Dark Days az-2

by Manel Loureiro

  “Absolute chaos… worldwide,” I whispered.

  “We aren’t the worst. In Asia and the Middle East, human life is no longer possible. At least, life as we know it. As for Africa… the stories the few survivors have told us are shocking. Africa is hell on earth. We surmise there’s almost no one living on the continent, except for small, isolated groups scattered throughout the rainforest or Tuareg nomads roaming the Sahara desert. Dozens of small-time kings and warlords filled the power vacuum when the governments collapsed. Disease, war, famine, and nature swept away anyone the Undead didn’t get. Africa has regressed hundreds of years,” she said with a frown. “The living are almost more dangerous than the Undead.”

  “We stopped in a fishing village on the coast of Morocco.”

  “You said in your statement it had been ravaged by ‘fire and the sword,’ as the saying goes. That’s the pattern all across the continent. It’s a fight to the death for resources and survival.”

  “Resources? Africa is probably the most fertile place on earth! It could easily provide food for the rest of humanity!”

  Alicia laughed and looked at me as if she knew a huge secret but wasn’t sure whether to tell me.

  “We don’t just need food. We’re running desperately low on all the basics: medicine, fuel, clothing, ammunition, vehicles that run. Think about it: Every box of medicine our hospitals consume means one less box of medicine in the world. Every gallon of fuel our helicopters burn means that much less transportation by air. Every bullet we fire at those bastards takes us one step closer to defending ourselves with bows and arrows! No industry, no international trade, no technology, no tankers bringing fuel into ports. Think the world’s a mess now? Wait a couple of years and you’ll look back on this as the good old days. We are rushing headlong into a new Dark Ages. And as long as those creatures are out there, there’s not a thing we can do about it!”

  “But there must be something we can do…”

  “If you’ve got a brilliant idea none of us has thought of, pal, lay it on the table right now,” she replied, half mocking, half serious. “I guarantee you’ll be the most popular guy on the islands.”

  “But I thought civilization on the islands still worked. I assumed this was the real Safe Haven where we could all continue our lives!”

  Alicia looked at me for a moment, then she stood up and motioned for me to follow her. “Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

  15

  We went back on deck. Twilight glowed red on the horizon as a warm, sand-laden wind blew across the harbor, turning the air into hot, thick soup. Each breath felt like I was shoveling boiling air into my lungs. As soon as we left the cool air conditioning inside, we started to sweat. I wished I still had some of that soda.

  Alicia walked to the gunwale and absentmindedly offered me another cigarette. I shook my head. I was light-headed and my mouth was as dry as the desert. After a month in that cell, I had an attack of vertigo as I walked down the Galicia’s long runway. In silence, we looked at the city that encircled the bay. Lights started to glow as darkness closed in. I was just about to ask about the fate of my friends, but before I could say anything, Alicia pointed to the port.

  “See that ship? The biggest one, across from those tall buildings.”

  I looked where she was pointing. A massive ship painted bright blue, much larger than any other vessel in the harbor, bobbed lazily in the waves. It sat unusually high in the water, exposing a wide swath of its topside that would normally be underwater. That could only mean that the vessel had no cargo in its holds.

  “That’s the Keiten Maru, a Japanese supertanker. It used to belong to one of the largest conglomerates in Japan before the Apocalypse. That monster can transport one-hundred-and-fifteen thousand tons of crude oil. As all hell was breaking loose, it was returning from the North Sea loaded with Norwegian oil, bound for Japan. Before reaching the Canaries, three crew members died of TSJ, including the first mate. Even as crew members were falling ill, the uninfected survivors managed to round up the Undead and lock them in a hold. But panic broke out, so they dropped anchor here. Then the world collapsed and the ship was stranded forever. Paradoxically, its misfortune was our salvation. Without the Keiten Maru, we wouldn’t have had a chance.” Alicia’s pale eyes seemed to look right through me.

  “Why’s that? What linked that ship to the fight against the Undead?”

