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 Lerez 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 Lerez. 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
ENTRY 50
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 Lerez 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 Lerez 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 Lerez 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
