The Quiet Apocalypse

by Nick Cracknell

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  During those hours I sat in thought far too much. I was going mad through rumination. I needed a distraction to keep me occupied while transmitting, so after another fruitless response break I ran the message again and headed down to Las Casitas to look for something else to do. I came back an hour and a half later having raided several houses for loot. All I found was a selection of Dick Francis novels (all in Spanish), a backgammon board and several bottles of Jim Beam whiskey. I took them all.

  Three days and nights I sat either outside or on top of that transmitting station, sipping whiskey, reading books I barely understood and attempting to have a backgammon tournament with the chair acting as my opponent. I won every game of course. The chair was good, but not good enough to beat me. Each morning my percentage got lower, until the milestone of 50% hit as I awoke on day four. It was, I had decided, to be my last day of broadcasting. I had run out of food, I was stiff from sleeping outside on the roof, I hadn’t washed for days and most importantly of all I felt myself going gradually insane. I thought about packing up and heading over to Puerto Del Carmen to check out the bar scene but decided to give it one final blast of transmitting until sunset that evening for the miracle to happen.

  It was a damn good job I did.

  50%

  If I could describe the sound of that brief spurt of crackling static in mere mortal words I would, but if hope had a sound that was it.

  It was around two hours until sunset and I was smoking outside the station about 30 seconds into a response period when I heard it. White noise coming through the CB speaker. The static of someone trying to communicate! No other sound in the world is like it, except maybe the sound of scratching burnt toast.

  When I was a child my physics teacher had told the class that white noise was just microwave background radiation thought to be left over from the creation of the universe. In other words when you hear static on the radio you are listening the echo of the Big Bang.

  This was almost as momentous for me. I ran inside the shack and hovered like a madman over the CB, praying for another hit. It came again about ten seconds later. The same burst of white noise with three or four brief gaps in between. I was certain it was somebody trying to get through. In a fit of tension I pushed down on the transmit button and spoke.

  “Hello! Hello! Come in! Can you hear me Channel 19? Please respond! Over!”

  Again the burst, and this time, oh my great God… I swore I could hear somebody trying to speak! It sounded like the vaguest undertone of a female voice beneath the static. There was silence for an agonising few seconds, after which I presumed whoever it was on the other side was waiting for me to respond. I repeated myself again, shouting into the CB.

  “Come in! Can you hear me Channel 19? Please respond! Over!”

  The static started again and this time I was sure; it was definitely a woman trying to be heard. She too seemed to be shouting, but the line was so bad that I couldn’t make out anything of what she was trying to say. My heart was racing; this was my first contact with another human in nearly three weeks! The line went silent again and I tried another message.

  “Where are you Channel 19? Repeat, where are you located? Can you speak English? Over!”

  Two seconds later she came back, clearer this time. I could almost discern an accent… was it oriental?

  “k…English!” she shouted, then a massive crackle of static broke in and I missed the next line. When she came back a few seconds later the line had cleared again.

  “I receive! I receive!”

  “I receive you too!” I screamed, so excited I almost knocked the CB off the desk. “I repeat, where are you? Give me your location!”

  “I receive, I receive!” she repeated in her Eastern accent. It seemed to be all she could give out at this stage. She was probably as worked up as me.

  “I hear you, I understand you receive. I am receiving you too. Do you speak English Channel 19? Over!”

  The static cut in again.

  Damn these short wave radios!

  She was speaking again and I struggled desperately to make out what she was saying but the undercurrent of white noise was simply too loud. Over and over again she seemed to be shouting “I receive,” until I was at the verge of giving up.

  “Say something else!” I shouted, not even into the CB. “Please give your location Channel 19. Over!”

  This exchange went back and forth for at least another minute, during which I began to get increasingly frustrated with its lack of progress. The line was getting worse, I could barely even discern the I receives now, although I knew that’s what they were.

  For good measure I was about to repeat myself one last time, when something incredible happened. For one brief second her line went totally clear. She spoke with such clarity it was almost as if I was in the room with her, wherever she was.

  “I receive,” she said. “Fredo Sun! Fredo Sun!”

  Then the line went completely dead.

  ---

  You have to try to understand my predicament. Here was the first human contact I’d had in the guts of a month, having until now thought the entire island of Lanzarote (and possibly the world) was deserted.

  Because of the effective range of the CB radio, that person had to be within a maximum of 20-odd miles from where I was currently situated. But those miles were as the radio wave flies so that was a pretty huge amount of territory to be dealing with. The plus side was that she was almost certainly somewhere on the south coast. The radio waves wouldn’t have travelled far enough in-land because of the increasingly mountainous terrain, as on any island, the closer to the centre you got. If like me she was broadcasting from a transmitting station it would be a case of a heck of a lot of cycling up and down the LZ-2 trying to spot the others. But that was the lesser of two evils. If she was in a town or city it would be like trying to find a piece of hay in a massive stack of needles. If only she’d given me a clue as to her location!

  I now faced an even bigger dilemma. I had broadcasted my location but had not got hers. Did I stay put and wait for her to find me, or head off across the island in the hope that blind luck served us up a big plate of goodies?

