Infected, Zombi The City of the Zol

by Hernández, Claudio

  CXXXII

  The smell of citronella oil flooded the great space that Sebastián had converted into a bunker. And it really was a bunker, though quite messy with an intact structure and furniture that harkened to the Spanish Civil War, the last time it was restored.

  The large, wooden table, which was now swollen in several places due to excess moisture, was covered in papers and parchments that were bound and unwinded. There were also a variety of books of considerable antiquity. Some were written in Arabic and others in Latin. Diego moved in closer to observe. There were several inkwells and feathers, some of them probably from seagulls, flanking the yellowing pages that were written in freehand and in a peculiar handwriting.

  Juan didn’t stop stroking his beard, observing his surroundings. Diego had been too engaged by what was on the table. Álvaro stood at the entrance to that immense room that oozed seawater. Javier, with his rifle in hand, caressing it, had wide eyes and was the first to speak!’

  ‘Heavens! This is all part of the castle?’ He asked, not really knowing what to say anyway. He was too stunned.

  On one side, next to the dark and mouldy wall where were several wooden stools with swollen surfaces. Beside these there were bottles of citronella oil for the torches, and other liquids of various colours that Sebastían had been collecting for some time.

  On the opposite wall, there were several shelves carved into the wall which bore the weight of hundreds of cans of food and carbonated drinks. There was beer and orange juice as well. Cans of peas and bean stew. Even cans of cat food. All of them were messy and mixed. There were also various pages written in ink, the same pages that Diego spotted on the table.

  On the other wall, there were several holes dug into the rock that seemed to be catacombs, but Juan noted that they had mattresses with sheets and blankets, obviously dirty. The smell of citronella burned and the sea water was mixing in the air of that immense shelter, like a sort of stale, intoxicating fragrance.

  In many parts of the four dark walls there were large patches of what looked like snow, but it was just dried salt that had accumulated there day after day, week after week.

  ‘What do you think of the shelter,’ Sebastián asked, his voice ringing with a distant echo that was immediately absorbed into the air.

  ‘Seems perfect to me,’ Diego said, putting his torch on one of the wall holders. ‘I had heard about this refuge that served during the bombings in the Spanish Civil War, but I had always thought that it was a tunnel…’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Sebastián said, cutting him off while sitting on one of the stools to the right of the table. Must be one that he uses often, Diego thought to himself.

  ‘This is more than just a refuge. There is a tunnel behind that wall,’ he said, pointing his index finger, resembling a crooked tree branch, to a lever next to what seemed to be two shelves. ‘In that tunners, there are several stone railings to both sides of the wall that lead to a secret door that gives way to the exit to the outside, specifically to El Refugio Street. Hence the name of the street. It is about two kilometres of tunnelling,’ he explained, moving his arse which made a dull noise against the stool. ‘There is also another door that opens to a natural lake that covers three fourths of the subsoil of Águilas. It is an unexplored cave, thank God.’ He paused for a moment to gather his strength and continued with his elbows planted on the table. ‘There is also another tunnel that communicates with another room underneath the Hornillo district and an unexplored basement used by the dead King Hins A-Akila.

  ‘Wow, this old man is like an encyclopedia!’ Javier muttered as he supported himself on his rifle.

  ‘Watch your tongue!’ Juan shouted, sending him a visual sign with his eyes.

  ‘Whatever…’ Javier was wavering despite everything.

  ‘Leave it, it’s not worth it,’ Sebastián said, opening one of the books stacked on the table, with a binding that looks as though it were sewn by hand.

  Diego took a seat, grabbing one of the stools from the corner. He dragged it along the wet ground, making a crackling yet muddy noise.

  ‘I can see that you have many things to tell us,’ Diego said with a gleam in his eyes.

  Sebastián looked at him with tired eyes.

  CXXXIII

  ‘That is a person!’ Peter shouted, pointing his finger.

