Infected
The City of the Zol
Claudio Hernández
First edition eBook: September 2017
Title: Infected, the city of the Zol
Original title: Infectados, la ciudad del Zol
© 2017 Claudio Hernández.
© 2017 Cover art; Vanesa Garkova
© 2017 Translator: Caín Ames Pryor
All rights reserved
No part of this publication, including the cover art, may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, recording, on the Internet, or photocopying, without the prior permission of the publisher or the author. All rights reserved.
This work of fiction is dedicated to my father and mother-in-law, my wife, and her thirteen brothers, who really exist. Ángel, my father-in-law, is now in heaven and with all of us. I wish you could have defeated death. The characters are real, they're family, neighbours and friends. The city is described as is, with all its streets correctly quoted. The castle’s history is true, from when it was built in the 11th century during the reign of Al-Ándalus.
Hins A-Akila really existed and he had inspired me to create this work of fiction, starting from the events of the 11th century.
The beginning of the story is actually the end of it, let yourself be carried away by this story full of terror and mystery.
Prelude
Part One
At first, the cemetery’s dead inhabitants’ remains gave the first clue, when they began to move. Later, Father Martín was caught in flagranti summoning the dead from a coffin. It was a corpse that, through inexplicable means, returned to life, and the infection was unleashed like a discharge of electric current in good part of the city of Águilas. A whole maelstrom of zombies occupies several central streets while a group of tourists, led by two in-laws, who hate each other, were trapped inside a castle, which hides a secret.
Sebastián, the letter
The centenarian sat in the stool in front of the wooden table, where there might well have been twelve more men, with his hands on it, and his gaze lost, beneath the petty light of the torches. But no, now he was alone. Sebastián, a man who had seen two pandemics in his life, or, as is known by the populace, two undead experiences. The first time was two months before the end of the Spanish Civil War, when those damn bombs let out a peculiar gas with the strong smell of bleach that summoned the dead. His very eyes witnessed it. Those who had fallen from the sky, dead, much like little Ángel, a child of only three years old and a dreadful appearance, would later get back up and walking with their own legs. If they were incapacitated, they began to crawl as if they were in the throes of cardiac arrest, without breathing. Now, with the city of Águilas in quarantine, and bullets whistling through the air from several fronts, exactly where he was, precisely, he was living the most terrifying and cruel infection he had ever witnessed, even after having read the contents of the book of the Arab king, Hins A-Akila, who claimed to have summoned his army after being defeated by the Berbers. Sebastián's tired eyes stared at the empty, yellowish folio, for, after all, he had to document what was happening in the city of Águilas, but in a way, he was more worried about what would come next.
His bony and trembling hand moved over the wrinkled wood of the castle’s table, his fingers finding the feather. Reluctantly, he removed the feather from its quill and, after regarding it under the reddened light produced by the torches that shined from behind him, introduced the point to an ink well. His hunched body showed off a line of bumps, these being his vertebrae that crunched every time his white beard brushed against the yellow folder. He didn’t complain about it, though he would cough incessantly each time he talked and became tired very often. The point of the feather was poised above the page and his fingers put down pressure in order to write. While the torches from behind formed capricious shadowy forms on the wall and the ceiling of the refuge, Sebastián began to write:
My eyes have poured through many investigations over walkers, zombies, the infected, and the undead. And, unfortunately, they are creatures that I have witnessed since an early age. This would be the second time that it has happened to me and it started with Father Martín, an extroverted young man from the Spanish Civil War, when he had witnessed everything. Luckily, he didn’t know much about King Hins a-Akila, and he definitely did not have the second book that grants immortality. I remember when Águilas, formerly Urci, accounted for an enormous cemetery, where currently homes are erected over the graves. Those dead, that used to cry underneath the earth, are currently claiming their glory, and even more so when the two new cemeteries also rose up. Unfortunately, they were only bones now, so they couldn’t return. Is this life?
Part One
The City of Zol
Several civil guard helicopters flew over Águilas, which was currently under quarantine. Down below, I expected a horde of zombies to be roaming around, searching for human flesh. There were several clusters of survivors, crammed into several strategic yet difficult to reach points, such as the castle of San Juan de las Águilas. There, there was a refuge, but the zombies were still advancing and biting anything they managed get within arm’s length. They continued eternally walking, dragging their feet, throwing all humans into a sea of doubts. Would you shoot at anything in a democratic country like Spain?
The Spanish civil guard and the Lorca and Murcia local police had already closed all terrestrial access to the city; everything from Lorca, passing through the road to Andalusia, and Calabardina. The Águilas local police force simply did not exist anymore at this point, all having become zombies. More than a lord or a lady fell in their clutches, putting their trust into ignorance. There were zombies everywhere, one with the head split open, showing its grey matter, another with a baton piercing its chest, and a third crawling on the floor with its legs obliterated. The city had been turned into a disaster akin to Dante’s Divine Comedy which could be seen by air from the helicopters. The zombies, driven by the noise, though blind, looked up frightfully.
