Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

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.

ENTRY 52

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.

ENTRY 53

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,