I got up my courage, put on the latex gloves I’d found in the medicine cabinet, and pulled a heavy, black, well-oiled gun out of his holster. On one side was the word “Glock,” and on the other, an eight-digit serial number. I think it’s loaded. That was the first time in my life I’d held one of those things. I studied it carefully. I felt much better having a real gun. I know it’s psychological, but the feeling of security is wonderful.
On his belt were two cartridges that matched the ammunition in the gun. There were fifteen rounds in each, so when the gun was loaded, I had a whopping forty-five bullets. Now I’d have to learn to fire it without shooting myself in the foot.
In addition to the ammunition for the Glock, I found several cartridges that looked like ammunition for an assault rifle. Two of them were empty and still smelled of gunpowder. The poor guy lying at my feet had had time to shoot off at least two full magazines. Of course, there was no trace of that gun. When those things grabbed him, he must have dropped it. Who knows where it is now.
The backpack was a treasure. I found a sleeping bag, a large army camouflage poncho, a compass, a map with several battle plans noted on it (probably the defensive lines that contained those monsters during the evacuation), some smokes, a first-aid kit, including three vials of morphine and, best of all, some army rations. The cans are great. The reservoir in the bottom is filled with a reactive substance. Add water, and it generates intense heat so you can eat hot food without a fire or a kitchen. They’d come in handy when I had to get out of here. I’m coming to the realization that sooner or later I’ll have to move. If I stay here, those things will finally get in, or I’ll starve. The only problem is how to get out of here. And where to go.
I dug into one of the lower pockets and found the guy’s wallet. That fucked up my whole day. His name was Vincent; he was only twenty-eight, from a small town just twenty miles from here. He had pictures of a girl (his girlfriend?) and a cute dog. A guy whose life they stole. A guy I drilled three spans of steel into to survive. Hell, I get sick thinking about it.
With a lot of effort and some throwing up, I pulled the spear out of his head. I put it in a pan of boiling water and left it there for about six hours. It took half a line of stored electricity to boil the water that long, but I wanted to kill any germs there might be on the spear. Then I put it back in the sheath with others. Now I have four spears. I can see the other two from my window, one next to the bear and the other stuck in Broken Hip. They might as well be on the moon for all the good they’ll do me.
I don’t know what the hell to do with the body. I don’t see how I could throw it over the wall. Those bastards would see me. So I’ve wrapped it in a sheet of plastic for now. I’ll think of something.
If that weren’t enough, my neighbor’s gotten all worked up. I suspect he’s on something. I made the mistake of telling him about my adventure with the soldier. Now he thinks we can blast our way through the city to his boat. How do I make him see that reality is different? I risked my life to get just halfway down the street and kill only two of those things. Crossing the city with thousands of those monsters on the loose is something else again. We’d have to plan carefully, not go out with our guns blazing and a gram of cocaine coursing through our veins, not knowing what we’d find around a corner.
He’s fixated on my wetsuit, and now he’s wearing some overalls that look idiotic. He’s sure to do something stupid if we don’t get moving soon. I have to think. Fast.
ENTRY 39
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
I climbed the ladder to the top of my garden wall and peered into his yard. I didn’t see anything but some posts he’d stacked there for a deck he’ll never build. I called his name softly. No answer. Miguel, you idiot, what the hell did you do?
I could hear the noise those things were making on Miguel’s side of the street. It sounded like they were pounding on a wooden door. They’d found a way to get through his steel gate, and now they were banging on his front door.
I was wondering how the hell I was going to climb down into his yard when I saw him through a window. He told me he was okay. He said he’d tried to get to his car so he could surprise me and pick me up at my front door. But there were dozens of those things on his street, so that plan hadn’t worked. They were inside his front gate, too. “I killed two of them,” he said with a huge grin. You asshole. Now there were at least a dozen of them out there, drawn by the noise he made when he shot those two monsters.
His overalls were torn and bloody. He told me one of those monsters tried to grab him by the neck, but he took him out, no sweat. All that blood belonged to “those shits,” he said. He looked really pale. I sensed he was lying. Years of trying cases in court have taught me all about mankind’s shortcomings. I’m good at picking up the little signals we give when we’re not telling the truth. This guy is hiding something. There’s got to be more to his story.
Now I’m in the kitchen, heating up a can of soup, thinking over the situation. Lucullus is curled up in my chair. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
ENTRY 40
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
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
