Free Dark Days (Apocalypse Z) by Manel Loureiro Page A

wounds” had been executed on board. There were still fifteen cases of infection onboard, which forced everyone to spend a month floating in the port in quarantine.
    Enduring a month without a drop of alcohol was torture for Basilio.
    Basilio had lived in Tenerife ever since. He’d even enlisted in the navy. The world had changed in a year, but his propensity to get into trouble hadn’t. A drunken spree that ended in a massive brawl five months before had gotten him assigned to a disciplinary post—guard duty on the quarantine ship. It was the worst fate a guy could have, cut off from the city, surrounded by people who might be infected. His drinking problem had landed him in what to him was the closest thing to hell in Tenerife. He cursed that shitty post every day.
    Basilio was stationed at the sentry post in the corridor that led to the isolation cells. It was small and spartanly furnished with just two chairs, a wooden table, and a rack that held a half-dozen shiny, black automatic rifles.
    His hands trembling, Basilio poured a big glass of the local rum out of a bottle he’d hidden under the ammo box. He had to think of something fast. He knew he was fucked and he wasn’t going to get off easy. It was that fucking nun’s fault, that fucking nun from hell. Why’d she have to stick her nose where it didn’t belong? No, that fucking group from thePeninsula was to blame. They’d been trouble from the start. Who’d have thought anyone would still be alive there?
    A few months after the Apocalypse, very few survivors made it to Tenerife; even fewer survived quarantine. His duties aboard the
Galicia
were unpleasant but not very demanding. Occasionally, small groups from northern Africa all the way to the Sahara desert made it to the Canary Islands on any boat they could get their hands on. Basilio despised those people. They were just damned African scum, most on death’s door who didn’t have the good sense to die at home. It baffled him why the authorities took those people in when supplies were alarmingly low. Basilio would’ve sent them all back to Africa with lead in their skulls, but those fucking faggots in the government didn’t know how to take charge of the situation like real men.
    Basilio spit on the floor in disgust. Those Africans presented a problem, but also some distraction, especially the women. Most of them didn’t speak Spanish, English, or anything like it, just Arabic or one of those African dialects even God didn’t understand. But that gave the sailors an advantage. On more than one occasion, Basilio and a couple of guards had had some fun with those girls in a back room they jokingly called “Paradise.”
    Of course, none of the medical staff, commanders, or civilian authorities knew about Basilio and his cronies’ little secret. They’d have been in serious trouble if anyone ever found out. Martial law was still in force and rape was punishable by death. But since those downtrodden African girls didn’t speak Spanish, they couldn’t complain. Besides, most of them had suffered so much along the way that being raped one more time didn’t matter much. They’d made it to the only safe place in two thousand miles, so they almost all kept quiet. Any woman who made trouble, well… Basilio smirked and knocked back half the rum in his glass. She wouldn’t be the first to have her file pulled and put in the “likely infected” pile. Just one step away from becoming fish food.
    But this group was different. They were Europeans, and that changed everything. If that weren’t enough, they’d flown over from the mainland! Somehow, they’d survived for over a year, surrounded by Undead. The authorities had taken a real interest in them. Alicia Pons herself had taken on their case.
    Fuck, Basilio, you’re in a shitload of trouble!
he thought, pouring himself another drink.
When she finds out about this, you’re a dead man. That Pons bitch’ll cut your balls off and feed ‘em to you