Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End

With a twinkle in his evil eyes, Ushakov approached me and stuck out me his hand. “I hope you keep your word, Lawyer. Leave the case on the dock. Then it’s every man for himself. No hard feelings.”

“Of course. No hard feelings,” I said as I bowed my head, ignoring his outstretched hand.

Ushakov slowly lowered his hand. “We live in difficult times, Mr. Lawyer. Things are changing fast; only the toughest will prevail. I don’t expect you to understand. I act the way I do for very powerful reasons.”

I stopped, half my body hanging over the side, and looked hard at him. “You’d kill me over a fucking briefcase?” I snapped. “Tell me. What the hell’s in it?”

Ushakov looked at me with a frightening grimace. “Good luck, Mr. Lawyer,” he said with a smirk. “You’re going to need it.”

I climbed down the ladder to the Corinth’s deck, Ushakov’s laughter floating down around me. Once I’d set foot on the familiar teak deck, I untied the ropes, with everyone’s eyes on me.

The Corinth’s engine roared to life, and I gradually pulled away from the huge bulk of the Zaren Kibish, headed for the port where Prit and the briefcase waited. The second part of the dance was about to begin.

ENTRY 76

April 14, 9:40 a.m.

Water lapped quietly between the side of the Corinth and the black stones of the dock. As I approached the shore, with Lucullus nestled against my chest, purring nonstop, I thought about our next move. With a slight pressure on the rudder, I maneuvered the Corinth alongside the pier, next to the bollards, and tied it up.

I smiled, satisfied. I was relieved that the auxiliary motor, which I’d hardly used, responded perfectly. I would have been embarrassed to be stuck just a few hundred yards from shore, with sails furled and the crew of the Zaren Kibish looking on.

I passed my hand lovingly along the teak beam. The Corinth was a superb boat. She had sheltered me and saved my life. Now I must abandon her forever.

Before I jumped to the dock, I ran to the pulley wheel in the bow and grabbed the tip of the line. I kicked the sail locker open, jumped down in it, and waded through a lot of bunched-up fabric with the line in my hand. The locker smelled of Dacron, stagnant salt water, and rotting seaweed. The Zaren crew had carelessly gathered up the Corinth’s sails and piled them every which way.

On a bottom shelf, I found what I needed—the spinnaker, the huge-bellied sail used on the bow. It was normally only unfurled at sea with the wind aft, but I was confident no one aboard the Russian freighter had a clue how to sail.

I hooked one end of the upper ring of the spinnaker, then crawled on deck and turned the hand-cranked pulley wheel. With the familiar click of the winch, the spinnaker slowly ascended to the top of the mast, swelling slowly as the soft south wind brushed against its fabric. The huge sail spread open with a loud flutter. It didn’t stretch all the way, since I’d taken the precaution of leaving the bottom sheets loose.

The huge sail hung along the length of the ship, slack like a gigantic curtain. Any sailor watching the Corinth would wonder what kind of freshwater rat had hoisted that sail in such a weird way. Had any strong gusts of wind blown through as I was putting up the spinnaker, it might’ve torn the sail and taken part of the rigging along with it.

All that went through my mind as I hurriedly adjusted the lines. The sail would only have to stay in that position for a few minutes, long enough for Prit and me to carry out our plan. This was the last service the Corinth would provide me.

The fluttering sail caused the hull to rock and bump against the dock. Each crack that scraped the fiberglass and chipped the wood pained my soul. It was a crime to treat the Corinth that way, but I had no time to put the side shields in place.

I dived into the cabin and rushed around filling my backpack with everything I’d salvaged off the dead soldier, my other wetsuit, which still dangled on the hanger, and one of the spearguns with a dozen spears. Some sailor from the Zaren Kibish with nothing better to do must’ve taken the other speargun as a souvenir.

A familiar mustachioed face appeared at the cabin hatch. I started passing all the bundles to Prit, and he set them on the dock. We worked feverishly and quietly. We had to empty it all in three or four minutes, or they’d figure out what we were up to on the Zaren Kibish. The huge sail blocked the view of the sector of the dock where we set our supplies, and disguised Prit’s trips back and forth. All they could see was a sailboat next to the dock, swaying in the breeze.

We were sweating like crazy as we hid our stuff behind the spinnaker, out of sight from the Zaren. Finally, I pulled on my wetsuit as Prit dragged a life-size male mannequin out of the back of the van, courtesy of a fashion boutique downtown. He dressed it in a yellow slicker, drawing up the hood as a finishing touch.

Not three minutes had passed from the moment I unfolded the sail till we set up the dummy in the cockpit of the Corinth. While Prit slipped back around the corner, I cut the line that held the Corinth to the dock.

In one smooth motion, the sailboat began to slide toward the harbor entrance. The rudder was locked in place so it would hold its course for a few minutes—more than enough time. Trying not to make noise, I let myself down into the water between the Corinth and the dock. The water was really cold, but I didn’t even notice. As the hull slid up against me, I took a few deep breaths and dived.

Diving relaxed me completely. I could make out the black silhouette of the Corinth as it pulled away, and beyond that, through the rushing waters of the port, the Zaren Kibish’s waterline.

I gently began to swim for shore, trying not to create lots of bubbles. Less than ten yards from the shore, I ran out of air. Angry with myself, I kicked a few more times. Finally, about to pass out, I surfaced at the dock, right where we’d tied up the Zodiac the first time. Prit was waiting to hoist me out of the water.

Breathing hard, we ran to the imposing Seguritsa warehouse. Dripping wet, I peered around the corner of the deserted dock, to where the Corinth had been just minutes before. At the edge of the dock, sparkling in the midday sun, lay the black Samsonite briefcase, the object of so much trouble.

Swaying as if a drunk were at the helm, the Corinth sailed slowly toward open water. Before getting off the boat, I’d caught up the sheets in the most visible way possible, trying to draw the attention of the sailors on the freighter. Now I was afraid I’d tightened them up too much and the sail would rip.

It was too late to worry about that. A barrage of automatic weapons fire from the Zaren’s bow splintered the Corinth’s deck into a thousand places. The dummy’s head rocketed through the air. Wood chips and pieces of carbon fiber flew everywhere as hundreds of bullets pierced the boat’s hull and rigging. A man stood on the bridge with an RPG-7 on his shoulder. The Corinth swayed and drifted less than two hundred yards from his position, making it an easy shot.

With a roar, the grenade hit the sailboat in a cloud of smoke and a blinding flash. The impact was devastating. A huge column of fire shot up through the hatches of the Corinth. The hull disintegrated into a million pieces.

As thousands of gallons of water flooded the injured vessel, another shell hit the deck. A jet of fire and smoke rose from the bowels of the Corinth, now a roaring inferno. A piece of mast spun in the sky and fell back into the water. With a gurgle, the battered hull sank to the bottom amid the explosions.

Pritchenko and I didn’t hang around to watch the show. We ran like hell down the alley to the idling van. As