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 Lerez 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.
ENTRY 49
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