  I whipped out my trusty map and assessed the situation. I was around 10 miles from Playa Blanca which was the southern tip of the island. I was fairly certain she wasn’t there although she could have ‘arrived’ in the three days I had been away. I couldn’t write Playa Blanca off, in other words. In the other direction was Puerto Del Carmen, around eight miles, Arrecife the capital city was about 14 miles, and Costa Teguise was about 19 miles away. These were the main resorts or population centres, and I would have to search them all.

  There was no way in hell that I could stay put and wait. I knew in my heart that would drive me crazy. No, I had to get out there and hunt my new friend down. That I was determined to do. I would leave a note at the station in case she located it and tell her to stay there. I would return every day at midday for the next two weeks in case she did.

  I looked up at the sun and decided I had a good two or three hours of daylight left, not that it mattered as I could happily cycle in the dark, but I needed to get somewhere for the night to strategise.

  I decided not to head all the way back to Playa Blanca but to base myself more centrally within the broadcast zone. Puerto Del Carmen seemed bang in the centre of the potential main locations within that zone.

  I set off down the dusty track to get my bike with quite a spring in my step.

  48%

  Somebody else was on the island with me!

  It was almost too much to grasp. After all this time thinking I was alone all I had to do was pull my finger out and get searching.

  The implications were astounding. I barely slept a wink all night thinking about it. Unfortunately it still did little to explain why all this was happening, but if I could find this person I was convinced the explanation would somehow out. Perhaps she knew why we had been put here! She migh
t know others that were also here. There may be a whole frigging community of survivors somewhere on the island! Then again, she might be the puppet master and this was just another part of the puzzle I had to solve. Either way I had to find her, and quickly.

  Upon leaving the transmitting station the night before I had left a crude note next to the CB radio declaring my intentions. I had written it as best I could in Spanish and German as well as English, just in case there was a language barrier. I didn’t know any Chinese or Japanese, if that was even where she was from, but banked on her being educated enough to get the gist. In very simple terms it confirmed that I was searching the island for the recipient of my broadcast, and that if this note was discovered the reader should stay put and I would return each day when the sun was highest in the sky to check.

  It was a risk I had to take as I have explained. I could not just sit back and wait for her to come to me. Although if there was a community they would surely send out scouts.

  I thought how wonderful it would be. A community of people would mean shelter, support, and a sense of belonging, unless I was placing too much faith in human nature. If the island’s other resorts were as well stocked as Playa Blanca there would be no issue with sustainment. But it also begged the question, if there was a group why hadn’t sentinels visited Playa Blanca in the three weeks I had been there? Maybe they had. Maybe they were part of an island-wide conspiracy to monitor me. Then again, maybe it was just one lone person who had had the same idea as me to try and reach out to anyone else who might be out there.

  You can see the thoughts that were whirlwinding through my mind! I was all at once elated, paranoid, excited and anxious at the potential variations this brief human contact could yield.

  I awoke at the THB Flora aparthotel. Not because I was loyal to the chain but because it was the first substantial accommodation I had come across on the cycle in Puerto Del Carmen the night before. Following the map, I had taken the LZ-504 off the LZ-2, which gradually became Calle Reina Sofia as I approached the build-up of the town. The Flora was almost identical to the Sun Royal, from the layout of the apartments to the central reservation housing the pool area and restaurant.

  My theory about power in the major resorts turned out to be correct. In something of a Twilight Zone moment, as I approached the town from about half a mile away in the fading light, all of a sudden and as if acknowledging my presence, the street lights began to switch on automatically. If I hadn’t seen it happen on a daily basis in Playa Blanca it would have certainly given me the heebie jeebies.

  And so I arrived in Puerto Del Carmen bathed in a yellow glow and set up in the Flora. Again the reception area had records of past and future guests, a computer with no working internet and a selection of buffet food that was as fresh that night as I’m sure it had been three weeks ago. There was no sign of any other inhabitation. The phones were down and the clocks were frozen at 2.04. I could have been right back ‘home’ in Playa Blanca, rather than in a completely different town.

  I resisted the urge to head further in to town to explore, telling myself I needed a glass or two of wine, a decent meal and a night in a proper bed after my four days at the transmitting station. I would be in better shape to begin the search the next morning if that were the case. Of course I slept very little.

  I panicked slightly when I woke up when I realised my percentage had now dipped below 50%, and I was over half way to whatever I was destined for, but it was also a decent catalyst, not that I needed one, to get up and get going.

  I spent the morning cycling around Puerto Del Carmen. Having broken into a cycling store I picked up some spare tyre tubes, a puncture repair kit and a squeezy horn which I mounted on the handlebars and gave four or five good squeezes of each time I rode onto a new street. At what I thought was around 11am I checked the map and decided I’d probably covered most of the major arteries that ran through the town, and that it was time to head up to the transmitting station for my midday rendezvous.

  The day was as clear as a bell, it was a cooler morning and the cycling was easy. The sun was getting to its highest point when I pulled up in Las Casitas, dumped the bike as the usual point and began the hike up the hill to the station. Half an hour later I was right back at the CB. I turned it on and sat down outside to smoke. I wasn’t transmitting, there was no need. My friend knew I would be there (I hoped) and so I just set Channel 19 to open and waited for incoming contact.

