I climbed the ladder to the top of my garden wall and peered into his yard. I didn’t see anything but some posts he’d stacked there for a deck he’ll never build. I called his name softly. No answer. Miguel, you idiot, what the hell did you do?
I could hear the noise those things were making on Miguel’s side of the street. It sounded like they were pounding on a wooden door. They’d found a way to get through his steel gate, and now they were banging on his front door.
I was wondering how the hell I was going to climb down into his yard when I saw him through a window. He told me he was okay. He said he’d tried to get to his car so he could surprise me and pick me up at my front door. But there were dozens of those things on his street, so that plan hadn’t worked. They were inside his front gate, too. “I killed two of them,” he said with a huge grin. You asshole. Now there were at least a dozen of them out there, drawn by the noise he made when he shot those two monsters.
His overalls were torn and bloody. He told me one of those monsters tried to grab him by the neck, but he took him out, no sweat. All that blood belonged to “those shits,” he said. He looked really pale. I sensed he was lying. Years of trying cases in court have taught me all about mankind’s shortcomings. I’m good at picking up the little signals we give when we’re not telling the truth. This guy is hiding something. There’s got to be more to his story.
Now I’m in the kitchen, heating up a can of soup, thinking over the situation. Lucullus is curled up in my chair. I don’t like it. Not one bit.
ENTRY 40
February 1, 10:58 a.m.
I went on a drinking binge again last night. Now, as I write this, I’m paying the price. This hangover’s a bitch. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but since all hell broke loose, I’ve hit my liquor cabinet hard. I’m down to the dregs. That’s probably for the best.
I haven’t slept well for several nights. For a cocktail that’ll blow your mind, mix together one part stress, one part anxiety, and a shot of that constant, merciless, monotonous pounding. I considered taking sleeping pills, but I’m leery of chemically induced sleep. If those things got in somehow while I was under the influence of Valium, I’d never know what hit me. I’d be a nice, warm, sleeping meal served up on a silver platter. So, no thank you, no Valium.
I’ve thought about playing music, but if I turn it up loud enough to drown those things out, I’ll attract hundreds of them straight to my door. Like a fucking pied piper. So that’s out. I put on headphones, but I can’t stand them for very long. Every couple of minutes, I think I hear them breaking down the steel gate and climbing up the stairs after me. In bed at night, I’ve ripped the headphones off, trembling, clutching a gun I really don’t know how to use. I’m getting so paranoid. If I don’t figure something out soon, I’ll go crazy.
Since yesterday, three things have happened—one good, one average, and one bad. The good news is that when I was messing around with the shortwave radio, twisting the dials back and forth like I’ve done for days with no luck, I suddenly picked up a signal. It’s weak, with a lot of static, but I clearly heard a human voice. I jumped for joy and hugged Lucullus so hard he glared at me all day. It’s a military station that broadcasts news and advisories. Apparently, they still control the Canary Islands. The government and the royal family have taken refuge there. I heard a message from the king. I couldn’t understand most of what he said, because of the static. But I’m absolutely positive it was him.
They said that the Canaries are completely full of refugees from the peninsula. They’re running low on fuel, food, and water, so they urge people not to go there. Army units will divert any boat or aircraft attempting to reach them. Those bastards! They’re like the Titanic survivors who used their oars to beat back anyone who tried to climb into their lifeboats. They’re sitting pretty in their lifeboat and are afraid they’ll tip over and sink if too many of us climb aboard. They’re telling us politely but firmly to stick it up our ass. Hey! We’re just trying to survive.
It’s a huge relief to know I’m not the last survivor on the face of the earth. So to hell with them! If the Canaries are secure, there must be other places with people, food, conversation, heat, and hot water. God, I’d kill for a hot bath.
The fifty-two regional forces had already been reduced to forty, and now they’ve been consolidated into four main units. Their strength has been extremely reduced. The number of casualties is appalling. The poor guy wrapped in plastic on my porch could testify to that. There’ve been dozens of desertions and “lost” units. They have only enough resources to defend the few Safe Havens that have managed to survive, but they don’t know for how long. Until the last bullet, I guess. The outlook is really bleak.
The average news is that I heard gunshots again today, coming from the southwest, somewhere between downtown and the road to La Coruña. It was nearly sunrise. A series of quick pops like pistols and then a series of hiccups I’d say were assault rifles. That went on for about half an hour and then suddenly stopped. Either there was no one left to shoot at, or none of the shooters survived.
The bad news is that for twenty-four hours I haven’t heard anything from my asshole neighbor. He doesn’t answer when I call to him over the wall. His evil, ugly mutt, Lucullus’ sworn enemy, usually prowls around the wall, waiting for my cat to slip and fall. An hour ago I heard a horrible yelping inside his house. It sounded like someone was killing the poor thing. Then the yelping stopped. A little while ago, I peered over the wall. I didn’t see the dog or its owner. Those posts Miguel stacked in the backyard are the only witnesses to whatever’s going on over there. I’m afraid I won’t like it, whatever it is.
ENTRY 41
February 1, 9:00 p.m.
Murphy’s Law says when things can go wrong, they go really wrong. The jerk who wrote that book must be really happy with himself. If he’s still alive. No one gives a shit about his ideas these days. Everyone has to cover his own ass in this new world of the “not living.”
I spent most of the morning leaning over my garden wall, trying to get my idiot neighbor’s attention without making a lot of noise. I finally gave up. I went back inside, feeling really uneasy. What if something happened to him? I ran through the list of all the accidents that moron could have suffered, everything from falling down the stairs to slipping in the tub. As I fixed a cup of instant coffee, I kept thinking that one of those things might’ve bitten him when he went on his insane outing. But I quickly dismissed it. Wouldn’t he have told me? When I saw all the blood on him, it had occurred to me that he was hiding something. Would that idiot lie about something that important? I didn’t want to believe that.
His lack of common sense could cause me loads of problems, but he was the only other living person around. Plus, he generously gave me the fence posts I asked him for. I owed him. I never dreamed I’d repay that debt by driving him through a city devastated by death and chaos to get to a boat that might not even be there. It was a really stupid plan, but he was obsessed with it. When I wouldn’t go with him, he’d tried to go alone. He blew it before he even got to the corner.
But I didn’t want to be left alone. I was panicking.
Maybe he was stoned out of his mind. Lately he’d been doing a lot of cocaine. Maybe he’d snorted one line too many, or maybe the shit his dealer sold him was cut with something lethal. My imagination was getting the best of me. I pictured him lying on his kitchen floor in his stupid striped overalls, blood running out his nose, dying twenty yards from me while I was scratching my balls. I set my cup in the sink and went in the backyard.