  “That massive load of crude. We refined all that wonderful stuff into fuel,” she said, pointing to the towers that dotted the horizon.

  Of course! The Cepsa Refinery.

  “When the system collapsed and the islands were cut off from the world, we had enough fuel for two weeks, tops. The Keiten Maru brought us an adequate fuel supply. But, despite strict rationing, we’ve been burning through the last of our supply for a month. At this rate, we’ll use up the last liter in four or five weeks.”

  “That’s bad, right?”

  “Worse than bad. It’s catastrophic. Without fuel we lose all our technological advantage. No more airplanes, helicopters, boats, or cars. We’d have to go back to the candle and the horse. We would almost surely starve to death.”

  “Why not sail over to Nigeria or Venezuela, connect a pump, and load more fuel?”

  “It’s not that easy. When the chaos spread, many oil-producing countries sealed their wells. With no staff to run them, they were time bombs. Corporations shut down all Venezuelan and Mexican wells, but in Nigeria, no precautions were taken. Aerial reconnaissance shows that many wells have exploded, creating large oil spills. As for the pipelines… after a year with no one to service them, they’re just scrap metal.”

  She swallowed cigarette smoke and glanced at me over her shoulder.

  “Even if the wells were in good condition, operating the way they did before the Apocalypse, it would be impossible to pump anything out of them without deploying a huge security team who’d face who knows how many thousands of Undead in order to protect the technicians… if we had any technicians. They’d have to repair oil rigs with materials we also don’t have so they could pump crude through a pipeline that hasn’t been serviced in over a year, to a ninety-thousand-ton ship we can’t get to without the help of an experienced pilot who’s familiar with those waters, and without an army of tugboats to position it in a pumping station we’re not sure still exists. So, you see, it’s not that easy.”

  “What about the Persian Gulf? It’s farther away, but that huge ship could make it there easily. Besides, ships there are loaded at sea through hoses that…”

  “Nothing’s left in the Persian Gulf. Know who the Wahhabis are?”

  I shook my head, bewildered. The situation looked bleaker and bleaker.

  “They’re an ultrareligious branch of Islam in the Gulf that advocates a literal interpretation of the Koran and Sharia Law. The Middle East was one of the first areas hit by TSJ, since it’s so close to Dagestan. During the last weeks before worldwide collapse, the Wahhabis proclaimed that TSJ was God’s punishment for mankind’s greed and wickedness, and the only way to escape death and the horrible fate of the TSJ virus was through acts of purification. Money had corrupted mankind’s soul, and returning to a primitive purity was the only way to save civilization. Oil had flooded the Middle East with money, which, in turn, flooded the area with corruption and lack of faith. On the path to purification and salvation, fanatical mobs attacked and destroyed every one of the oil rigs in the Gulf, beseeching Allah to rid them of the infection.”

  “That means…”

  “That means hundreds of oil wells in the Gulf are still burning over a year later. The Middle East is not the answer. If we don’t find a solution soon, we’ll go from being screwed to being really and truly screwed. A new Dark Ages is right around the corner.”

  I shook my head, overwhelmed. I realized that the golden paradise I’d pictured the Canaries to be, the oasis I’d dreamed about all those dark months, was actually a poor, desperate, besieged place whe
re daily life was a struggle. I wondered what would become of me, and my friends. But then an obvious question flashed in my mind.

  “I’m very grateful for your welcome, for catching me up, and taking care of all that paperwork, but one question keeps running around in my head. Why me? Why the hell’re you telling me this?”

  “Because we have a serious problem,” she replied with a strange smile. “And we believe you and Mr. Pritchenko can help us solve it.”

  16

  For a second, I thought I’d heard her wrong. I was stunned by that last sentence.

  “Prit and me? Why the hell do you need our help?”

  “It can’t be any clearer. Mr. Pritchenko is a helicopter pilot with thousands of flight hours under his belt, many of those hours in combat, not to mention flying a helicopter from the mainland to the Canary Islands. He’s not only valuable to the community, but a gift that literally fell out of the sky.”

