Apocalypse Z: The Beginning of the End (17 page)

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

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 gentle breeze at my back, I raised the anchor and let the
Corinth
drift toward that hulk, imagining how to board it and loot some supplies.

I finally made out its name and home port: “
Zaren Kibish
—Nassau,” it proclaimed in huge white letters. It was flying a limp, frayed Spanish flag and a piece of cloth so faded and wrinkled it could’ve been the flag of any country in the world. Next to that was the radar mast with its rigid antenna.

As I got closer, I could barely make out, in the glare of sunlight, a strange bracket incongruously hanging over the side. I wondered what the hell it was. Just then, the “bracket” jumped up and ran down the deck, yelling. For a moment I thought I’d gone crazy. It took me a second to realize that what I’d taken for a piece of steel was actually a person’s legs dangling over the side. A living being’s leg! Dear God!

An electric current ran through my whole body. I let out a whoop and rushed toward the bow, waving my arms and jumping up and down. The first figure multiplied into two. Behind them appeared another half dozen.

Tears ran down my cheeks as I brought the
Corinth
alongside the
Zaren Kibish
. They were the first humans I’d seen in weeks.

They threw me some lines so I could tie the
Corinth
by the bow and stern. Then they unfurled a rope ladder, which I scrambled up like a monkey, anxious to get on deck and embrace my new friends.

The first thing that greeted me when I stepped on deck was the black barrels of assault rifles aimed at my face. Behind them was a group of glowering, foreign-looking guys. I was not well received on the
Zaren Kibish
. Something was horribly wrong.

The sun beat down on the deck of the
Zaren Kibish
and bounced off the hulls’ steel plates. I didn’t move a muscle, waiting for the crew to make the first move. Sweat was running down my back. I couldn’t say if it was from the heat or from fear.

Those men were really puzzling. Half of them looked Asian; the other half looked like a UN delegation on a world tour. I cautiously raised my hands and said a timid “Hola.” Not one of them grinned. I introduced myself in English, Galician, Portuguese, and French, exhausting all the languages I knew. No one even raised an eyebrow in response.

The situation was getting ridiculous. A dozen people on deck, boiling in the midday sun, staring at each other, not moving a muscle. Worst of all, I was on the wrong end of their rifles, and my arms were cramping after five minutes with my hands in the air.

Suddenly, pushing through the sailors, a heavyset middle-aged man appeared. He looked Slavic and was wearing a heavy wool jacket; leftover food studded his bushy gold beard. From the respect the sailors showed him, I surmised that he was the captain of the
Zaren Kibish
. I was becoming sorrier and sorrier I’d boarded.

He came over to me and stood with his hands on his hips. He looked me up and down for a good couple of minutes, deep in thought. Finally he must have made a decision. He barked a couple of sentences in a language completely unknown to me, and the guys lowered their weapons.

Taking a couple of steps forward, he held out his ham-sized hands and crushed mine, regaling me with a huge smile. The atmosphere on deck relaxed. I was so relieved, I almost couldn’t speak.

The big man introduced himself in English with a Slavic accent. His name was Igor Ushakov, from Ukraine, captain of the
Zaren Kibish
. He welcomed me to that floating heap of junk. Before I could react, the sailors surrounded me, clapping me on the back, flashing huge smiles, speaking half a dozen incomprehensible languages. Fortunately Captain Ushakov barked some orders in his booming voice and saved me from being crushed by their displays of affection.

Questions raced through my head as they led me inside the ship. A couple of sailors climbed down to the
Corinth
to get Lucullus, who was meowing desperately.

When we got to the captain’s quarters, I realized I’d interrupted his lunch. With a sweep of his hand, the captain invited me to sit at his table. Before I knew it, I had a plate of something that that might loosely qualify as beef stew and a glass of cold beer. As I wolfed down the food, Ushakov kept looking at me, deep in thought. After I’d finished the surprisingly tasty stew, he started asking questions. Who was I? Where did I come from? Where was I going? Had I met many people along the way?

