The Quiet Apocalypse

by Nick Cracknell

  Damn! Foiled again.

  What could I use? I was not going to give up, not when a means of communication with the outside world was so close within my grasp. I looked around the building, even inside the generator housing. It yielded a small spade, the purpose of which I didn’t give a second thought, but which was also useless. I jammed as far in the gap between the door and its frame as it would go, which was about half an inch, and attempted to crowbar the door open. The end of the spade simply went ‘nice try, mate’ and snapped off.

  Despondent, I had a swing of rum. I’d left the crowbar I’d found in the janitor’s closet back at the Sun Royal. Not it seemed my only option was to head back to one of the villages and seek out another one to jimmy this bastard open. I got about fifty metres back down the hill before something occurred to me. Surely not, I laughed to myself, but headed back up to the station and tried the door handle. With a loud creak the door opened.

  ---

  The inside of the station was so dark and cool I could have been a mile underground. The tiny room smelled of oil and was clearly not meant for human habitation. There was a bank of two high frequency equipment racks as tall as a man with more buttons and knobs than a commercial cockpit. There were three white boxes on the wall which I presumed was the switchover unit from mains power to the generator or solar bank. There was a small chair in the corner and a desk at which sat a PC monitor which would contain the software for the automatic control communications when the system was online. Beside that, PAY DIRT! A CB radio… My instincts were right.

  I examined the equipment racks first of all. At the rear was a pretty mighty looking selection of wires that ultimately culminated in a power distribution unit. This itself fed into a grounding bus bar and from there into a power socket on the wall. I flicked the ‘on’ switch round the front but of course nothing happened. It was still connected to the mains.

  I went outside and hoisted myself up onto the roof to check out the solar panels and see if they were at least connected. There was a small yellow box sheltering underneath them, the inverter unit, and they looked in pretty good shape. A wire fed directly through the roof roughly above where the switchover unit was. This was a good sign. The only problem was that the array was pretty small, it couldn’t be giving off more than a kilowatt of power which would be good enough to run a kettle or a TV but I reckoned would struggle with the high powered equipment inside.

  I re-entered the station, breathed deeply and flicked the power switch on the solar unit. For a split second nothing happened. Then the strip light above me blinked into life, blinked off again, then came on permanently.

  I hooted with joy.

  I leapt in the air and almost cracked my head on the ceiling.

  It worked!

  I was sore amazed, as the bible quoth. Quickly I hit the light switch to turn off the strip as I could see fine with the daylight coming through the fully open door and didn’t want to run down the supply.

  I turned my attention to the CB radio. CBs are used mainly for short-distance communications between individuals rather than commercial use. They’re like powerful walkie-talkies that anyone can use as they don’t require a license. They usually have a selection of 40 channels but because they run on a two-way system only one station can transmit at a time. The other stations must listen and wait for the shared channel to be available. They’re used all over the world by truckers, delivery men, and anyone who needs to regularly communicate job site and main office. The working range can be anywhere between one to 20 miles depending on terrain. I was confident that with the line of sight location of the transmitter station this CB would transmit the maximum range.

  I ripped the PC monitor plug out of the socket and plugged in the CB. Thankfully it was a fairly modern one with a digital display and automatic scanning feature. It blinked into life over an agonising ten seconds. If I kept everything else turned off in the station I saw no reason why the solar panels couldn’t infinitely sustain the CB during daylight hours.

  I had a plan. It was the longest of long shots and counted on there being somebody else within a range of 20 to 25 miles on the island. Somebody who had access to and knew how to use a CB radio.

  Looking at the map there were a number of built up, sizeable towns within that range; the resorts of Puerto Del Carmen, Costa Teguise and, perhaps most importantly, the capital city Arrecife. I reckoned the odds were about one in 14 billion, but I wanted to give it a try anyway.

  The big downside was that I didn’t have any recording equipment. In a perfect world I would have a tape recorder into which to speak a message and then broadcast on loop from dawn until dusk in the hope somebody picked it up.

  I was going to have to broadcast my own voice indefinitely, and that meant a lot of speaking. First things first though, I tried a spurt message.

  I tuned the CB to channel 19. Out of the standard 40 channels this was the middle band and therefore had the best antenna efficiency. It was able to transmit the furthest.

  I spoke loudly and clearly.

  “Mayday. Mayday. This is an emergency broadcast to anyone picking up. If anyone is listening please respond. Current location two miles south of Uga in elevated transmitting station. Will stay here until further notice. Please respond on channel 19. Out.”

  I repeated myself a few times. It was impossible to tell but it seemed like the CB was working. Sitting idle there was a slight hiss, which disappeared when I pressed transmit and spoke. This indicated that it was transmitting and potentially able to receive an incoming broadcast.

  I waited for half an hour while sipping a little brandy. It felt nice to be in the cool shack out of the heat. The sun looked to be at its highest point so I assumed it was around 1pm. Lunchtime. I realised I was famished and wolfed down three bread rolls and some cheese while scrolling through the other channels. My heart leapt up my gullet on Channel 13 when it sounded like I heard something other than static. It could have been my ears playing tricks but it sounded like a car starting, or perhaps a large crowd all talking at once. It was there for a fleeting millisecond and then disappeared. I kept tuned to 13 for the next twenty minutes but the sound did not reappear.