  John moved his arms frantically, nervous after having seen two more creatures approaching.

  ‘Are they vandals?!’ He gasped. ‘Close the doors!’

  Peter passed the threshold of the framework of the metal door of the terrace and, with urgency, slid the huge glass, which didn’t make a sound.

  John did the same that Peter had done.

  Peter ran towards the light switch and placed his white fingers on it. He heard a click and the light disappeared instantly. Through the glass of the sliding door, however, the white light of the moon lit up the house and everything had become grey, among shadows are darkness.

  ‘Bloody vandals,’ he whispered as he came back to the sliding door.

  In the background, near the living room from the hallway that twisted to the right, a dim light clicked on. From there, a rough voice bounced in the recesses of the shadows that were drawn on the walls like strange shapes make by a child with a large brush.

  ‘Peter! Come to bed!’ It was his wife, Melisa, who never walked out onto the terrace, but always prepared a nice tea and lemonade every day. She was a tall woman but with a thick constitution. Her arse, Peter said many times, was like two cushions, rather than a normal arse. She walked slowly and often complained about her knees. Her blonde hair was cut short, making her red face look like a basketball. She had grey eyes. They had no children, and apart from Peter, no other man.

  ‘Be silent for a moment, please!’ Peter told Melisa, who protested.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Be quiet! We think that some vandals want to enter into here.’

  Melisa gasped.

  Suddenly, it was like they were children again, hiding so that the poor child who was counting would have to seek them out.

  ‘Turn off the light!’

  The dim light that licked the ground ceased.

  Peter walked over to the glass of the sliding door to see if the silhouettes were still there or had disappeared. He saw nothing more than bushes that covered the hillside between the shadows. None of them moved, at least for the moment.

  ‘Are they gone?’ he whispered into John’s ear, with his head stuck to the glass. It was cold at first, but warm to the touch. Relaxing, when suddenly something moved on the terrace from the other side of the door.

  Was it a human form? The silhouette looked darker than night.

  It wasn’t.

  It was a chair, of the four that were on the terrace, which began to fly through the air at about forehead height, heading towards the glass. The chair was made of plastic and had metal legs.

  The first invasion rang hollow and permeated the night there in the suburbs along with the outbursts of speakers from the parade floats, now mixed with the clamour of the chairs against the glass. Peter jumped back when he saw it.

  It was a burly looking Asian man with the chair in his… violet hands? Peter shook his head as if to bring him back to reality. Yes, it was most certainly a portly, Asian man, shirtless, with very dark skin, a violet colour that could be seen in the light of the moon.

  The chair once against hit the glass that gave way to an explosion of thousands of pieces of glass that flew in all directions. A few shards of glass bounced back in Peter’s face, his eyes widening as he felt a hot liquid flow from his face to his chin. In the suburbs, there were still some lights on, like fireflies in the night.

  He flicked the hallway light back on.

  ‘Peter! What has happened?’

  Peter did not answer back, and instead, backed away until he ran into the back of the sofa, looking towards the sliding door. It was a green velv
et sofa that loomed in the shadows, and was now covered in shards of glass. Peter found himself cornered.

  The strange looking man advanced towards him, emitting strange gurgling noises from his throat. Foam appeared to be coming from his mouth. Peter walked away from the vague idea of these being vandals and thought that perhaps they were gangsters that take advantage of holiday tourists to destroy property.

  ‘What do you want?’ peter managed to asked, sweating profusely.

  Melisa’s voice sounded once again.

  ‘What is happening, Peter? Who are you talking to?’

  The half-naked man opened his mouth and closed it, showing off his full range of teeth. Peter had heard it, in spite of the background music buzzing through the air.

  Suddenly, another silhouette entered through the smashed glass. It was a thinner woman. Peter seemed to notice that she was wearing a dress, judging by the brightness of it. It looked to be a shroud.

  ‘What do you want? Money?’

