Manel Loureiro - Apocalypse Z - The Beginning of the End

Forty-eight hours ago, there were no cases in Pontevedra. What began as a trickle—a run-in with “those things” every twelve hours or so—is fast becoming a gusher of emergency calls, hysterical warnings from one unit to another, and a whole lot of movement by police and soldiers who seem unable to quell the situation.

What do they mean, “those things”? People infected with the virus? We all know that people who get infected are extremely aggressive, but why call them “those things,” not the “infected people”? What does that mean, exactly?

A few hours ago, I heard on the military band that security forces in Pontevedra have been ordered to retreat to the heart of the city. The outlying areas must be evacuated. A few minutes later, on the city television station, a captain in the Civil Guard dressed in combat fatigues read a statement from the commanding general of the province, ordering the evacuation. I think we’re under siege.

Just an hour ago, I heard a call to a patrol. Dispatchers reported an incident on some street and told them to investigate. The patrol (Civil Guard, I think) responded that they were already there. I haven’t heard a word from that patrol since. Fifteen minutes later, I heard another call, this time to BRILAT troops. Dispatchers told them to go immediately to the same location. The fucked-up thing is that the address given is just half a mile from my house. I swear I heard two shots. Then nothing.

Whatever happened, there were only two shots.

In general, things look piss-poor. From what I can glean from all the crap on TV, radio, the Internet, and military frequencies, the situation is deteriorating by the minute. The security forces seem to be overwhelmed by events that have skyrocketed exponentially over the last twenty-four hours. There are police and military casualties. Some units, especially those made up of city police, are starting to desert. Something has gone fucking wrong.

A troubling rumor is preying on my mind. Of all the crazy theories repeated endlessly on the net, one is gaining momentum. People say that the sick are in a kind of suspended animation, or that they come back from the dead. They swear that these people are dead but still walking around. Yeah, right. That’s hard to believe, but in the last few hours, so many strange things have happened, I don’t know what to think.

January 22, 7:59 p.m.

Just a few minutes ago, a troop carrier and a transport truck stopped at the end of the two streets where I live. Soldiers got out and went house to house, banging on doors. I was in the kitchen, listening to the shortwave radio with all the lights off.

When they knocked on my door, I froze. I held the cat in my lap and waited in silence until they went away. I had to see what was going on, so I tiptoed up the stairs and looked out my window. I saw my neighbor’s wife, whose husband, the doctor, had disappeared several days ago, leave with her two daughters and a few suitcases. The soldiers helped them into the truck. Several of my neighbors did the same. They headed for the Safe Haven downtown, where they’ve cordoned off some streets. In theory, it’s well protected.

The trucks roared off toward downtown. Before jumping into the vehicle, a soldier painted a huge red cross on the pavement at the intersection. The trucks then turned the corner and disappeared. The night was so quiet I could hear the convoy for blocks. I guess they had many more stops to make tonight.

Now the street is silent and dark. All the homes must be empty. If anyone’s still in their home, like me, they’re lying low. I went back to the kitchen and sat down with just the light over the stove on. I started to think. Clearly they’re evacuating the area. Correction—they have evacuated the area. So from now on, anything goes.

January 23, 10:05 a.m.

The sun is up now. It was a very, very long night. Just a few hours after the convoy left, I was struck by the enormity of my decision. I’m alone. Nobody knows I’m here. I’m in an evacuated area. A no-man’s-land.

After I blocked out that thought, I plunged into a project. I finished shoring up the front gate with the wooden posts. It’s stupid, of course—sooner or later I’ll have to go out that way. But it kept my mind busy, and I feel safer. Then I took stock of the situation. I have enough food for about three weeks, if I don’t mind a steady diet of frozen food. I have about twenty liters of bottled water. I still have running water. Having solar panels means electricity isn’t a problem. If I economize, I can be almost completely self-sufficient. That won’t be hard. I don’t plan on throwing a party any time soon.

Cooking gas is a problem. My kitchen has two ceramic burners and two small gas burners. The ceramic burners consume an alarming amount of electricity. For now, I have gas. Who knows how long that will last? Sooner or later they’ll cut the supply to the evacuated areas to prevent the risk of explosions.

Overall, my arsenal is bleak. I went through the house from top to bottom and gathered all my “weapons” on the kitchen table: a scuba-diving speargun and six steel spears, a butcher knife, and a dull hatchet I chop firewood with. Great. I picked up my speargun, by far my most dangerous weapon. Besides the fact that I’ve never shot anything bigger than an eel, it presents a number of problems. It takes around twenty to thirty seconds to load. Its range is short, only about thirty feet. At a longer distance, its aim isn’t very true. When all is said and done, it’s not a precision weapon; it’s only designed to spear an octopus at close range. If gangs of bandits show up, I’m screwed. My best option is to keep my head down.

The phone rang, and my heart nearly flew out of my mouth. It hasn’t rung for days—I’d forgotten all about it. I almost didn’t pick it up, but the need to hear a human voice is stronger than prudence, so I answered. It was my parents. I was so relieved I nearly passed out.

Tears ran down my face as I listened to my mother’s voice. She’d been trying to reach me for three days. They’re okay, there in my father’s hometown with some neighbors. They begged me to meet them there. I convinced my parents that that option hadn’t been feasible for days. I’m safer here than I would be traveling forty miles on roads clogged with checkpoints, with who knows how many maniacal gangs on the loose. Plus, Lucullus doesn’t like the country, I tell my mother, trying to take the sting out the situation. She’s really worried. My sister made it out of Barcelona before they sealed off the city and declared martial law, but my mother doesn’t know where she is now. The last she heard, they were headed for Roger’s place in the country.

There wasn’t much news about the rest of my family. Most of them are probably at a Safe Haven, like 80 percent of the population. Human beings are social animals and tend to cluster in dangerous situations; only an insignificant few don’t follow this pattern. I fall squarely in that latter group. With a kiss, I said good-bye to my parents, promising to call at least once a week, if I can get a line out.

That calmed me down a little and let off the emotional steam that’s been building. My head is clearer. I’ve started thinking of practical things I can do.

First, the news. TV’s disappearing. Of the eighty channels I used to get, almost every one has gone off the air. I can only pick up Channels 5 and 3 and one that now broadcasts where Channel 2 used to air. Scheduled programming has been reduced to the bare minimum; basically it consists of uninterrupted movies, prerecorded series, and a mini report every forty-five minutes that consists of telling where the Safe Havens are and the best ways to reach them. They insistently repeat that in no way should you try to make contact with the infected. If they attack you, avoid being bitten or scratched.