Manel Loureiro - Apocalypse Z - The Beginning of the End

It took me three hours and half a bottle of gin to muster up the courage to end Miguel’s life. His shouting was driving me crazy, and that tipped the balance. I could hear him all over the house. His voice, tirelessly demanding my blood, was getting to me. I was becoming hysterical.

Drunk, worked up into a frenzy, I grabbed the speargun. It took three tries to load a spear on the tightest setting. Stumbling, I climbed the ladder to the top of the wall and stuck my head over. As soon as he saw me, he shouted even louder, stretching his arms toward me, trying to grab me. He was just two yards away. Even a guy drunk on his ass could make that shot. I pulled the trigger, and the spear flew out with a sharp hiss. It entered his head with a crack right above his right eyebrow. He grimaced in surprise (or relief?) and collapsed like a sack.

Then the dam burst. I started laughing hysterically. I couldn’t stop. Fat tears ran down my cheeks. A minute later, I was crying my eyes out, leaning against the wall, the speargun still in my hand. I’d murdered my neighbor from the top of the garden wall. I’d driven a piece of steel into his head. Just the day before, we were making plans and I was laughing at his lame jokes. Now I’d killed him. This is bullshit. I feel very alone. I’ll go crazy if this keeps up.

I climbed down the rope into his yard, landing next to the body. When I put weight on the ankle I injured yesterday, pain shot through me. God, it hurts! I hope it’s only a sprain and not a broken bone. I limped over to a pile of wood and grabbed a thick rubber tarp. I dragged the body to a corner of the yard and wrapped it in the tarp. I should bury him. I should pray for him. Fuck, I don’t know if I’m still a believer.

I studied his house for a moment. The back door was still closed. The window Miguel had come through was shattered. Broken glass and clotted blood covered the ground. A bloodstained curtain was sticking out. The house was dark and silent. And empty.

I had to go in. I knew I should go in. I had to make sure there weren’t any more of those things inside, and that the wood door was still braced closed. The last thing I needed was a couple dozen of those monsters in his backyard. Then I remembered that Miguel was a rep for a pharmaceutical company. He must have a ton of samples somewhere. I could use some painkillers. Most importantly, his house faces the other street. Maybe there was a way out there.

It was nighttime, and darkness obscured everything, so I couldn’t go in. Miguel’s house had no electricity. I wasn’t about to go into the lion’s den in the dark, drunk and without my wetsuit. No way. I’ll leave that for tomorrow.

I climbed back up the rope and went home. I’m sober now, lying on the sofa in the dark, listening to the steady blows against my gate. I feel a dull, pulsating hangover coming on. I’ll try to get some sleep. Tomorrow I’ll go in that house and come up with some kind of a plan. I’ve got to get out of here.

February 3, 5:07 p.m.

I’m sitting in the hammock in my backyard. The last rays of the cold winter sun are falling on this small rectangle of grass, warming my bones a little. Lucullus is napping contentedly in my lap, dreaming whatever cats dream about. It’s the most peaceful time I’ve spent in weeks. That’s the truth. If it weren’t for those things howling and pounding on the gate, I’d think it was a quiet Sunday afternoon. I almost feel like fixing hot chocolate and watching a movie. Unfortunately, it isn’t Sunday afternoon, and my neighbors are among the undead out there, eager to kill me. Plus I’ve been out of milk for two weeks. Life sucks.

I slept until almost noon, recovering from my hangover. When I got up, I fixed myself a regal breakfast of a couple of cups of strong coffee and a bowl of beans out of a can and mayonnaise. My diet has become so monotonous over the last few days.

Today I have to face several problems. First, the soldier’s body lying in front of the door. He’s been decomposing all week, and he’s starting to smell really bad. If I don’t do something, it could make me sick.

I locked Lucullus up in my bedroom. All I needed was for him to jump on the body and then lick himself. After I wrapped the body in plastic, I dragged it out to the backyard, trying to keep from retching. The smell it left in the foyer, hallway, and living room was indescribable. I considered dousing the body with gas out of the lawn mower and setting it on fire, but that grisly idea made me stop and think. I don’t know whether those things can smell or how well they can see. If they can see, then a column of smoke rising in a clear blue sky would draw them in droves. My only choice was to bury him in the backyard.

Resigning myself, I set to work digging a shallow grave in the corner of the yard, next to the barbecue pit. The ground was soft and muddy, so it was easy. I used a small spade, the only garden tool I could find. I slid the body into the hole and covered it. Then, dirty and sweaty, I sat down next to the mound. I lit a cigarette and considered the irony of the situation. This humble grave digging in my backyard was probably the most luxurious funeral held for weeks. Maybe the only one.

I threw the butt on the ground and went back inside. I washed up a little, wincing at the freezing cold water, then fixed some food for Lucullus and me. Today, more canned food. I’m down to canned sardines. That goofy cat is thrilled with this diet.

I got everything ready for the toughest task of the day. I pulled on my wetsuit and checked my speargun. I only had the three spears left. The fourth one was in my hapless neighbor’s head. I didn’t even have the umbrella handle; I’d left it lying on the street when I killed one of those monsters. The soldier’s gun was my last line of defense.

The Glock felt huge and dangerous in my hand. I still wasn’t sure how to use it, but at least I’d identified its parts: trigger, safety, magazine release, etc. It was loaded, but I’d try not to use it. I knew what those things did when they heard a noise. If I shot the gun, I might take out a few, but the noise would draw dozens more in minutes. I’d save it for another time.

After saying every prayer I knew, I climbed the ladder back over the wall and eased down into Miguel’s backyard. Everything was the way I’d left it. His body was still in the corner, in a gray heap, wrapped in plastic. Warily, I went over to him, gave a couple of tugs, and pulled the spear out of his head. I must be getting desensitized because this time I didn’t throw up. Interesting. If I survive long enough, I could become a textbook psychopath.

I left the spear on the grass and carefully walked toward the house. It was still dark and silent. I grabbed the doorknob and tried to turn it. Locked. I should have known. I’d have to go in the way Miguel came out yesterday—through the window. I slipped inside, careful not to cut myself on the blood-soaked glass. It was a disgusting scene. The damn dog, or what was left of him, was lying in a corner, ripped to shreds. He looked like he’d been attacked by wolves. The dog must’ve been concerned and gone over to his dying master, only to find he’d turned into a ruthless predator that tore him to pieces in seconds. Life’s a bitch.

I quickly checked the house. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. It was empty and safe. None of those monsters had gotten in. The front door was armor-plated. They could beat on it for centuries, and it wouldn’t budge. I went upstairs and glanced out the window. I could see the entire street and two cars parked out front. One was a delivery van with the logo of Miguel’s company on the side. The other was a Mercedes, also Miguel’s; the door on the driver’s side was hanging open. There was blood on the upholstery and a corpse lying next to the car. Another one was not far away, lying halfway between the front door and the car. Miguel must have brushed against them. That’s what cost him his life.