Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

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 Citroen car manufacturer. I hope somebody gives me a warm welcome.

VIGO

ENTRY 57

March 5, 5:38 p.m.

It’s been days since my last entry. Up till now, my captors haven’t allowed me to board the Corinth to get this book and my personal belongings.

Ten days ago I sailed into the port of Vigo and dropped anchor. The Corinth rocked gently in a breeze blowing off the port. The waves at ebb tide splashed lazily around its long, thin hull. Without sails, the mast swayed gently, with an occasional clink as steel clips struck the aluminum wheel. There I was, in the midst of that bucolic scene, propped up on the deck, slumped against the hatch, a half- empty bottle of gin in my hand, eyes brimming with tears.

Vigo was dead. Totally, absolutely, horribly dead. A corpse. Kaput. Not a living soul in sight. I was anchored two hundred yards from the docks of what had once been a city of a quarter of a million people. The docks were crowded with those mutants, in numbers I hadn’t seen before. Amid unprecedented devastation, they wandered up and down the port.

The port looked like a battlefield. Charred vehicles, large warehouses blown apart by some powerful explosion, even a couple of amphibious Army personnel carriers with all their hatches open. It was a really creepy landscape. Thousands of bodies lay burned, decomposing everywhere. Walking around, oblivious to everything were the victors in that battle: the undead.

I was right. The Vigo Safe Haven had held out to the end, the last refuge of southern Galicia. But I’d gotten there too late.

The scariest part of that hellish landscape was the main docks. The masts and antennae of dozens of half- submerged boats protruded out of the water. Here and there you could see a half-drowned ship, and even some hulls belly-up, indecently exposing their propellers.

To complete the chaotic landscape, dozens of bodies hung like ripe fruit from cranes in the port. Some kind of hellish circus, right out of Dante’s Inferno, must’ve played out on those docks. There were signs of gun battles and fire everywhere. Pescanova, one of the largest fisheries in the world, was nothing but a charred heap.

Earlier that day, as the metropolis came into view, a chill ran down my spine. Through my binoculars, I could see ugly scars all across the city, made by huge, devastating fires. No firefighters were battling the still-smoldering embers. Storms had put out the flames. As I drew near the port, I was sure I wouldn’t find anyone alive.

For hours I sat there, leaning against the hatch, too stunned to react. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. Terrible dark thoughts crossed my mind. That scene was too shocking to be true.

After a few hours, a lot of alcohol, and tons of self-pity, I was able to focus on the one thing that stood out in that scene. Six hundred yards from shore, anchored peacefully, was an old freighter, painted red and white. Wide bands of rust were visible at the waterline. It had been through hard times, but was still in one piece. It was the only boat I’d seen afloat since I left Pontevedra. Its presence defied all logic.

I got up the courage to approach, since I had nothing better to do. Without much enthusiasm but with a