Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

“You keep interrupting me!” he snapped. “As the dense smoke lifted, we figured out the source of the sound.” He shuddered. “It was the sound of thousands of feet, in shoes and barefoot, shuffling across the pavement.” He looked at me. “The feet of all the refugees who didn’t die before they got infected and became undead.”

I was horrified, crushed by the thought of hundreds of thousands of innocent people bitten and maimed, rising again, turned into monsters. Jesus, it was shocking. I felt dizzy. I needed some air.

“Evidently, not all the refugees succumbed. The most resourceful, the hardiest, a handful, maybe even a few hundred, found a way to survive that terrible night. They hid in the ruins of the port until the vast crowd of undead scattered. When only a few hundred undead remained on the pier, they fled in every direction, alone or in small groups,” concluded Ushakov.

“Yeah?” I looked at him, glassy-eyed. “How do you know?

“Simple.” He smiled, gesturing theatrically. “One of those survivors is on board the Zaren Kibish. I’ll introduce you to him,” he said. He stood up and headed for the cabin door.

I got to my feet to follow Ushakov. But as soon as I stood up, I felt nauseated. I realized that my delicate Western stomach couldn’t handle the combination of vodka, damp heat, the gruesome conversation, and the smell of food and motor oil. I pushed aside some chairs, threw open a porthole, and left a lovely pattern of vomit on the hull of Zaren Kibish. Terrific! I was making a great impression on my new friends.

I wiped my mouth, turned, and headed back to Ushakov, who was watching me from the cabin door with an ironic look on his face. He must’ve thought I was a wimp, but at least he didn’t say so. He simply nodded for me to follow him.

We walked down a short hallway crowded with pipes and cables and lots of doors. Overall, the ship was a complete wreck. It was amazing to think it had traveled tens of thousands of nautical miles from Southeast Asia. We came to a hatch at the top of a staircase that led down to the bowels of the ship. The damp, musty smell was stronger there, but I seemed to be the only one who noticed.

Through the open hatch, I saw a cabin laid out like the captain’s cabin, but smaller, with narrow cots instead of a wide bed. Sitting on one of the bunks was a heavyset man in his fifties. His face was very wrinkled, and his beak of a nose was covered with broken capillaries, on account of his fondness for alcohol. Across from him sat another man in front of an upside-down wooden box with a chessboard set up on it. He was about forty, short, muscular, blond, with piercing blue eyes and a droopy mustache. He reminded me of the comic-book hero Asterix the Gaul.

When we entered, Asterix and Drunk Nose were engrossed in the final moves of a game of chess. They jumped to their feet when they saw us.

Ushakov exchanged a few quick sentences with them in Russian. He pointed to me several times during the conversation. I felt very ill at ease. Ushakov and Drunk Nose were having a heated discussion about something. Asterix merely looked at them sadly and occasionally gave me a resigned look. Finally, Ushakov turned and beckoned me over.

“Mr. Lawyer.” I didn’t like the sound of that. It had a disrespectful ring. “May I introduce you to the first officer of the Zaren Kibish, Mr. Aleksandr Grigori Kritzinev,” he said, pointing to the man with the red nose.

I shook his hand cautiously, as Ushakov introduced me in a torrent of Russian I couldn’t decipher.

“My first officer is old school. He says he’s sorry he hasn’t mastered any language but Russian, so I pass his greetings along to you.”

“Tell him I’m happy to be aboard this ship and to meet all of you.”

“Such formalities aren’t necessary between friends, nyet?” Ushakov replied in a tone I was starting to dislike. “Let me introduce Mr. Viktor Pritchenko, Ukrainian like Alexander and me, and survivor of the Vigo Safe Haven.”

I studied the little blond guy with the mustache as he shook my hand and tried to keep the surprise from showing on my face. What the hell was a Ukrainian guy doing in Vigo? What a strange coincidence. I was totally blown away when the Ukrainian guy addressed me in halting, rudimentary Spanish.

“Nice to meet you, sir. My name, Viktor, Viktor Nikolaevich Pritchenko.”

“You speak Spanish?” I replied, astonished. He wasn’t what I expected.

“Da, I living in Spain for six months. I live in Spain several times before, since four years. I come Spain every year,” he answered, with a sad look in his clear eyes.

“What brings you to Spain?”

“I work. I work many years for Siunten.”

I was too stunned to ask what or who the hell Siunten was. There’d be time for that later. I realized a few things as I looked at the little man and his honest blue eyes. He wasn’t lying to me. But he was terribly afraid. Something had terrified him, and they’d kill me if I figured out what it was.

I could see that Ushakov, who didn’t speak Spanish, was uncomfortable not knowing what we were saying. He abruptly cut off our conversation, barking a couple of orders to his first officer and sending him and the Ukrainian guy up the stairs. He beckoned me to follow him. As we climbed the flights of stairs, he told me the rest of Viktor Pritchenko’s story. The night of the slaughter at the Safe Haven, he swam to the Zaren Kibish and shouted for help. When Ushakov heard him speaking Russian, he decided to take him aboard. He’s been there ever since. In the port, he worked as a longshoreman or technician or something like that.

Ushakov’s story made me suspicious. He wasn’t telling me the truth—at least, not all of it. What was he hiding? And why?

When we reached the top of the stairs, I was surprised to discover we were headed for the bridge. When we got there, Ushakov sat at his captain’s chair, his eyes boring into me.

“What’s going on?” I asked, more and more confused.

“Let’s see, Mr. Lawyer. If I remember correctly, you told me you’re from a town near Vigo, nyet?”

“Yes, Pontevedra, twenty miles away,” I replied, not sure where he was going with that.

“So, you know this city pretty well, right?”

“Well…yeah, sure.” I was more confused. I didn’t understand where those questions were leading, but something was in the air.

“Da, perfect.” He thought for a moment. Then out of the blue he blurted out, “Know where the main post office is?”

“Sure. What the hell is this about, Captain Ushakov?”

“Oh, come on. I’m sure a smart guy like you has figured it out. I need something from there.”

My expression must have been comical. From the post office? What was he up to?

“Two months ago, I received the last communique from the company,” he began wearily. “When we docked in Vigo, right after the storm, the first thing I did was phone the company’s agent in Spain for instructions. But the phones weren’t working in Estonia, and no one answered in Greece.” He stretched out in his chair. “He promised to mail me complete instructions from Madrid, but the evacuation to the Safe Haven prevented us from picking it up at the post office.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Isn’t it obvious, my young friend? I need that package. Someone has to pick it up. Someone who knows where the post office is. That someone is you.”

I just stood there, staring at him. Was he joking? This guy was asking me to go ashore, cross a city infested with thousands of undead, as if I were just going out for a loaf of bread? He wanted me to find the post office and deliver his damn package like some postman? The vodka had definitely addled his brain more than mine.

“Captain, you can’t be serious. I’m sorry about your package. As far as I’m concerned, if it’s in that post office, it can stay there till the end of time. You don’t know what you’re asking. I’ve been around those things. Let me assure you they’re monsters.” I was getting all riled up. I couldn’t help it. “It’s sheer madness! It’s absolutely impossible for a person to set foot in that city without those hellish monsters getting him! I’m dead serious!”

“Oh, you won’t be alone. My first officer and some of my men will go with you.” He smiled mischievously. “That package is from my employer, and you’re a stranger, so we don’t know if we can trust you. Your only job is to guide them there and back.”