Infected, Zombi The City of the Zol

by Hernández, Claudio

  The woman in the blue sweater with pronounced breasts wanted to say something more, but the line was then cut off. In place of a voice was a constant, annoying beep. The woman looked at the screen of her smartphone and saw a large, red circle that indicated that it was dead.

  She pursed scowls and tried to return the call, but in vein. The only voice she could hear was the operator saying: ‘We’re sorry, but your call cannot be completed as dialled.’

  ‘Bloody Hell!’ the woman shouted.

  Her daughter was being chased by a zombie in a clown costume.

  CLII

  In the sports centre, located at the edge of the main road to Águilas, just a few hundred metres from the One Hundred Houses district, Juan was there with his close family, mourning the loss of his two children, Santiago and Kickass. Two young men with long hair and knives that, for some reason, had lost all sanity. Their father, Juan, wondered how this could have come to be.

  Although there were still witnesses of what had happened the previous day in the One Hundred Houses district, there was still an air of ignorance as to the real cause of the chaos.

  He looked into those whitish eyes of his children, but his lack of understanding over everything that had happened mitigated ideas and only increased the pain of loss. His eyes were bloodshot, watery, and it was known that the gypsy patriarch never cried. However, this time Juan did, and now he was in the middle of the fires that had been set in the football field of the sports centre. They did it not because they were cold. The humidity and the heat were actually asphyxiating. Though, they had to find some way to spend the night together to quell their fears.

  All of the gypsies were silent. They weren’t singing nor dancing. Their throats were dry and sealed, except when an ember launched towards then. He heard the hiss of phlegm entering the fire and evaporating into the black sky of the night when he spat into the fire, passing even the moon itself.

  ‘It couldn’t be helped,’ his best mate finally said at last.

  It was a voice that broke the silence, except for the crackling of the burning wood.

  ‘I simple don’t know what is going on,’ said Juan, with a hoarse and dry voice, looking at him in the eyes. The flames drew closer to his face, a sort of wavering of shadows that formed strange figures.

  ‘They are killing, and killing each other,’ his mate replied back, touching him on the shoulder. ‘It’s a curse.’

  Juan lowered his head.

  His wife, who sported the nickname “Madwoman”, real name Brígida, squinted, her eyes beholding the countenance of her husband, as if a duel between families had sprung up.

  But now, all of the gypsies were united and close near the bonfire. They did not trust the elongated shadows, much less the noise.

  They discovered that the noise had come from the Parra Pass, but now the music had ceased to destroy everyone’s ear drums.

  But on top of all of that was not the crackling of firewood, and a background of moaning and groaning that enveloped them in an air of mystery, ignorance, and terror.

  The children were all sleeping in their mother’s laps, with jet black hair and dark eyes that did nothing to conceal their race.

  All of them loeked askance, out of the corners of their eyes. There was not conversation whatsoever. There was nothing in their faces except the memory of the previous days, with pure fear in their eyes, lips trembling, and their faces completely turned off.

  They did not recognise the word “zombie”.

  For them, it was clearly a curse from Heaven.

  Juan leaned on his ever-present cane and noticed the presence of his knife that he kept in his pocket, something particularly impoper at the moment.

  In the midst of this whole scenario, an elderly woman, with a black skirt and matching top went to piddle. Right then and there, in front of everyone, she hiked up her skirt, bent down, and, not wearing panties, took what was surely the longest piss of her life. The Urine, sliding down her thighs, formed a large, yellowish puddle and quickly bifurcated several arms while sliding down in a constant stream. The smell was in the air and pierced the throat and nostrils of those nearby, vanishing along with the smoke of the fire.

  ‘Go piss somewhere else!’ One of the women whispered with a baby hooked to her chest.

  No one replied back.

  As time passed, a small group decided, without knowing why, to take a look outside of the sports centre, which was lined with dry herbs that could hide anyone behind them. A younger man wanted to know what was going on and see. He felt the need to go off and check. But most importantly, he hoped to peak out into the One Hundred Houses district and see his beloved looking at him, signalling to him from the sports centre.

  Her name was Paya, a traditional name amongst the gypsies.

  He had made love to her.

  It was a love that was hidden, for their families weren’t very fond of each other.

  It was a secret.

  The young man went through the gate, followed the façade without making the slightest noise, and left the door open a crack. It was a heavy, sliding door that was placed on hard, rubber wheels, well strung with a metal railing.

  He ventured out into the street, outside the sports centre, illuminated by the light of the moon, and advanced a few steps closer towards the corner. There, curled up behind the shrubs, he looked to the One Hundred Houses district, which glowed eerily in the distance.

  There, he saw his beloved.

  His heart began to race at the speed of light, but he kept his head down, not allowing anyone to see him.

  There was a zombie there, among the bushes, with an extended hand. It raced for his neck, and the boy felt an instant presence that shot down to his balls. His eyes went crazy. He gasped, but it was too late.

  The zombies closed in on his forearm.

  The young man fell back on his bum. A sharp pain rose from his rump and went up his back, drowning out a second cry.

  It was then that he noticed the blood spurting out of his forearm, and his view became clouded only moments later.