  “What about me? Where do I figure in all this? I’m just a lawyer, or I was before civilization collapsed. I don’t think my knowledge and experience will help get an oil well. And if you’re thinking of suing the Undead, I strongly advise against it. I don’t think they’re solvent. If you ask me, they won’t even appear in court.”

  “Cut the crap!” Alicia cut me off. “I said we need you for your skills, not your jokes. You survived out there longer than any of our raiding parties. I don’t know if you’re skilled or just lucky. Mr. Pritchenko is one of the most valuable professionals today. We need you badly—both of you.”

  “I can see how you need Prit. But after everything we’ve been through, neither of us wants to leave this island for a very, very long time. We’re mentally and physically exhausted. All we want is a safe place to live and work, away from those creatures. And,” I added, still the comedian, “I still don’t see why you need an attorney.”

  “Oh! You’ve got it wrong.” Alicia seemed genuinely surprised. She shook her head and said softly, “It isn’t the government that needs an attorney.”

  “What do you mean? So, who the hell…”

  “It’s Mr. Pritchenko who needs your help.” Alicia slowly strung out her words. “And I hope you’re really good at your job, because he’s really going to need your help.”

  For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. I wouldn’t have been more surprised if they’d told me to take a bite of the Galicia’s radar antenna. I didn’t understand a thing.

  “Prit? My help? What the fuck?”

  “At 9:45 this morning, Mr. Viktor Pritchenko was being led from his cell to the examining room to discharge him from quarantine and provide him with documentation for residency, like yours.” Alicia had a stern look on her face. “In one of the corridors, he crossed paths with another member of your group, Sister Cecilia Iglesias, headed for the same place. Suddenly, without a word, Mr. Pritchenko grabbed the guard’s billy club and, before guards could subdue him, beat Sister Cecilia on the head, leaving her senseless on the ground.”

  I staggered as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Prit assault Sister Cecilia? No way! There must be a mistake. My Slavic friend sincerely venerated that smiling, plucky, vivacious nun, who’d comforted him and guided him out of the deep well of depression with long conversations and loads of understanding. Attack her? That was totally ridiculous.

  “I regret to inform you that Sister Cecilia is in a coma in the infirmary onboard and may die from her injuries in the next seventy-two hours.”

  “There must be a mistake,” I said, in the calmest tone I could summon. “Prit loves that woman like his mother. That can’t possibly be true.”

  “I’m sure it’s hard to accept, but the facts are irrefutable,” Alicia replied, with a sad note in her voice. “The three security guards escorting them were eyewitnesses. One of them is the head guard, a man we have complete confidence in. There’s no discrepancy in their stories.”

  Prit, a murderer. Impossible. I needed to see him and find out what the hell happened. Once again I was trapped in the jaws of a situation that was out of my control. The last time I felt like that was on another ship, the Zaren Kibish, a thousand years ago. Captain Pons’s eyes were boring into me. My mind was racing to come up with a plan.

  “You want Prit’s and my help? For starters, take me to him now. Not tomorrow, not in ten minutes, not when you get around to it. I need to see my friend, now.”

  “Of course,” Alicia said, a bit cowed by my reaction. “Follow me.”

  We walked down a narrow staircase to a locked room where two grim-faced officers stood guard. Once inside, I stood there petrified. My friend lay in a corner, shirtless, covered with bruises. Prit’s right eye was swollen shut, he had a fat lip, and his mustache was caked with blood.

  When he saw me, the Ukrainian rose, limping. He looked shattered.

  “Prit! What the hell’d they do to you? You okay?” I probed his sides for broken ribs.

  “Listen,” he said between coughs. “I don’t know what they told you, but I didn’t do anything! Hear me?” He clutched my sleeve. “Don’t believe a word they say!”

  “Prit,” I said calmly, throwing my arm around his shoulder. “I know you’re telling the truth. If I doubted you, even for a second, I wouldn’t deserve to be your friend. Don’t worry, man. I’ll get you out of this mess.”

