frozen food. I have about twenty liters of bottled water. I still have running water. Having solar panels means electricity isn’t a problem. If I economize, I can be almost completely self-sufficient. That won’t be hard. I don’t plan on throwing a party any time soon.
Cooking gas is a problem. My kitchen has two ceramic burners and two small gas burners. The ceramic burners consume an alarming amount of electricity. For now, I have gas. Who knows how long that will last? Sooner or later they’ll cut the supply to the evacuated areas to prevent the risk of explosions.
Overall, my arsenal is bleak. I went through the house from top to bottom and gathered all my “weapons” on the kitchen table: a scuba-diving speargun and six steel spears, a butcher knife, and a dull hatchet I chop firewood with. Great. I picked up my speargun, by far my most dangerous weapon. Besides the fact that I’ve never shot anything bigger than an eel, it presents a number of problems. It takes around twenty to thirty seconds to load. Its range is short, only about thirty feet. At a longer distance, its aim isn’t very true. When all is said and done, it’s not a precision weapon; it’s only designed to spear an octopus at close range. If gangs of bandits show up, I’m screwed. My best option is to keep my head down.
The phone rang, and my heart nearly flew out of my mouth. It hasn’t rung for days—I’d forgotten all about it. I almost didn’t pick it up, but the need to hear a human voice is stronger than prudence, so I answered. It was my parents. I was so relieved I nearly passed out.
Tears ran down my face as I listened to my mother’s voice. She’d been trying to reach me for three days. They’re okay, there in my father’s hometown with some neighbors. They begged me to meet them there. I convinced my parents that that option hadn’t been feasible for days. I’m safer here than I would be traveling forty miles on roads clogged with checkpoints, with who knows how many maniacal gangs on the loose. Plus, Lucullus doesn’t like the country, I tell my mother, trying to take the sting out the situation. She’s really worried. My sister made it out of Barcelona before they sealed off the city and declared martial law, but my mother doesn’t know where she is now. The last she heard, they were headed for Roger’s place in the country.
There wasn’t much news about the rest of my family. Most of them are probably at a Safe Haven, like 80 percent of the population. Human beings are social animals and tend to cluster in dangerous situations; only an insignificant few don’t follow thispattern. I fall squarely in that latter group. With a kiss, I said good-bye to my parents, promising to call at least once a week, if I can get a line out.
That calmed me down a little and let off the emotional steam that’s been building. My head is clearer. I’ve started thinking of practical things I can do.
First, the news. TV’s disappearing. Of the eighty channels I used to get, almost every one has gone off the air. I can only pick up Channels 5 and 3 and one that now broadcasts where Channel 2 used to air. Scheduled programming has been reduced to the bare minimum; basically it consists of uninterrupted movies, prerecorded series, and a mini report every forty-five minutes that consists of telling where the Safe Havens are and the best ways to reach them. They insistently repeat that in no way should you try to make contact with the infected. If they attack you, avoid being bitten or scratched.
A tired-looking soldier has come on to say they can’t guarantee the safety of anyone outside the Safe Havens. In case of attack, try to crush your attacker’s head. “Use a stick, a machete, a bullet, anything—just smash their head. Nothing else works.”
I was taken aback by that message, but things’ve been out of control for so long that nothing surprises me too much. Anyway, the news blackout seems to be relaxing. I guess
Cooking gas is a problem. My kitchen has two ceramic burners and two small gas burners. The ceramic burners consume an alarming amount of electricity. For now, I have gas. Who knows how long that will last? Sooner or later they’ll cut the supply to the evacuated areas to prevent the risk of explosions.
Overall, my arsenal is bleak. I went through the house from top to bottom and gathered all my “weapons” on the kitchen table: a scuba-diving speargun and six steel spears, a butcher knife, and a dull hatchet I chop firewood with. Great. I picked up my speargun, by far my most dangerous weapon. Besides the fact that I’ve never shot anything bigger than an eel, it presents a number of problems. It takes around twenty to thirty seconds to load. Its range is short, only about thirty feet. At a longer distance, its aim isn’t very true. When all is said and done, it’s not a precision weapon; it’s only designed to spear an octopus at close range. If gangs of bandits show up, I’m screwed. My best option is to keep my head down.
The phone rang, and my heart nearly flew out of my mouth. It hasn’t rung for days—I’d forgotten all about it. I almost didn’t pick it up, but the need to hear a human voice is stronger than prudence, so I answered. It was my parents. I was so relieved I nearly passed out.
Tears ran down my face as I listened to my mother’s voice. She’d been trying to reach me for three days. They’re okay, there in my father’s hometown with some neighbors. They begged me to meet them there. I convinced my parents that that option hadn’t been feasible for days. I’m safer here than I would be traveling forty miles on roads clogged with checkpoints, with who knows how many maniacal gangs on the loose. Plus, Lucullus doesn’t like the country, I tell my mother, trying to take the sting out the situation. She’s really worried. My sister made it out of Barcelona before they sealed off the city and declared martial law, but my mother doesn’t know where she is now. The last she heard, they were headed for Roger’s place in the country.
There wasn’t much news about the rest of my family. Most of them are probably at a Safe Haven, like 80 percent of the population. Human beings are social animals and tend to cluster in dangerous situations; only an insignificant few don’t follow thispattern. I fall squarely in that latter group. With a kiss, I said good-bye to my parents, promising to call at least once a week, if I can get a line out.
That calmed me down a little and let off the emotional steam that’s been building. My head is clearer. I’ve started thinking of practical things I can do.
First, the news. TV’s disappearing. Of the eighty channels I used to get, almost every one has gone off the air. I can only pick up Channels 5 and 3 and one that now broadcasts where Channel 2 used to air. Scheduled programming has been reduced to the bare minimum; basically it consists of uninterrupted movies, prerecorded series, and a mini report every forty-five minutes that consists of telling where the Safe Havens are and the best ways to reach them. They insistently repeat that in no way should you try to make contact with the infected. If they attack you, avoid being bitten or scratched.
A tired-looking soldier has come on to say they can’t guarantee the safety of anyone outside the Safe Havens. In case of attack, try to crush your attacker’s head. “Use a stick, a machete, a bullet, anything—just smash their head. Nothing else works.”
I was taken aback by that message, but things’ve been out of control for so long that nothing surprises me too much. Anyway, the news blackout seems to be relaxing. I guess
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