I
Javier and Álvaro maintained a certain distance between themselves. They were in-laws, their glances showing a sort of tension between them. Though, now was not the time for quarrels, as beyond the castle wall, a horde of infected people was eagerly waiting for a fresh piece of meat. Their open mouths facing the sky, drooling, and emitting guttural noises day and night, as they shambled from one end to the other, dragging their feet or simply crawling on the ground, having already decomposed. One of the last bastions of humanity was the castle of San Juan de las Águilas. Other active shelters, like COPE Tower, Collados, or, the furthest, Mayorales, remained strong and safe as well, but they were places so scattered that they only allowed for a small group of survivors to seek refuge, while zombies, waiting patiently, were on the prowl. The San Juan de las Águilas castle’s only wall was what allowed them to scope the land, as the other side of the castle faced the sea, deep and far away. The castle was the most plagued and tense, as it was located in the centre of the city, near the town hall and the church from where it all started.
The San Juan castle stands on a hill at eighty-five metres above sea level, rising above the city of Águilas, province of Murcia. Newly refurbished, this castle accounts for electricity and a glass and metal lift that allows visitors to climb comfortably, as well as add a new lookout.
Historically speaking, this castle is an 18th military outpost built on the basis of two independent towers, dating back to the 15th and 16th centuries, both named the San Pedro Bastion and the San Juan Stronghold, respectively, united by a long, exterior corridor and reinforced by w
alls on both sides. The main tower, located on the right side when viewed from the perspective of the zombies, was built on an Arab design called Hisn A-Akila, allowing for one to see the rounded shape of the final design. The San Juan Stronghold consists of two floors, the cellar under the moat, and ground floor access in the courtyard. Currently, the stronghold can be accessed through the entrance, which consists of a door and a lift that takes one directly to the aforementioned courtyard entrance. However, it was extremely secure in spite of the restoration efforts to make it more accessible. With all of this security and the rations that had been stashed away, the refugees could live well beyond what the infected would last, which could be anything from eight hours to several days, depending on their bodily state of decomposition. However, this did not stop then from gathering en masse and following the smell of human flesh that was hiding in the castle. Fortunately, the twenty or so survivors that were currently held up in the castle could rest assured of the 24-hour watch that was taken by two people at any moment. The idea was to try communicating with other refugees in other shelters like COPE Tower, Collados, and Mayorales, with the goal of seeing if there ever were any more survivors that could make them more powerful against the zombies until their era should pass like a shadow at midnight during a full moon.
Javier stood there with his rifle in his hand, leaning against the wall of the shorter of the two towers, San Pedro. Álvaro did the same, but in the San Juan tower, with a liqueur cigar resting on his lips. It was night time already and it was their turn to stand guard while the rest slept peacefully. Tomorrow would be a new day, Javier thought, with his gaze fixed on the horde of zombies that could be seen only a few metres down below, trying to scale the castle walls, uselessly. It was a windy dusk, with a reddened sky surrounded by clouds, signalling that the next day would be as windy as this day. Not that this was a problem.
II
It all started with a hand that was found on the train tracks, apparently there for a while, as one could verify by its level of decomposition, ripped off violently. At one point, a finger moved. The police, that had been on call early that day, didn’t pay heed to the veracity of the claim, as what happened next was very rapid. This happened weeks ago.
Every two or three days, new body parts would be found close by the cemetery and on the train tracks, and they always gave the sensation that they were still functioning. These cut or torn pieces of body belonged to all of the city’s recently deceased. It was easy to identify the body parts because they were close to the old and new cemetery. The local police thought that some local gang was playing some sort of macabre joke. A macabre joke by the children of the city or just vandalism. That’s all. But they were wrong.
Juan was the first to find the hand on the train tracks. It was the first of a long series of body parts that would be found.
Juan had gone for a walk with his dog, Clifford, a Yorkshire, so that it could do its business. He had taken it to the train tracks, which were about three hundred metres from the old cemetery. When the animal had found the little surprise, it had picked it up in its mouth and took it to its master. Upon realising what it really was, took a step back, tripped against the train tracks, and fell back. The impact of his little dog with a dismembered hand in his mouth caused in him such a huge fright that it ended with a burning sensation in the centre of the chest and stomach. The asphyxia produced by the scare came later, but Juan knew that he had to take control, get up, and call to the police to report this news.
‘Had you seen anyone here when you had found the hand?’ The policeman asked.
‘No, not to my knowledge. My dog brought it to me in its mouth and it gave me such a fright that I had fallen back and didn’t see anything. The only thing that I had thought to do was call you. This area is usually very empty.’
‘We know, this area is for trains, not pedestrians.’
The policeman began to scold him for being in the area because the train tracks were for trains, not for taking dogs out for a piddle. He pointed to a bridge above the tracks that led to an area for animals. Juan silently complied. The policeman noted all the details and left.