  “I hope you’re a better lawyer than you are a nurse,” Prit replied sarcastically and raised his left hand, which was minus two fingers.

  Thinking back to my pitiful efforts in doctoring his wounds back at that Mercedes dealership brought a thin smile to my lips. That damned Ukrainian and I had been through a lot together. There was no way I’d leave him in the lurch.

  “Hey, show me some respect, pal! I’m the best lawyer you can afford!” I joked and gave him a friendly punch on the arm.

  Prit shot back with an indecent reference to my mother’s virtue and cracked a smile that tore open his cut lip again, making him wince.

  “Well, you have us over a barrel, Ms. Pons. Now, where the hell’s Lucia? And Lucullus?”

  Before she could answer, I saw a tall, willowy silhouette in the cabin doorway. She hesitated, afraid to enter. In the light filtering through the porthole, I could make out the freckles on her arms. I’d studied them so many times I could’ve traced a map of them with my eyes closed. She was trying to control a struggling ball of orange fur. With an indignant meow, Lucullus broke free, took four short hops, landed in my lap, and purred contentedly.

  Before I could make some wisecrack, Lucia crossed the room and we clutched each other in a long kiss. When we finally came up for air, I got a better look at her. She had a nasty bruise on her left temple and was visibly thinner and paler, but otherwise she was as beautiful as ever. Anger glinted in her tear-filled green eyes.

  “Know what they’ve done… those… those…” She was so angry, she could barely speak but I got the message.

  I grasped her shoulders and whispered soothing words in her ear. As I did, determination welled up in me. For the first time in months, I was full of energy and that strange strength that had kept me alive as the world fell apart around me.

  Captain Pons said we should go ashore at once, but I tuned her out. I was relieved to have almost all my “family” around me. Sister Cecilia’s absence weighed on me, but I was convinced she’d pull through. Given time, we’d work everything out. We’d face whatever lay ahead and everyone else be damned.

  With our battered friend propped up between us, Lucia and I emerged from that cabin without a backward glance. We were finally going ashore to face this new world and whatever was left of the human race.

  17

  TENERIFE

  We were back on land. Before we left the boat, we were given a huge packet of documents: passports, quarantine certificates, ration cards, transportation passes, and a laminated card that identified Prit and me as “Auxiliary Navy Personnel Class B.” They gave Lucia an orange card, which classified her as “Civilian Resident.” We didn’t
know if that was going to be a problem.

  I was warned to keep an eye on Lucullus. The few cats that had survived were in “high demand.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t sound good.

  We made the ten-minute trip to port in a small boat that looked to be a hundred years old. Powered by a sputtering two-stroke engine that kept backfiring, it’d been put back into service because that old engine ran on the low-grade diesel that more modern engines couldn’t use. The whole trip, I was afraid we were going straight to the bottom of the bay on a boat that must’ve dated back to Spain’s Africa wars.

  Tenerife Port was bustling with hundreds of people, going about their jobs, dressed in clean clothes, undernourished but otherwise healthy. They didn’t look particularly happy, but at least they were calm. They were probably still pinching themselves over surviving the Apocalypse.

  The captain of the boat was a witty guy who had a lot to say. According to him, over eight hundred thousand people lived in Tenerife before the pandemic. That number climbed to several million in the early days of the Apocalypse, when wave after wave of refugees from Europe and America reached the islands. Now the population was down to a million and a half.

  What the hell happened to that mass of humanity? Where’d they go? If what that guy said was true, there were a helluva lot of missing people.

  A guy in uniform was waiting on the dock to check our documents. I was surprised to see flags flying everywhere, as if the survivors had had an attack of patriotism. Even the bus that took us to our new home sported flags, and not just the Spanish flag, but also the one with that strange blue insignia I’d seen flying from the Galicia’s mast. I didn’t know what it stood for—and nobody was in any hurry to explain.