  The zombification process was very fast, and his heart was stripped within a few moments, stopping in the middle of the process.

  His gaze also changed.

  CLIII

  The scraggly bearded man had gone up the stairs in the alley, grabbing the metal railing made of stainless steel. He had his son clutched in one hand, and in the other he was calling the emergency line with his thumb. Previously, he had received a call from his seventeen-year-old son, who was hanging out with his friends over near the Parra Pass during the carnival, which was now a chaos of screams and panic.

  ‘Dad, there are zombies out here!’ The young man explained, his father clutching his other son’s neck like it was made of rubber. In the background of the call, he heard the chaos and the speakers in the distance: ‘Run everyone! Something is happening!’

  He did not think twice about it.

  With his mobile phone to his ear, he heard a series of gasps, groans, and finally the ring-tone.

  ‘Emergency services, how may we assist you?’

  ‘I am calling from Águilas, there ae zombies!’

  ‘What? Excuse me, sir, I believe that I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘There are zombies! The dead who walk!’

  ‘Is this some sort of prank?’ The female voice on the other line sang, ceasing to be pleasant. After this, there was a scratchy sound at the endo of the line, and a tone that indicated two things. Either the woman had hung up or the communication had been cut off.

  The impassive man kept his mobile in his green shorts pocket.

  ‘Come with me son, we’re not safe here,’ he said, pulling him along.

  CLIV

  ‘Lord above, do all that you can so that we may retrieve the second formula to the serum of life. Eternal life, that which Thou has written in Thine Holy Book. Even the dead shall recognise me,’ Father Martín prayed,
kneeling down on the floor in front of the very large wooden figure of Jesus Christ, nailed to the top of the parish, just above the tabernacle and the altar. The eyes of Christ did not have the best expression and the sculptor who carved it must have been sad, for Christ looks sad, looking down rather than up.

  ‘Amen!’ Sounded in two different tones from behind. They were the voices of Father Isidoro and Father Guillermo, who were also kneeling, one next to the other, with big hands, cold and blue.

  The church bells rang, bouncing off into the night sky, merging with the buzz of people screaming for help.

  ‘Just as Lazarus had been raised, we want life, Lord almighty,’ Father Martín continued, with a tone in his voice that was dryer and rougher. He had long since lost his salivary glands.

  The prayer continued, while outside, chaos reigned.

  It was the beginning of the end of the zombie reign.

  CLV

  The young man no longer saw his beloved, not any of the things that surrounded him. He only saw shadows and silhouettes in the night.

  It was them, the zombies.

  Just like him, now.

  Except that they were much more waterlogged, him, not so much.

  He dragged his feet and his pale chin was held high, yet his body was hot and the blood had not yet coagulated in his veins. Back by the road from where he had come the door was still left ajar.

  It was the doorway between two worlds.

  The young man had left it erratically, without making a noise.

  All of the gypsies were still bowing their heads in mourning, around the fire.

  He began to approach.

  He was no long human.

  No, he was a zombie, who had not survived the zombification process, his heart having stopped half way. It stopped just as he had begun foaming at the mouth.

  Among the dancing flames, his gaze was unsettling, though no one noticed, apart from his brother, who said nothing. He returned to bowing his head.

  The shambled and dragged his feet, coming up behind the Juan, the patriarch, who was still supporting his heavy body on his cane, his mouth open, when he suddenly felt a pain in his neck.

  ‘Oh!’ He cried out, breaking the silence of the group.

  The young man, now an erratic zombie, looked at him with white opaque eyes.

  ‘What is happening, sir?’ Sounded the voice of one of the gypsies next to Juan.

  ‘I have been bitten!’ Juan stammered, taking his hand to his neck, releasing the cane, letting it fall to the ground with a thus.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Him!’ He pointed with a bloody finger to the young man, to the astonishment of the others.

  ‘That’s Heredia’s son,’ another gypsy said.

  Juan looked at him in the eyes, the young man now turned zombie was crouched.

  ‘Go to Hell!’ Juan shouted. ‘What have you done to me!’

  Suddenly, he felt a cold shiver go down his spine. He felt cold and hot at the same time. Something inexplicable was happening.

  Heredia, who was in a more secluded area, sitting on the floor, began to rise to apologise, when all of the sudden, Juan began to convulse in fron of the astonished gaze of all.

  ‘It’s the virus!’ A woman with long, black hair and a pronounced belly shouted.

  Then, the rest began entering into the crack of the door, one by one. Dragging their violet coloured feet that oozed fungus and rot.

  Juan tried to pull out his knife from his pocket, but could not. His convulsing hand couldn’t let him. His back arched violently, showing off his prominent belly, as if an alien were soon to burst from his chest. He resisted and brought a hand to his face. The Rolex shined prominently by the fire and danced like Native Americas. They all started to move away from him, with fear painted on their faces.

  ‘What is happening?’ His beloved wife asked, gripping his shirt. There was no reply, instead foam and saliva began to come from his mouth.

  ‘My husband, what is wrong with…’ Her eyes widened. ‘Let me go! Let me go!’