  They did not respond, only giving off dry and hoarse grunts. Peter thought of the seagulls that would often come to rest on his terrace. Now he was facing death.

  ‘Peter!’ Now Melisa’s voice could be heard closer, clearer.

  A third form entered in through the glass that had been smashed. The shards of glass crinkled underneath the shoes of this new entrant. Peter leaned back on the headrest of the sofa, looking at the half-naked man’s foaming face. A foam that emanated from his lips, his tongue hanging out shyly. He had caught a scent. A sweet, pleasantly sweet scent, the unmistakable flavour of blood.

  What they were looking for.

  Then they heard Melisa’s heavy footsteps, her noisy flip-flops that sounded like suction cups against the ground, and the light of the dining room. From the dining room, Peter could see them there, right in front of him, and he noticed their white eyes and skin colour.

  He was correct the first time.

  ‘What the H-…?’

  ‘Peter?’

  Melisa was sheathed in pink, striped pyjamas that showed off her big breasts and prominent belly. Her legs, longer than tree trunks, were rigid. She was tall and her face now showed off an expression of fright. Her eyes, as white as those of the zombies, showed off the shock in her face.

  The foaming man moved quickly. It was an infected zombie that lunged towards Peter with outstretched hands. Its fingers looked like that of a cat darting to its prey. Its mouth was fully opened and all of its weight fell onto Peter, who was bent backwards. The infected zombie’s mouth dribbled blood onto Peter, letting out its long, violet tongue.

  Peter lifted his arms to push it off, but could not. The infected zombie hugged him and put its mouth to his neck, then Peter shrieked in despair and pain.

  The other two zombies, slower and more erratic, stepped over the shards of glass towards Melisa, who screamed loud enough for the neighbour to hear.

  Melisa did not move, she was paralysed by shock. Her hands were now high up, clutching her hair with her petite hands.

  A stream of blood flowed from Peter’s neck. He had already stopped screaming, as the sofa was completely bloodied. The infected zombie tore a piece of flesh from his neck, blood spouting everywhere in the heat of the night.

  His eyes turned in their sockets, but his heart as stopped quickly. The zombification process, however, continued its course. Peter would become a simple zombie, having died before the zombification process could take hold. Too weak.

  The remaining two zombies threw their bodies onto Melisa, who was still screaming hysterically, and began to take bite after bite of her flesh. Melisa began to convulse and her heart stopped right after the zombification process had completed. She was now infected and moved faster than she had ever could in the past ten years due to her body weight and worn knees.

  Now they were part of the undead.

  One of the zombies.

  John, their neighbour, cried out as well. It was a heart-breaking scream, and then, nothing.

  The crowd of zombies had reached the Geraneos district, and more lights were coming on under the watchful eye of the moon.

  Meanwhile, zombies and infected had begun to take strategic points of the city.

  Father Martín had returned back to the Church of Carmen with Father Guillermo and Father Isidoro, still euphoric and worried at the same time. His body was decomposing. In the face of such pressures, their prayers were not all that reassuring.

  But they still had so much to do.

  So much.

  CXXXIV

  The boys saw them passing from Juan Carlon I Avenue, crossing into Luis Prieto Street, where the church of Carmen was. It was unmistakable, they were clergymen, Antonio thought to himself. He recognised them as priests of the people, while Jesús thought that they were no more than three people dressed as priests. Antonio was correct.

  Crouching on the stairs, next to the El Salvador supermarket, they could clearly see them walking quickly into the church, the three priests. And, in the crowd, there were also other carnival goers in costume.

  ‘Is that Father Martín?’ Antonio asked, cocking his head back.

  ‘I think so,’ Mario responded back, leaning against the metal railing of the stairs.

  ‘It is,’ José ended.

  ‘Are they unaware of what is happening?’ He said, desiring another cigarette.

  ‘The city is quite large, surely there are still half that are ignorant of the situation. Look!’ He said, pointing his finger to a zombie that was amongst the crowd. ‘See? There is one of them in the crowd, yet no one recognises it.’

