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.
VIGO
ENTRY 57
March 5, 5:38 p.m.
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.
ENTRY 58
March 6, 5:26 pm
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.