  I spurted the message again a couple of times on 19 to no avail. After a couple more sips of brandy I started to drift off with the low static hum in the background, but luckily just as I was about to slip into sleep I slipped off the chair and woke myself up.

  I wondered if my percentage would decrease if I had a little siesta. I decided it was worth writing off a couple of percent to find out, as if I could have daily lunchtime nap it would make my life much more pleasant. The real reason was I wouldn’t then have to worry about having a couple of glasses of wine at lunch. I decided to put off the experiment for now.

  I sat, scanning the channels for what seemed like a couple of hours. I re-broadcast my mayday message every half an hour or so, then when I started to get really bored I did it every five minutes on each channel. By around four o’clock I’d probably spoken the damn message a hundred times, and realised it wasn’t doing any good. I needed that looped recording device.

  It had been a pretty productive day in all. I checked the map and saw I was equidistant between Playa Blanca and Puerto Del Carmen, and played with the idea of heading to a new town for the night. In the end I decided to stick with what I knew. I would head back to the Sun Royal, have a slap up meal and a few beers, and then in the morning would hunt for a digital Walkman or something that I could use to record my broadcast and play it back on loop. I had a half hour walk back to my bike and with the downhill run I reckoned about another half hour max to cycle back to Playa Blanca.

  I switched off the CB, gently closed the metal door and began the hike back to Las Casitas feeling pretty pleased with myself. Things might not be looking up, but at least they weren’t looking quite so down anymore.

  At least for now.

  57%

  I awoke with a sore head after taking a few too many beers
with supper. Playa Blanca had welcomed me back with open arms…

  The hotel hadn’t changed, not that I had expected it to, and I had a long hot bath to soak away the day’s ride before heading into town to get some dinner. Don’t ask me why I didn’t just eat at the hotel, but I felt a sense of achievement after venturing deep into the unknown bowels of Lanzarote and finding what I did, and I wanted to treat myself.

  I had a few glasses of rose at the Bee Restaurant (the mirror was still smashed but there was nothing behind it except a big wall), a spread of beef carpaccio which I found in the fridge in the kitchen, and an enormous plate of blancmange and fruit salad. I hadn’t eaten enough vitamins since my arrival here and I felt maybe I should start eating a bit more healthily as well as getting some cycling exercise. Then I cancelled it all out by drinking five or six strong beers in the Harp Bar while playing bass guitar and attempting to bash the half drum kit with a set of wooden spoons. I think I must have smoked about a pack and a half of Luckies as well.

  The next morning after a shower and a couple of double espressos I headed into town again to seek out my recording device. It was pretty simple in the end. There was a store called Royal Electronics which sold not just Walkmans but actual dictation gadgets as well. I checked a few over and chose one with an auto-repeat function, then I grabbed a loudspeaker and wire adaptor and a huge pack of batteries and I was ready to rock ‘n’ roll.

  I packed food for a few days since I knew I could be away that long. I ditched the half bottle of brandy and replaced it with two fresh ones, grabbed the crowbar I’d regretted not bringing yesterday and stuffed everything inside some spanking new panniers I nicked from a bike shop. Now I wouldn’t have to wear the damn rucksack on my back apart from when on the hike up to the transmitting station.

  The sun was rising steadily as I set off, and an hour later I was back at the station with my bounty. It was as I had left it; nothing or no-one had attempted to sabotage my radio plan. I had almost expected to find the place torn apart, wires hanging from every device, all rendered useless by the invisible force that kept me on the island.

  Maybe I was free to go where I wanted. All this time I had been thinking I was being kept prisoner here, but nothing had stopped me leaving except stale fuel. If I relied on my own manual ability instead of technology, as I had with the bike, then why couldn’t I get off this island? Papillon did it, so why couldn’t I? That gave rise to another train of thought. If I could lash together enough coconuts could I float myself back to civilisation? I almost laughed out loud at the thought. I already had the feeling, nay the certainty, that the nearest island, Fuerteventura, was as deserted as Lanzarote, but what if it wasn’t? I had been assuming, while wallowing in self-pity, that it must be. Focus on the radio for now, I told myself. Think organic thoughts…

  The CB powered into life as I switched the solar array on. There were a few white clouds in the sky but I doubted they would have much impact on the KW output even if they did obscure direct sunlight on the panels. The sun was so strong that there might be a slight dip in output but nothing that was going to stop forward progression here.

  I loaded the speakers with batteries and recorded the same message I had spoken yesterday with a few more details into the digital recording device. It sounded clear as a bell when I played it back. I set it to loop and placed the speaker in front of the CB microphone. I tuned the CB to channel 19 and hit play, resting a small volcanic stone on the microphone so it was constantly depressed and transmitting.

  The drawback was of course that while I was transmitting I wasn’t able to receive any incoming response. That was the conceit of the two-way radio. So my plan was to broadcast solidly for half-hour stints, then opened up the channel and allow a ten-minute response period before beginning with the broadcast again. Anyone listening would soon realise the pattern, and as long as they were patient they would be able to hit me back after a maximum of a half-hour wait.

