Nick Cracknell - The Quiet Apocalypse [= Island Zero]

Instead of a flashing percentage, it was the ghostly white face of that woman, that Goddess , that was imprinted on my mind when I awoke in the penthouse of the Gran Hotel.

What had the dream meant? What did she mean by ‘you are saved’? It seemed to me that I was pretty far from saved.

I had been in Arrecife for three days.

Each night Amy, as I liked to call her since her full name was too long, had appeared to me in my dreams. Sometimes as a charging rhino, sometimes as a soaring eagle; last night as a white light. By now I had given up trying to find any meaning in these visions.

Of my radio friend there had been not a trace. I had scoured every inch of Fred Olsen, from the pristine Parque Tematico at the west end with its driftwood sculptures and skate ramps (something for everyone), along the beach front with its golden sands, concrete hotels and glass-fronted real estate agents, to what I liked to call the ‘Far East’; the glass-fronted pride of the city, the tallest structure on the island, at the top of which I now lay, wrapped in a ludicrously thick, white beach towel, about to enjoy my first glass of champagne of the day before heading to the spa.

I had to admit, it was luxurious. In my disappointment, I now fully intended to spend what remained of my percentage enjoying floor-to-ceiling sea and city views, stocked minibars ( for a fee ) and whirlpool tubs. There was a free breakfast buffet, two restaurants, two bars and an atrium-style pool with Balinese beds. There was also a fitness centre and spa with a hydrothermal pool circuit.

What more could a man desire?

The towns I had visited thus far had been deserted, but the feeling of abandonment took on a whole new level in the capital. It seemed a ghost town grew in ghostliness the higher the buildings rose.

Unlike the Gran Hotel, Arrecife itself was hardly grand, but as I had approached along LZ-2 and the dusty volcanic landscape began to give way to increased urbanisation I felt more of a sense of foreboding than I had at any point during my residency on the empty island.

It started at the airport on the western outskirts of the city. A huge sign boasted the Centro Comercial, or mall, and a deserted KFC stood in mocking salute to the once-vibrant population. It was a strange feeling of total loneliness that I was aware of, and it was only the prospect of human contact that pulled me back from a panicked volte-face that would have seen me racing back to the safety of Playa Blanca.

I was aware of a chill in the air. Clouds had gathered and blocked out the sun and the irony of pathetic fallacy merely added to the sense of societal absence.

Upon reaching the city proper this odd sense of doom dissipated somewhat, especially when I saw the signs leading to the beach front, and was replaced by a renewed sense of purpose as my mind brought itself back to my reason for getting to Arrecife. I picked up the pace on my bike, thighs straining as I peddled as fast as they would push me, desperate to reach what I was sure would be the most glorious (re)union in human history. I felt like a small child being held back from a massive softball pool whilst having their shoes removed, aching to dive in and experience the imminent rush of adrenaline.

I walked over to the huge glass vista window of my suite, and surveyed the miles of beach stretching out in front of me.

To have come this far, to have survived as long as I had on this empty island, then to have had the prospect of company tantalisingly and swiftly dangled in front of me like a human carrot, just to have it withheld like a cruel joke of fate, was as much as I could endure.

Was I a bad person? Did I really deserve this? First world problems, perhaps. I had all the food I wanted, all the booze, my health, my sanity, seemingly, although that was open to debate, and none of the struggles, tribulations and inconveniences that modern civilised man has to endure such as mortgages, divorces, taxes or violent neighbours. Yet I felt decidedly hard done by, like I’d been dealt the most incredible poker hand in the middle of a game of solitaire. I had the most insane right boot but no goal keeper to shoot at. I had all the beach sunsets in the world but no-one to share them with. Shit , even a dog would have been something. Or a bird or even a sodding ant . I pictured myself sitting on the beach at dusk, enjoying a fine Chardonnay with my buddy, an ant called Bernard, and laughed out loud.

As I was half cut on champagne, I decided I would go on an entomological research trip in the hope of discovering Bernard on the beach.

The elevator down had four mirrored walls, and every way I turned I was presented with another view of myself. I hadn’t shaved in weeks although I was as clean as a whistle with all the spa dips I’d been enjoying. But I was shocked at how hollow I looked. As if my skin had been unzipped, pulled off me and simply draped back on. My cheeks were dense, bearded craters, and the bags under my eyes had become even more prominent although I was sleeping probably fifteen hours a day. I looked like a man who was in the throes of reluctant acceptance. Acceptance of fate.

“Have you given up, mate?” I asked myself, slightly startled at the sound of my own voice in the confined elevator. I turned 180 degrees and looked at myself in the opposite mirror.

“Wouldn’t you, bro?” I answered myself, although for humorous effect I put on a New Zealand accent.

Turning again to become my real self, I thought over this response. It was odd how it hadn’t seemed to come from my own mind, but as if I was genuinely having a conversation with a bizarrely identical, Kiwi doppelganger. I found myself liking how it felt. I nodded sagely at myself, and raised my glass of champagne in one hand, and the half empty bottle in the other, in a gesture of offerance.

“Don’t mind if I do, bro,” came the response. I poured him another glass and took a large sip from the bottle. As myself, I then slugged from the glass.

“Damn good stuff, this.” I said, examining the label.

“Takes like puss to me, bro. I’m a beer man,” my friend said. “Champagne gives me gas.” He pronounced it ‘giss’.

“How odd. Beer does the same to me.” I replied. “Well, drink up, the ride’s nearly over.”

The elevator trundled to a stop as it reached ground floor, and I found myself reluctant to step outside and leave my new acquaintance behind.

“Don’t fancy a beer in town do you?” I asked him.

“Does Robocop have a metal dick?” he chuckled.

I exited first, hesitantly looking behind me to see if he’d follow. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening. I stepped into the lobby, and of course he instantly disappeared. I stood for a moment, mulling over my own idiocy, before making for the exit.

As I approached the all-glass doors I saw him again, this time walking towards me carrying the bottle of champagne and an empty glass. He raised the bottle in salute and said ‘cheers’. I heard myself saying it as well, at exactly the same time.

He looked like a bit of a savage to be perfectly honest. I frowned, and decided he needed a name if he was going to be accompanying me on my walk into town to find Bernard the Ant. The best I could come up with then and there was Hans.

Hans seemed to disappear again in the sunlight as I walked onto the street, and I wondered if he’d decided a beer wasn’t such a good idea after all. But every now and again I would catch a glimpse of him walking alongside me, reflected in a shop window. He was staggering a little, and I couldn’t decide if I was happy or a bit wary each time I saw him. I thought it was nice to have a bit of company, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to be seen with him in public. He looked a bit… aggressive . In the back of my mind I knew he was just my reflection, but the back of my mind had decided to retreat to exactly that, the back of my mind, and I was left with the frontal lobe doing the thinking.