  An hour later nobody had arrived and the channel had remained resolutely silent. I didn’t know what I was expecting. The one thing that bothered me about the transmission the day before was how abruptly her line had gone dead. It was impossible to tell whether her power had cut off or she had willfully decided to cut contact, although the excited tone in her voice suggested it was almost certainly the former.

  My next worry was that she hadn’t understood, or had failed to hear, my responses. My mind went back over the conversation. She hadn’t answered any question from the point I had ceased my broadcast to the point the parlay itself stopped. She had just repeated ‘I receive’ over and over again, and then the strange message about someone or something called Fredo Sun.

  Something clicked in my brain.

  Fredo Sun?

  Could she have been referring to a hotel name? Many of the establishments I had encountered so far had some reference to ‘sun’ in their titles – Sun Royal, Cay Beach Sun, Sun Tropical… Could she be staying somewhere called the Fredo Sun Hotel?

  Damn, I realised I had left my map in the bike pannier at the foot of the climb. I was pretty certain most of the major hotels were listed on it.

  I grabbed my stuff and headed back down the hill with a renewed sense of purpose. It took me only 15 minutes or so as I picked up the pace. Rooting out the map I began to scrutinise each resort. Sure enough, the Sun Royal and Cay Beach Sun were pointed out on the map. I scanned each resort looking for a Fredo Sun Hotel. There were Jardine Del Sols, Blue Seas, Sands Beaches and the usual THB chains, but I couldn’t see any that were even close to having Fredo in the title.

  If she was at a hotel called Fredo Sun why wouldn’t she pick a more visible or well-known chain? Or a landmark in a big town? Or the airport? She must realise that trying to find a specific small hotel on an island with over a thousand was stretching the boundaries of human capability.

  Unless it didn’t refer to a hotel at all. Could it have been a street name? It was an unusual name. Fredo. It kept putting me in mind of The Godfather’s Fredo Corleone.

  The heat had picked up to its usual early afternoon strength. I wasn’t getting anywhere and I needed to find some shade. I had a long afternoon of searching to do.

  The eight miles to Puerto Del Carmen were mostly downhill and I made it back to the Flora in just over 20 minutes. I needed to refuel in the restaurant before I began again, so grabbed a plate of beans, chilies and a couple of bread rolls and headed to the reception area.

  I’d had another idea on the cycle back.

  Most hotels have an area in reception dedicated to tourist leaflets and such, advertising local attractions, tours and hire car companies and so forth. I made a big pile of every leaflet I could find and began scanning through them as I munched on my lunch (no beer or wine, as I wanted to be alert for the afternoon and not have to take a nap in the heat.)

  I read literature on aquariums, beaches, water caves, ten pin bowling and cactus gardens. I scrutinised each one looking for anything that resembled Fredo and Sun. I knew it was pretty unlikely I would find a hotel advertising another hotel, but what if there was a unique tourist attraction at the Fredo Sun that simply could not be missed?

  I was getting bored and coming to the end of my search when it caught my eye. A leaflet for a restaurant called Gambrinas offering the best paella on the island. It was standard fair: bring the leaflet for a 10% discount, and hot foot along to our air-conditioned premises for a delightful meal in beautiful surroundings on your way back to the airport. Located at….
Avenida Fred Olsen.

  Jesus.

  I nearly dropped the leaflet as it sank in. It was her oriental accent that had confused me! She hadn’t been screaming Fredo Sun at all.

  It was FRED OLSEN!

  Feverishly I checked the rest of the address. Suddenly it all became as clear as crystal. She hadn’t been saying ‘I receive’ either. It all made perfect sense now.

  Avenida Fred Olsen was situated right on the beach in Lanzarote’s capital city.

  I receive!

  Arrecife.

  PART TWO

  The beach was never-ending; the horizon a mere blur in the distance above a sea so blue my eyes could barely focus on it. I was naked as the day I was born, suspended above a bed of perfect pearls, all moving apart and together to support my weight like a slippery shoal of silver fish parting to tease a predator. The sun was blazing, but I didn’t feel burned, just welcome and warmed. My body was covered in sand, but I could see how taught and tanned the muscles were underneath. I felt invincible, like a Nubian God. If I wanted, I could have risen my arms and soared into that flawless sky like the most graceful bird that ever flew.

  There was no pain, only understanding. I was here because. That was all I needed to know. I felt drunk with life; power coursed through my veins. Some unknown elixir was my blood.

  The horizon shifted slightly, an infinitesimal shake like a rip in time. In the centre, a blot of light was born. It was so small at first that it could have been the reflection from a sunbeam, but it began to grow and grow. Then to flash. The flashes were searingly bright but I didn’t feel the need to divert my eyes. In fact it was almost as if I couldn’t. They were hypnotising.

  A stone canyon wall rose around me, carved with images of angels and demons. It shot skyward, unscalable, not even worth trying. The pearls began to roll around and over me, and all the while in the distance that white light grew stronger.