Terra Nova: An Anthology of Contemporary Spanish Science Fiction (20 page)

Finally, I went inside.

Ramón had gone into his house without saying
another word.

VIII

María kept herself distant
and wasn’t very chatty with me. She spent almost all her time
locked in the room with the network servers and didn’t let anyone
in. Not even me. Since her nature was rather hermit-like, this
behavior was only suspicious to me. I decided to concentrate on my
work until I went to her house again.

I was in the basement of
containment unit four. There, everything is refrigerated, isolated,
and well-packaged. Not only are there various biological
containment barriers to pass, we need to use insulated suits. In
general, we researchers didn’t like to go down there. Not just
because of the dangers involved, but because it’s very
uncomfortable to work in the suits.

The truth is, it was a
bunker annex to the Research Center where the strains of all the
mutations of the Z virus found in Cuba were kept. Despite the fact
that the virus is not airborne, like the flu or the Ebola virus,
the safety levels are ridiculously high. Something that’s
understandable if we’re sufficiently paranoid as to be able to
imagine a mutation of the zombie virus that propagates like the flu
and not through the saliva of the infected.

We were there looking for samples of
un-mutated versions as part of the voluntary zombification project.
With us was a lieutenant who said he had a degree in biochemistry,
who belong to the division of engineers in the military industries
of the FAR.

The Ministry of the Fuerzas Armadas de la
Revolución, the Revolutionary Armed Force, was created at the end
of the 1960s from the remains of the Rebel Army that destroyed
Fulgencio Batista in 1959. At first, both the uniform of its
soldiers and its officials, as well as its campaign equipment, bore
a striking resemblance to those of the US Army. But little by
little, the M-1 rifles became AKM, just as the stripes of the
sleeves transformed into golden epaulets in the pure style of the
Red Army.

The lieutenant looked like any of us, except
for the fact that his head was shaved and when he ate he did so
very quickly, like a pig. But he was efficient and quiet when he
worked, so I had no objections to working with him.

“So, they’re planning to
convert these zombies into soldiers,” I said, in part to break the
ice and in part to forget about María.

“For the moment, they
won’t be soldiers able to go into combat, but they’ll serve to
march. We have the December 2 parade almost upon us and we don’t
have sufficient human personnel for the military
parade.”

“But how will they make
them march well? I’ve been through military service and I spent a
lot of time marching, and believe me, that requires a coordination
that zombies just don’t have.”

The General Military
Service was formerly called the Obligatory Military Services but
the name was changed later because it sounded too fascist. But in
practice it was the same: every citizen must serve at least two
years in the regular army and then go into the reserves. One way of
keeping a sizable army and at the same time saving the money that a
professional army would cost. An efficient formula, that seemed
straight out of Machiavelli’s
The Art of
War
.

The official looked at me
and gave a half smile. “You all still haven’t realized about the
synchronization?”

“The what?”

“It seems not. Well, in
reality, we don’t now what causes it. It is an experimental fact
but it’s a reliable as electricity. Our scientists are trying to
give it a more or less coherent explanation before informing the
Minister of Science. Zombies who live together for a long time
begin to synchronize, and if they were inoculated with the serum at
the same time it works better. They prefer to go about in groups,
they walk the same and the group receives orders as if it were a
single zombie.”

“But that’s
impossible.”

“Theoretically it doesn’t
yet have a foundation, but it is a fact. In the industries of the
FAR we have work groups of five and ten zombies who function like a
single individual. They can be shock troops with an efficiency
that’s never been seen before. That’s how we make them
march.”

“But what causes this to
happen?”

“I repeat, there is no
clear answer yet, but I’ve heard the scientists brainstorming about
it. They won’t confirm anything that I tell you now, since the
scientific reputations of a lot of important people are at stake
and the subject seems like something out of science
fiction.”

“Go on, I’m listening. I
love science fiction.”

“Well, it seems that, in
some way we don’t yet understand and which our instruments can’t
measure, the zombies exchange information between themselves. I
repeat that this is just a conjecture. But it turns out that when
we analyze their behavior as a group, whether in small groups under
the effects of the serum, or in larger masses such as the
disturbances in other countries, well, a pattern
emerges.”

“A pattern?”

“A learning pattern. A
sign of group intelligence. Each individual doesn’t manifest traces
of learning or intelligence, but the overall set of many
individuals does.”

“Like a hive mind along
the lines of ants and things like that.”

“That is the word that the
scientists use often, a hive mind. I don’t understand much but they
start to talk about the theory of chaos and of complexity and they
talk of attempt to create hive minds by joining computers. They
even say that it’s a form of intelligence. Hive intelligence, they
call it.”

“Are you saying that the Z
virus communicates between itself on a molecular level and the
entire viral community creates a gigantic intelligence that
functions like a hive?”

“You said that. I
officially haven’t said anything.”

“Agreed, comrade. It will
stay between you and me.”

And at that moment, the biological leak
alarm went off.

IX

Afternoon fell on the
neighborhood and the sun lit up the sign at the end of the street.
A figure walked slowly along the sidewalk, a few meters from my
house. It was headed toward the road, three blocks away, right
where the P2 and the 174 stop, the only routes that pass by this
neighborhood. The walker walked in silence and a little clumsily,
dragging his feet. He moved in a way that looked almost comical. At
times, he moved his head from side to side, struggling for balance.
Sometimes, he seemed drunk, unable to control his body and about to
tumble to the sidewalk. He wasn’t a large child, nor a hopeless
alcoholic, and his skin was wrinkled and half rotted. The sun had
burned wounds on his face and arms, and coagulated blood could be
seen in the unclosed gashes. One needed to be stupid not to
recognize him. He was a zombie.