Leaning back, stuffed, I related the story of my life over the past two months. He seemed more interested in the current situation at the mouth of the inlet than in my close calls with those monsters, but he listened politely to the end. Then it was my turn to ask questions.

The ship was the
Zaren Kibish
. It sailed under a flag of convenience from the Bahamas, but its owner was a Greek woman, and her business partners were Estonians. It was loaded with forty thousand tons of steel spools. It had been anchored in Ria Vigo for over a month. As on most international carriers the majority of the crew was Filipino or Pakistani; the rest were from a mix of Third World countries. The only trained sailors on board were the captain and his first officer, another Ukrainian. He commanded
the crew in a mixture of Tagalog and Urdu, with the Pakistanis or Filipinos acting as interpreters. The rest were cheap labor, wet behind the ears. They wouldn’t have passed even an extremely lenient inspection. A floating garbage heap, like thousands sailing the waters around the world—or that used to.

With a grunt, Captain Ushakov got up from the table, went to a cupboard, and took out a bottle of Ukrainian vodka and two delicate little crystal glasses. He poured two generous shots and handed me one, scratching his head as if he were rummaging through his sonorous English for the words to continue his story.

“We sailed into Ria Vigo right before the European Union closed all the ports,” he began. “They hadn’t ordered everyone to gather at the Safe Havens, so we saw nothing out of the ordinary. Vigo was the first port we’d seen in almost two weeks, so we were eager to go ashore and find out what the hell was going on.”

“Two weeks?” I interrupted. “Where the hell had the
Zaren Kibish
been?” I couldn’t believe it. While the world was going to hell, this man and his crew sailed halfway around the world, oblivious to it all.

“Port Pusang, South Korea. Our destination was the port of Rotterdam, but we had to dock at Vigo because the drive shaft was damaged after we sailed through a storm near the Canary Islands.” He shrugged and poured another round of that explosive vodka.

“And you’ve been here ever since?” I asked, astonished. “Why didn’t you get the hell out when you saw what was happening? Maybe head for the Canaries?”

“We couldn’t,” he replied laconically.

“Why not?” I said, stunned.

“I can’t change the boat’s course without the boss’s approval. Company policy.”

“But your company doesn’t exist anymore!” I replied, amazed at his stubbornness.

“Out of the question,” he replied stubbornly as he poured himself another drink. “I’d lose my job.”

End of discussion. He was loyal to the company, and that was that. Their boat had broken down. He’d anchored in the harbor to wait for instructions that never came. He wouldn’t dream of moving an inch.

In vain I explained it was highly likely his bosses were now wandering around somewhere in Estonia or Greece, turned into monsters like the ones on the shore, but there was no way to change his mind. Ushakov had been a captain in the Soviet navy and joined the civilian fleet when the Soviet Union fell apart. He still thought like a soldier. Without orders, he wouldn’t move a muscle. He was convinced there was still someone making the decisions. What if no one was in charge? Unthinkable!

Then I heard the frightening tale he had to tell. Reluctantly he began the story of the last days of Vigo’s Safe Haven to explain why they were still alive.

The military and civilian authorities thought the best place for the Safe Haven was the free trade zone at the port of Vigo. It seemed ideally suited to accommodate large crowds. It had a fence around the entire perimeter, large warehouses and storehouses stocked with nonperishable food, a desalination plant, and access to the sea for receiving supplies. The astonished crew of the
Zaren Kibish
watched two hundred thousand people mob the port. In just a few days, the multitude reached numbers they’d never dreamed of.

A place they thought would never fill up couldn’t handle this human tide. The overcrowding got out of control, as refugees from all over Galicia and even neighboring northern Portugal joined the original refugees. The Safe Haven was soon at maximum
capacity, but refugees kept thronging to its doors. Plus, no one dared leave the Safe Haven. That’d be suicide, since the undead already roamed the area.