didn’t see a soul as I stood at the stern, bundled up, a cup of strong coffee in my hand. I guided the boat to a windier area. I looked all around, but the landscape was completely dead. I felt like the last man on earth. It’s really disturbing.
When I thought the breeze was strong enough, I let out the genoa sail and a small jib. The Corinth sprang forward, quick and high-strung as a horse that’s spent too much time in the paddock. Before I knew it, we were sailing at a good seven knots.
As I watched the whitecaps we left in our wake, Lucullus came on deck. In one agile movement, he stretched and jumped into my lap. Ever since he was just a little ball of fur, he’s been very independent, like all cats. But with all this chaos, I can hardly get rid of him. Maybe he senses, in a feline sort of way, that the world has changed. He wants to be near the only part of his universe that hasn’t disappeared. Me. I welcome all the affection, but sometimes it’s too much. Way too much. Still, he’s a charmer. And my only companion.
Throughout the morning, the wind brought us closer to the end of the inlet. I scanned the silent towns on both coasts with binoculars, hoping to catch a glimpse of some sign of life. Bueu, Combarro, Sanxenxo, O Grove, slid slowly by. All I saw were dark, silent buildings, abandoned cars, and lots of those things wandering aimlessly. Somehow they’d made it to places that were evacuated before the Safe Havens fell.
I have a theory that those mutants retain some memory of what they were in life, and that draws them to where they used to live. That’s probably bullshit, but since I seem to be the only man alive, my theories are the best in this part of the world.
That led me to wonder if anyone else was still alive in one of the thousands of homes overlooking the river. What must’ve gone through his mind when he saw a boat cutting through the water toward the ocean? If I were trapped a mile from the sea and I looked out and saw the Corinth sail by, I’d die of anguish.
I prayed no one signaled to me from the coast or the surrounding mountains. There was no way I could rescue anyone, but guilt would’ve made me try. Attempting something that stupid would surely have led to my death.
With that thought, I put the binoculars away and stopped scanning what I was leaving behind. Time to focus on something more productive. Lucullus and I had eaten canned or packaged food for nearly two months. We needed some variety in our diet. I baited a hook and set the fishing rod on the stern. Then I sat down with a cigarette to enjoy a morning of fishing and sunbathing. After just twenty minutes, I had half a dozen mackerel flopping around in a bucket, ready to grill. For a few hours I forgot those monsters, the end of the world, and my anguish at being separated from my family. For a few hours it was just me, my cat, my boat, and the sea.
But when I went in the cabin to get a knife to gut the fish, a cloud marred that perfect day. Hanging in a corner was my dirty, torn wetsuit. It had saved my life so many times. Now it swayed to the rhythm of the waves. It was a reminder of all the evil wandering along the shore, waiting for me, as if it were saying, “Sooner or later you’ll have to come back down to earth.” Shit.
At least the fish I grilled up on deck was delicious—the first fresh food I’d eaten in months. Seeing Lucullus quivering with excitement by his bowl as I served him a mackerel made me understand the phrase “lip-smacking good.”
Things changed as I came around the tip of Morrazo Peninsula at the southern end of the Ria Pontevedra and the northern edge of the Ria Vigo. Although waves six to ten feet high shook the Corinth, it proved extremely seaworthy. Unfurling the spinnaker, I got up to an amazing nine knots. The bow cut through the waves, sending up big plumes of spray. I yelled and screamed like crazy with a wild look on my face as cold seawater washed over the cockpit, soaking me. It was great!
Nighttime was a different matter. I couldn’t sleep, so I mulled over the sailing route. The last few hours have been exhausting, but great. The Corinth stayed right on course and entered the Ria Vigo via the route laid out on the chart. After nearly twenty hours of sailing, I anchored off a deserted beach and settled down for a good night’s sleep. At dawn, I’ll cover the latest few nautical miles to the huge commercial port of Vigo. I plan to dock at the section of the port owned by the Citroën car manufacturer. I hope somebody gives me a warm welcome.