The second incident was a complete arm that stood upward underneath a tree in the neighbourhood closest to the cemetery, by about two hundred metres. The woman, an elderly woman with an obese figure, almost died of a heart attack upon seeing it. She claimed to have seen it move, and she had told the police as much a half hour later upon arriving, though they ignored this claim. Well, at least then it was hard to believe, not so much now.
‘Madam, calm down,’ the policeman told her. ‘The ambulance is currently on its way. They will provide you with a tranquiliser to calm your nerves and it will pass, but until then, please take a deep breath.’
The woman, asphyxiating due to the anxiety of the situation, tried to relax until the ambulance had finally arrived and, ignoring everything that she had seen, tried to forget that it had moved. At least it helped lower her levels of adrenaline. She started to feel much better, with her pale skin returning back to its rosy shade of red.
‘It had moved, bloody Hell! No, not like that!’
The ambulance had finally arrived with its sirens blaring, stopping only when the ambulance came to a stop. In less than five minutes they managed to fully stabilise the older woman with oxygen and a tranquiliser under the tongue. This event happened two days after the hand had been found.
III
Word-of-mouth and gossip began to spread, becoming the main sources of information at all corners of the city. There was no one not talking about the subject, and the police were still clueless as to any leads, having not found any clues at the moment. Meanwhile, life in the city continued as normal. Friday, the periodicals had published a puff-piece that exaggerated the events for the more sick-minded. Never had such a thing happened in Águilas before.
The third happening had been attributed to Pedro Rostán, who had found a human leg about a hundred metres from the cemetery. The man was going to order a niche, right at the door of the cemetery, because there was a marble warehouse that made them. Suddenly, he had seen a lump in the middle of the road. Fortunately, there was no circulation that morning. He came quickly to that, almost skipping, and by the time he reached the exact spot, he stopped immediately, regarding it in such a way that left him in shock for a few seconds.
‘Heavens!’ He managed to utter. ‘What is that?’ He added, talking to himself.
He dared to take a step closer, touching it with his shoe. It was already in an advanced state of decomposition, with the awful stench entering though to his nostrils. Pedro stepped back a bit rapidly in order to avoid vomiting. The nauseating stench penetrated his lungs, causing him to double over. This time the leg didn’t move, which was different from the other cases. Or perhaps he simply didn’t notice. In any case, the police were informed instantly and arrived at the scene quickly, seeing as the police station is only about five hundred metres to the west of the cemetery. Now things were really starting to unfold, but, fortunately, they had no evidence of a serial killer. In theory, it was a gang of thugs who had to have something against the dead. It happened several more times, until they put guards in the two cemeteries of the city, at the moment in which they were left to find macabre surprised in the adjoining zones. Though, people continued dying and being buried in the cemetery, naturally.
The most surprising thing above all was what had happened in the morgue a week after all of the aforementioned incidents.
IV
The cadaver belonged to Benito Pérez, a rickety fellow who, at ninety-four years of age, had lived to see the First World War and the Spanish Civil War, and later, the Second World War, among the Russians, unfortunately. Now, he was almost marbled with the amount of make-up caked onto him to distinguish him from the rest of the corpses in the morgue, at the expense of the people, of course, had passed his mass and was awaiting his burial. His relatives, some crying and others in silence, paid
their respects to the deceased with floral arrangements and memorabilia. “We will never forget you, grandfather” some of them read, managed by his grandchildren, Ana and Rosa. The entire day the room was occupied by him, for familiars and friends to pay their final respects. It wasn’t until night fell that the corpse had been left alone for all of an hour.
When his daughter, Rosario, came to the morgue at six o'clock in the morning, she had been scared out of her wits. The body had been removed from its coffin and the flowers were scattered all over, shattered. There were dark stains on the glass, like dark blood, very black and a bit sticky. It seemed that something had wanted to get out of there, scratching the glass. Now, on his stomach, she noticed not how the cottons stuffing his nose and mouth had fallen out. Rosario burst into screams and was paralysed by terror. At six-thirty in the morning, people began to arrive, who consoled her. The police arrived at six forty-five. After what they had experienced the past few weeks, this was the most inexplicable thing that had ever happened. There was no reason why the corpse should have been that way nor how the little cubicle of glass could have been destroyed. There were no tracks anywhere that could have signalled to a vandal. It shook the whole city of Águilas.
V
The local press was busy taking photographs and recording. They interviewed some people and wrote their own spin on the news, as if they had known what the Hell had happened there. That fuelled the people’s morbid imagination even more. Nobody had access to the scene of the crime, except for the funeral workers and the priest who was responsible, since there were three in the chapel. Perhaps, the person responsible for all this was someone very respected and known by all. The workers all had their alibis and the guard had fallen asleep at the back of the funeral parlour. Only the three priests remained, but the most surprising of all, because of his strangeness, was Father Martín. Indeed, he was a strange man with a hawk nose, tall, and extremely thin, with his cassock dancing behind his back every time he walked. He was always arrogant and picky. There was a mystery around him, and soon everything would be discovered. But by then, it was too late.
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