  Her cries, though, meant nothing to him. Everyone moved away from him. The patriarch who had led their group for over forty years. Now, he was a zombie. He had contracted the virus, according to the gypsies, and the young man as well. The young man bit Juan’s wife on the ankle, who proceeded to give him a swift kick to the mouth.

  ‘You’re dead now!’

  The young man, belly up, gurgled blood and foam, and turned around to drag himself on the ground.

  ‘Look! ‘He is one of them now! What are these creatures?’

  From there, the zombies spread around them, dispersing at the same speed as a wildfire.

  CLVI

  ‘This looks great!’ The young, Asian tourist said, taking out his digital camera and taking pictures. ‘How many square metres is this room?’

  ‘Good question,’ Sebastián said from his side of the table, leaning on it with his elbows.

  ‘This underground labyrinth is probably bigger than the castle itself,’ he continued, not previously appreciating the quality of the work.

  ‘Indeed!’’ Sebastián continued.’ It is approximately five hundred square metres and there is even more! From here there is another shelter in the form of a tunnel that continues on for about two to three kilometres,’ he explained in an excited voice.

  The young, Asian tourist blinked at the flash of the camera, shot like spontaneous combustion.

  Javier turned around right away.

  ‘Bloody Chinese, taking photos of everything that they see!’

  ‘Javier!’ Susana squawked, giving him a furious look. To her, at this point, it was the focal point of all of the indifference on part of her husband.

  Álvaro advanced towards Javier.

  ‘You just don’t know when to shut up, I’m up to here with you!’ Álvaro shouted with a thunderous voice, his eyes bloodshot.

  ‘Silence!’ Sebastián raised his voice.

  Diego and Juan stood up from their stools and ran towards the two of them, both with cold, stern looks on their faces.

  ‘Enough!’ Juan shouted, making a fist with his right hand.

  ‘Javier turned to the shelf and started to count the cans of tuna, completely ignoring Juan.

  Meanwhile, the other tourists, all hungry and tired, who hadn’t heard a single word of the fight, were beginning to enter the shelter.

  CLVII

  ‘The living dead. You have heard correctly, the living dead,’ said a hoarse voice that came from Antonio the Gypsy, as he was nicknamed on his pirated telly channel, with a straight face and hair slicked back and matted by a fine-tooth comb.

  He had his hands on a white table and behind it, in the bottom of the screen, there was a snapshot taken of the carnival, which showed the image of a person being gnawed on by two zombies while hundred more ran away. One of the zombies looked into the camera with rabid eyes.

  Antonio the Gypsy used his pirated channel to spread the word of the corruption going on in the city hall. Everyone knew of the corruption and the politics, according to him, which he was glad to spread about. His channel received many viewers in the city of Águilas.

  But now he was speaking of the undead and to those that lived up in the Los Collados district, Calabardina, and Terreros. They belonged to the autonomous community of Andalusia, and they were unaware of the events happening in Águilas. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and continued.

  Antonio the Gypsy was taking a drink from his glass of water while signs from behind him appeared in white lettering, littered with spelling errors.

  In Águilas, in the carnival, the undead have appeared and are currently roaming freely in the city. There is mass chaos and people are fleeing the city, but apparently the roads out of the city are blocked.

  The camera closed in on his distraught face, repeating the exact phrase over and over again.

  ‘The living dead are in Águilas.’ />
  The channel was tuned into the rest of the houses of the city, the most distant districts, and the further villages where children and grandchildren were hiding from days ago.

  Since the civil guard helicopters flew over the smallest part of Águilas.

  Everyone spoke of pandemic.

  CLVIII

  Akira Hins lead the horde of infected and undead to the low dirt road under the light of the moon, kicking up dust with their bare feet at the speed of wild animals, like dogs and cats. They were much faster and didn’t require oxygen.

  They were finally in the Los Collados district, with more infected being added to their ranks. All willing to open their big mouths and sink their teeth into soft, warm human flesh and savour the sweet taste of blood and the exquisite piece of flesh and arteries.

  They were angry and wild, their movements were like panthers on the prowl. Their large hands were open like claws, grabbing at the air. One of the first victims was an elderly British couple that were in an embrace, enjoying the twinkling stars. Their peace and quiet ended with the intrusion of Akira Hins on their terrace.

  The pain was scandalous and the woman howled in the middle of the night, illuminated by the visible face of the moon. It had been Akira who had snuck around and sunk her teeth into the woman’s neck, enough to bite into her back bone.

  The man, perplexed before the wrinkled face of his wife, opened her mouth to say something, but another of the infected approached, bringing his mouth to hers and biting her jaw, taking with it a piece of her tongue. Now, they were both screaming in the middle of a quiet neighbourhood that suddenly had lights going on like fireflies in the night.

  Akira was squatting on the marble table that they had on the terrace, looking at each and every one of those lights that were no more than points of blurry light to her. To her, there were just more victims in those rooms that would be cornered. She showed her teeth and cracked, dry lips. From the corner of her lips flowed saliva and foam, which caked her chin and neck. Her eyes were rabidly astonished.