Not some runaway zombie, one of those that
attacked during the nights of the first days of the Z crisis; this,
unquestionably, had been inoculated with the serum and then
abandoned by its owner.

A street zombie, like a homeless dog.

But since when could a
street zombie wander loose at this hour without someone calling the
police? Things had really changed. Before, there were controls
everywhere. Only wild zombies were seen at night. People bitten by
their own zombies and then transformed, aggressive and without the
serum. But that was just at the start of the epidemic, then came
the Anti-Zombie Police Brigade that patrolled at night. A full
truck that came at the Vigilancia’s call.

It had been days since I
had last seen the president of the Committee. It seems that after
the problem we had, he stuck his tail between his legs and locked
himself in his house. The incident didn’t have any major
consequences, either. When they came by to distribute the
televisions per CDR, we were on the list and abuela now has a new
Chinese
Atec-panda
. No one at our home has much hope that it will last, because
that’s how things are with Chinese products. We have the sad
example of the Chinese buses, which by that time were almost all
broken.

Carmita, from the
Vigilancia, hadn’t come by to bother us about the copy of the
letter and the authorizations for my brother. They’d already given
Mama Panchito’s ration for the month. Things were becoming more
relaxed. As always happens in this country. A zombie wanders down
the block, without authorization or supervision, and no one calls
the CDR night guard, the public lighting isn’t turned on, and after
ten at night everyone turns off their lights. Even our president.
The late night patrol cars no longer drive past. You can tell that
the fury about the zombies and the political hysteria about the
serum and the Z virus have died down. The slogan of BUILDING
SOCIALISM, WITH ZOMBIES will become as tarnished and pasé as
SOCIALISM OR DEATH and all the others. Now the dead walk alone down
the streets and no one is afraid of them. Everything in this
country is always a joke.

I’m very bored since I’m
home all the time. My body is conditioned to get up at five every
morning, take two buses crammed with people and work for eight
hours. I don’t know how to do anything else. That’s what I’ve done
all my life. First in the Biotechnology Institute, then in Tropical
Medicine, and finally in the CIDEZ. When the accident happened,
they sent all the researchers home with sixty percent of their
salary —a biological leak they told us. But more time has passed
than what is established in the quarantine protocols, and no one
has called me nor has anyone from the Institute come to find me.
It’s strange. The bosses always demand work and never let you rest
more than they’re forced to grant you. Something must have happened
in the CIDEZ, something that justifies this silence. Before, they
were coming by to bother us at every moment, and with every anomaly
in zombie behavior they called. If I refused, they said they’d
given me the phone precisely so they could locate me. But now there
is just silence. No calls at three in the morning, and no Institute
vehicles are parked at the door of the house. I’ve thought to call
them and ask. Sometimes I am afraid about the nature of that
mysterious biological leak. I fear that it’s gotten out of their
hands. What other thing of a biological nature could escape from an
institute like that, except for zombies? What kind of zombies can
make such a commotion?

I decided not to call
them. Over the years, I’ve learned never to volunteer. If they
don’t want to call, all the better for me. Every month I collect my
pay. I don’t need to do extra work and, after all, a good rest will
do me good. At least, that’s what I thought at first. Now I’m dying
to do something, even if it’s useless. I’m unimaginably bored. I
keep waking up at five in the morning, every day, religiously, even
though I have nowhere to go.

But now I have time to see
things in more detail. To follow the patterns of society. Now that
I don’t have to get up in order to go to work, I can see things I
didn’t see before. Like how there’s a zombie that’s always in the
trash on the corner, as if it were a stray dog. People throw it
things and it nibbles on them. As if it were an abandoned pet, as
if they’d never given it serum, and something inside it tells it
that it must not bite people in order to survive. This was the
zombie I’d seen that night. At first it had seemed strange to me,
now its part of the landscape.

“I think there are more
zombies on the streets,” I said aloud, leaving the window. I was
talking to myself. But Panchito heard me and thought I was talking
to him.

“Don’t even think about
talking to the neighbors about zombies again,” he said, from the
door to the room. “Remember what happened at the last Committee
meeting.”

“That’s true. Panchito,
tell me the truth,” I desperately tried to change the subject to
avoid thinking about that unpleasant event, “don’t you miss
bathing?”

“Sometimes in summer, yes,
but now that winter is coming... well, I never really liked water.
Isn’t that right, hermano?”

“Yes, it is. I remember
you shouting when you were put in the bath. How mad Mama
got!”

“Now at least I do
something for the household by not bathing. Before, I had to endure
the old lady’s nagging all the time. Why couldn’t I work, look at
your brother in the CIDEZ and you here lazing around, they’re going
to throw you in jail. And on top of it, I had to bathe. Now at
least she’s calm.”

“The one who’s about to go
play dominos on the corner is me. I’m going out of my mind with
boredom!”

“You won’t believe it.
Every day there are fewer who go to play on the corner. Most of
them seem like zombies but they aren’t. I know because their skin
isn’t decaying and their eyes aren’t white, but they have a lost
look and they’re clumsy. The other day, I arrived at the corner and
there was a pile of people around the table. Timba and Pancha’s
son, what’s his name, Omarito, were playing. Everyone was silent,
silent as a grave, my brother. When have you ever seen a domino
game with everyone silent?”

“Well... Wasn’t it
invented by some monks who were under a vow of silence?”

“But in Cuba dominos is
played with shouts, mi hermano! That’s what happens. Zombies have
become fashionable. Even the young guys want to look like the
living dead.”