Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

He was nuts. I had to get far away from there.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but count me out,” I said as I stood up. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I think I’d better go. So, if you don’t mind—”

“Oh, I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong,” he interrupted. “I’m not asking you. I’m ordering you. If you don’t agree in five minutes, you’ll be floating in the water with a bullet in your head. You don’t have a choice.” That son of a bitch leaned back in his chair, looking very pleased with himself, and glared at me. We both knew he had me by the balls.

I swallowed hard. My blood turned ice cold at the sight of Ushakov comfortably seated in his captain’s chair, watching me. That bastard thought that was funny.

“Come, come, tovarich, don’t take this so seriously.” He leaned forward and whispered right in my ear, “After all, I’m just asking a small favor in exchange for another favor, nyet? I brought you on my boat. In exchange, you bring me the one little thing I need. That’s all.”

“You have no idea where you’re sending us, Captain. We could all die for one lousy package sent by someone who’s probably dead,” I said, forcing back my anger.

“I’m counting on your expertise to bring everyone back. You’ve made it this far without a scratch, nyet? I’m confident you can take that little trip without anything bad happening.”

“Do I have a choice?” I asked, grimacing.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I guess appealing to your good nature or your humanity would be pointless, right? You’re a real bastard, pal! Fuck you!”

The words were barely out of my mouth when Ushakov leaped out of his chair as if he were on a spring and grabbed my neck with one of his big, beefy hands, lifting me up against a wall. He caught me completely off guard. Who knew that such a big guy could move so fast? He held me a few inches off the ground and pressed his now demonic mask of a face right up to mine.

“I’ve been stuck in this hellhole on this goddamn boat with my crew for a month, understand?” he shouted, red with rage. “I’ve waited for someone in charge to send me that package. Know who came? No one! Absolutely no one!”

I was choking, spots dancing before my eyes. That psychopath was going to strangle me. He must’ve noticed my strange color, or maybe he realized if he killed me, he’d have no postman. Whatever it was, it broke the spell, and he let go. I fell to the ground, gasping for air.

“I need that package! I need it! A week ago I sent a team ashore, and we haven’t heard from them since. I can’t afford to lose any more men.” He sat back down, glaring at me. “You will get that package for me. And if you think about straying even a couple feet off the path, I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in your head. So don’t try to fuck me over. Understand, Mr. Lawyer?”

I nodded, unable to speak, as I struggled to get up off the floor. That fucking nutcase was capable of killing me if I refused. On top of that, I couldn’t go anywhere. From the bridge I could see a couple of sailors relaxing on the deck of the Corinth, smoking, with AK-47s lying across their laps. And I didn’t know where Lucullus was.

“Okay,” I said, when I could get the words out. “You give me your word that if I bring you the package, you’ll let me go on my way?”

“Absolutely. You do your part, and I’ll do mine.”

I’ll believe that when I see it! And as a parting gift, a couple of blondes in bikinis and a keg of beer!

I had to be pragmatic and get control of the situation before it got completely out of hand. Taking a crushed Marlboro out of my pocket, I leaned against the wheel and fixed my gaze on him through a column of smoke. My mind was racing at top speed.

“Okay, but I have one condition. On shore, I’m in charge. Your guys will do what I tell them and won’t fuck me around. Agreed?”

“I totally agree.”

“I don’t know why I even care. They’ll probably kill us before we’ve been ashore ten minutes. Besides, I don’t know a word of Tagalog or Urdu. How the hell am I going to make myself understood? In Morse code?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. Mr. Pritchenko speaks Spanish. My first officer will go with you. You can talk to everyone through them.”

“Why not just send Pritchenko? Didn’t he live in Vigo before all this started?”

“Pritchenko never lived in Vigo,” he replied laconically.

“But you said—”

“Enough of this crap. You’ve got a lot to do,” he interrupted, and motioned for me to follow him.

ENTRY 61

March 9, 11:00 p.m.

I’m still alive. Banged up, bruised. My wetsuit’s in tatters. But I’m alive. I’m still trying to get over the shock. It was one very long day. All I want now is a few hours’ rest. This mission or “journey”—I don’t know what to call it—was doomed from the start. From the moment we set foot on land, things have spiraled out of control. We have no plan. We’re flying blind.

Right now we’re hiding in a ransacked mom-and-pop grocery store. The metal gate, or what’s left of it is, is off its hinges. We’ve braced it up from the inside with two steel shelves. The other survivors are crowded together, sleeping in the light of a kerosene lamp. Shafiq is standing guard, nonchalantly nibbling on a candy bar. I can’t sleep. Images of the last twenty-four hours are racing through my mind. I have no one to talk to about all this, no shoulder to lean on. I’m writing to keep from going crazy. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and think this was all a bad dream and I’m losing my mind. Hell, I don’t have a clue where to start. At the beginning, I guess.

For two weeks I was under heavily guarded “freedom” aboard the Zaren Kibish. The captain and his first officer spent all their time getting ready for the trip. I only left that wreck of a cabin to go to the bathroom, take a shower, and make quick trips on to the Corinth. Except for Ushakov, I only saw the cook, a pimply-faced, pockmarked Filipino who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish. So I had plenty of time to think about how off the chart things were.

I was in the middle of writing when Ushakov himself came to my cabin and motioned for me to follow him. We climbed down the stairs to the deck where the rest of my “team” was waiting: Viktor “Asterix” Pritchenko, whom I hadn’t seen since I first came on board, so I guess he and I are both prisoners; the first officer, with a huge pistol hanging from his waist; and four Pakistani crew members. They were all wearing heavy navy-blue uniforms, with crammed backpacks on their back. They all carried AK-47s, except for Viktor, who was unarmed. He gazed at me, half-resigned, half-terrified. He was as fucked as I was.

“You volunteered, too, right?” I asked and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What?” he replied, confused.

“Nothing. Forget it.” Clearly he didn’t get my sarcasm. I turned to Ushakov. “What about my weapons?”

“You won’t need weapons, my friend. My men will protect you. Just guide them to the post office and bring me that package,” he replied and handed me a piece of paper. “The receipt for the package.”

I grabbed it with one hand and adjusted my wetsuit with the other. They all looked at me, astonished. They were probably asking themselves if I’d lost my mind. Did I think we were going surfing? When I read the receipt, I didn’t feel like joking anymore. Shit! No wonder the last team never came back. That package wasn’t at the main post office, which you could practically see from the harbor. The fucking receipt was from the VNT office, a local courier company. At the other end of town.

Resignedly I shook my head and put the receipt in the small, empty backpack they gave me. Clearly I wasn’t the one who’d carry the package back. I adjusted the straps and leaned on the railing to study the dead city. It looked grim and bleak. Beyond the devastated port, I could see the streets of Vigo, filled with abandoned cars, trash, dirt, paper, and plastic bags fluttering in the wind. In the midst of all that, those creatures wandered along a