  I had told myself that I wasn’t leaving the station without getting a response of some sort. If that meant waiting weeks (or until my percentage hit zero) then so be it. I had nothing better to do, after all. The realist in me knew that I could only take so much rejection, and I gave myself three days maximum before I went mad and decided to try a new line of attack. That’s why I had subconsciously packed food and water for a limited amount of time.

  I had also resolved to stay at the station just in case someone was unable to respond to the broadcast and instead set out to try and find me. So in my message I tried to describe in as much detail as possible the location of the transmitting station.

  It would mean a few uncomfortable nights in the open air, but I had my brandy and my blanket. So much for luxury I told myself.

  I settled in for a long day at the office.

  ---

  The CB finally failed around fifteen minutes after the sun dipped below the horizon, and it was surprising how quickly darkness came on after that. It had been one heck of a long day in the saddle, the message going on repeat for around 10 hours straight. There had been no response in the 10-minute allowance periods, but I didn’t want to lengthen these as I needed to keep broadcasting for the maximum amount of time. In fact, the next day I decided I was going to reduce the response periods to 10 minutes after each hour of broadcasting, rather than each half hour. The more time the message was on air the more change I had of it being picked up.

  There wasn’t enough room to stretch out in the station itself, so I clambered up onto the flat roof and sat there for a while smoking Luckies and sipping brandy and admiring the view. I could clearly see Playa Blanca from up here, and wondered what was going down in the Harp Bar tonight. Maybe the place came to life as soon as I left. The film crew who had to spend day and night secluded in hidden camera locations packed up their gear and got on the hard stuff. Maybe they posted a junior crew member up at the boundary roundabout to keep an eye out just in case I returned unexpected…

  I reflected on how extraordinary my surroundings were. Just over two weeks ago I was commuting three hours daily to a crappy job in central London. Now I was sitting on a remote radio outpost not far off the coast of Africa, with not a single person within miles, jostling for bed space with a solar panel array.

  After a few more swigs of brandy I wrapped the blanket around me and went to sleep under the stars.

  54%

  Dawn woke me after a patchy night’s sleep. It felt like around 6am. As 54% faded from my vision I lay and looked at the sky for a while hoping to see an airliner trail or a flock of seagulls, but there was nothing but bright azure above. I was pretty stiff from lying on the hard felt roof and it took me a few minutes of stretching before I could make the jump down to get the day’s work going.

  The sun wasn’t above the hilltop yet so there wasn’t enough power to operate the CB. I would have to wait, probably an hour or so. I longed for a decent coffee and kicked myself for not bringing a camping stove. Instead I ate some bread, olives and a salami sausage which looked like it would last until the end of time. If I hadn’t consumed it this sausage would have been here for whoever came along after me.

  That prompted a thought to pop into my head; what if I was just the latest amusement for the island and there had actually been hundreds who came before me? The idea that this was a test or experiment would not leave me. Nor would the concept that this was some sort of gateway to another, or the next, realm. Especially after what I’d read in the religious texts in the library. It looked more and more like that now. I had all but written out human involvement.

  So was it a test of faith? If so, why would I be tested? I had no faith! O me of little faith. Maybe that was the point. Maybe this was purgatory after all. The trial by fire. Maybe that was how He hooked you in. By the time my percentage hit zero I would be begging to be let into heaven or the afterlife or whatever it was that was ‘ever after’. It was surely preferable to the alternative, or just nothing at all.

  I wanted my life t
o go on. I wanted to survive this place and live beyond it. I was so damned unfair that this was how it ended for me, if that was what was going to happen.

  The more I considered it the more it made sense. I was never a sociable person. My idea of hell was a cocktail party, or any sort of social gathering at which I was expected to conform to certain rules. I liked rules, but for other people not for me. It wasn’t that I was a rebel, or a misfit or an outcast, or autistic or Aspergery or anything else… I just preferred my own company. Ironic, as I would have given my arms and legs for the company of another human at that point.

  Was purgatory based on irony then? Did it focus on an individual’s hubris and make them live it out eternally? In some alternative Lanzarote was Alexander the Great being confronted with a never-ending list of lands to conquer when all he really wanted to do was have a glass of wine and relax?

  So many questions, so few answers. It’s human nature to be inquisitive. From the moment we can speak we are asking why in an attempt to understand the world around us. I felt like a small child again, thirsty for as much knowledge as I could fathom but lacking the ability to gather it. I shook my head in frustration. Just one clue was all I wanted. Just one morsel of information to help me. It didn’t need to be the whole story, just the first chapter so I could at least begin to comprehend what was happening. That was, I think, the hardest part of all of this. The not knowing. Deny a man food and he will simply die. But deny him knowledge and his whole world will collapse.

  Not me. I was determined to beat this. I had another Lucky and by this time the sun was up above the hills and I could begin transmitting.

  Inside the station I flicked the ‘on’ switch, placed the little stone on ‘transmit’ and turned on the message again. I was going to give it a good hour before a response break.