  ‘Until they bite…’ Jesús interjected, still in shock.

  ‘Blimey, this is all so strange,’ Antonio said, ducking his head. His eyes closed for a moment. On that same avenue, about three hundred metres away, the paraplegic old man had turned the corner with no one noticing.

  They maintained their blunt objects firmly in hand.

  They moved slowly, one behind the other. The costumed carnival goers passed by and laughed at them, as if they were crazy. They were still there, crouched, underneath one of the street torches.

  But those people don’t know what is happening, Antonio noted to himself, watching them out of the corner of his eye.

  They were still crouched with their blunt objects properly secured in their fists, in addition to a set of big balls under their trousers. They were sweating profusely.

  At the junction between Juan Carlos I Avenue and Luis Prieto Street, less than two hundred metres from where they were, a woman gave a shriek when someone attacked. It was a zombie, dressed in a shroud stained in a shit colour. It was the stain of rot, to be precise.

  One of the traffic lights changed colour while another gave a green signal. Both colours projected onto the floor, producing a sort of ghostly appearance.

  The zombie swung its arms, falling to the ground after having been pushed back by the woman. She thought that it had been some sort of drunkard during that great night of partying. She had been bitten. The smell of the dead body entered her nostrils, making her scrunch her face, giving out a cry of desperation.

  The zombie got back up slowly, moaning and groaning. The woman, with a bleeding forearm, began to seize and her eyes vibrated in their sockets. The people around her were laughing, some with sangria in their hands. No one learnt anything from the situation.

  ‘Look! Look!’ Antonio shouted, pointing with his blunt object.

  All of the brothers sharpened their view, narrowing in to where he had pointed.

  They continued crouching toward the avenue. Further up was the garage that contained their two cars.

  They knew that this wasn’t going to be easy.

  They saw more of them. Some of them in costume, others in funerary shrouds that were stained by their corporeal rot and intestinal gasses.

  They took to the streets.

  CXXXV

  ‘If you have no solution to give us, the
n we renegade,’ Father Guillermo said, from the tabernacle of the church.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Father Martín responded back, his eyes still facing the altar. ‘Have I not given you life?’

  ‘This is not a life,’ Father Isidoro said in a more serious voice from the other side of the altar. ‘Guillermo is correct. You have promised us eternal life. Though indeed we are alive, look here,’ Father Isidoro said, revealing the palms of his hands. A necrotic rot was setting in, with his skin peeling off. There was also a stench coming from the rot.

  Father Martín also looked down at his hands, out of the corner of his eye. It was difficult to perceive, he didn’t see it with clarity, but he had seen enough. It was a point of order where the zombies and the infected were doomed to failure.

  ‘Where is this eternal serum that you speak of?’ Father Guillermo said. ‘Whomever it was that discovered the secret formula, or the truth of God, then you must have it hidden here somewhere, so that we may continue living amongst the dead.

  Through the stained-glass window of the church, the petty light of the moon penetrated into the church. On the altar was a single flame from a candle, drawing a dim light on their faces. It was as strange combination of lights that formed in the area of the altar and tabernacle. Their cassocks were not as bright as before and their coattails swept along the ground, now dirtied by the activities of the day. They were now in a single triangle formation.

  ‘I don’t know where it is,’ Father Martín finally admitted. These were his only words.

  Father Guillermo and Father Isidoro looked at each other, lowing their heads slightly.

  ‘You lie!’ Father Guillermo shouted, his hands clasped over his prominent belly, his cassock stained with a sticky mucus and smelly.

  ‘I never lie!’ Father Martín shouted, his blackened veins bulging in his neck as he spoke. ‘Do you doubt me?’

  The three remained in silence, without moving. There was simply the exchange of accusing looks from those translucent eyes that were permanently opaque. That gaze that only discerned the shadows.