The Wanderers (9 page)

Tock.

Something had collided with the hull, a sharp knock on the prow. He turned, looking overboard. It was some sort of a dark gray algae with white streaks, quite unpleasant to look at, and it floated next to the boat. He had only found one paddle in the boat held by rubber bands, so he took it out to push the thing away and avoid it becoming entangled in the propeller.

He sank the paddle in the water and tried to push the thing away from the boat, but to his surprise, he discovered something hard right beneath the algae. The resistance the object made repulsed him, so he pushed hard.

Then the alga turned to a side. Underneath it there was something so white it looked almost larval. It continued turning
... and a pair of sunken, glassy eyes appeared. It was
hair
, not algae. It was a drowned man, a cadaver.

Aranda muffled a scream, more out of repulsion than surprise or fright. The fish had been nibbling on that monstrously swollen face, and the lips had been eaten away. The immaculate teeth protruded like iron chisels.

The drowned man reacted instantly to the visual stimulus he had before him. A gaunt hand rose to the surface and grabbed the paddle. Aranda let go of it instinctively, disgusted, and ran towards the motor. When he was activating the switch, he noticed the surface of the sea: there were several bumps, floating bodies, most of them face-down in the water, and others, half submerged, moved by the tide.

Aranda started the motor and moved away, leaving the drowned man tightly clutching the paddle. While he was exiting the bank of cadavers running adrift, he wondered how many of those things would stay
asleep
, submerged at the bottom of the sea with salt water filling their lungs, incapable of dying, softly rocked by the tides. And what happened to the fish that bit the cadavers? Would they become infected? What effect would it have on the health of the oceans, in the long run? Would it still be possible to eat sea products?

Still absorbed in that train of thought, Aranda passed before the Antonio Machado promenade that began at the Malaga port and stretched towards the west. That part of the city, at least the coastal area, was relatively new, and due to the real estate crisis that had affected the whole country, most of the apartments were still empty. This fact was also noticeable in the streets, where the number of wanderers was derisory.

He stopped the motor and took up his binoculars again. The street was also impassable, and one of the buildings had completely burned down to the foundation, but as far as he could see, there were no more abnormalities to be found.

Maneuvering with the motor, he slowly moved towards the shore. There, he found a way to push to boat as far as he could until it was beached on the sand, next to a pile of white rocks that formed a tiny breakwater. Although he suspected that the motor did not have much gasoline left, he knew that it was his escape route in case of trouble. He crouched down so he would not be seen, and from there he looked around at what awaited him.

It was a large space with green areas and young palm trees that had not yet reached their full height. As well as the usual disarray of wrecked vehicles, there were a great number of trucks overturned on the road. All of the ground floor shop windows had been shattered and forced open, and the merchandise, boxes in every shape and size, and even television sets and furniture, were scattered on the sidewalk. There were cadavers everywhere, and their skin had turned black due to the sun.

He advanced slowly, without losing sight of the wandering zombies nearby. If he could get to at least one of the restaurants, maybe he could still find something to eat, even if it was just cereal or canned preserves.

His advance through the street and the gardens, which were parched due to the lack of water and the sun, was uneventful. He passed between the vehicles, crouched and always vigilant. He finally arrived at the foot of the buildings and noticed the sign of one of the businesses, a restaurant belonging to the VIP chain. The double door entrance was closed and blocked by a heavy metal dumpster.

Aranda looked around. It seemed to him that the specters, although distant, were coming nearer. He did not want to tempt his luck; he had to disappear from sight before they saw him entering the premises, or he was going to encounter a good party committee once he exited. He tried to calculate the weight of the container by briefly shaking it: it was indescribably heavy. He looked inside, and was surprised when he discovered that there were heavy pieces of rubble and bricks inside.

With considerable effort, he managed to push the container to one side, enough to open one of the doors. While doing so, an indescribable stench hit his nostrils with the force of a hammer blow. He retreated a few steps, shaking his head and trying to contain the retching. By the time he could look into the interior again, it was already too late: a myriad of reddened eyes were looking at him, shrouded in the almost complete darkness of the store. They were specters. He understood only then that the container had not been intended to prevent access; it was to prevent them getting out.

Aranda retreated even more.
My God, there are so many of them...
he thought, jumping from one gaze to another.
There are so many, fuck, so many...

Just when he thought about running away to be lost from sight before they recognized him as prey, the horde woke up. It was as if someone had thrown a switch; they all threw themselves forward, their pupilless eyes fixed on him. Emerging from darkness in the background, more heads began to appear, their arms raised with fingers longing for warm flesh.

Aranda wanted to move, to get out of there, but he surprised himself taking cautious steps in one direction and another.
That’s how they catch you, that’s how you end up turning into one of them
. One of the specter’s legs gave out and it fell to the floor, then the hypnotic effect he seemed to have fallen under broke so evidently that he could almost hear the
click
. He began to run when they were already barely three meters away.

Slipping down the grim slide of panic again, Aranda pushed his legs as fast as he could. He looked around, trying to find a direction, a place to hide. He knew that he could not run at that pace for more than a few minutes, and he knew perfectly well that the wanderers did not tire. Ever. No one like them knew how to force the human shell to limits that no one had even imagined.

He turned the building’s corner and almost fell into the arms of a specter whose side appeared to be completely scraped off. The ribs emerged like the remains of a primitive dinosaur in a blackish sea, and the arm was barely a twisted bone on the shoulder, as a sinister totem sculpted by a madman. The specter growled hoarsely when it found Aranda practically in its arms, but it was too slow; the young man feinted and escaped, moving away with as much speed as possible. Just a few seconds later, the pursuing zombie horde ran the specter over with the strength of a bull. The specter was thrown to the ground and disappeared under the trampling feet of the group.

While he was running, Aranda passed by doorways and open businesses. It was a trap, he knew it all too well, a maze of closed doors and corridors that led to nowhere, but he felt in his chest and his side that if he continued running with such intensity, he was not going to last much longer, and the buildings’ entrances tempting were him.

Finally, at scarcely a hundred-fifty feet away in a straight line he saw several iron fences that formed a square, cutting off the access to a canvas tent belonging to the maintenance services. A few inches away, there was an opening in the ground, a sewer entrance with its cover lying to a side.

The sewers! He did not know how much he could move underneath the streets, or if the height of the tunnels would allow him to move around at all, but he did not think the zombies would be able to follow him down the hole, and much less down a ladder. He ran towards it, feeling that the distance that separated him from his pursuers was becoming increasingly shorter. He forced himself to make a final effort and he redoubled the speed when he found himself practically surrounded by the animal grunts of the specters. Finally, he pushed one of the fences to the side with his hip and threw himself down the hole, lifting his arms and placing his feet in front of him.

An explosion of pain blinded him momentarily when he hit the ground. The visual sensation was white, in spite of the reigning darkness of the sewer. He was surprised to find himself on all fours, with his hands sunken into a mass of filth that felt much like mud. He looked upwards and saw hands and arms appearing into the manhole, shaking with nervous movements, grabbing for him. This sight comforted him, however; just as he had thought, the living dead lacked the dexterity to navigate the manhole.

Aranda walked through the tunnels, happy to move as far away as possible from that ominous opening. There were enough grates and holes in the sewer exits to disperse the darkness enough for him to see where he was walking. He naturally worried that he would find a living dead person in the darkness of those tunnels, but he made an effort not to think about it; after all, he could only continue.

He walked for what seemed to be an eternity. From time to time, he climbed up an ashen pipe to look outside through a grate. The times he could see enough, it was always the same spectacle; zombies erratically wandering through the dirty streets, swollen cadavers rotting in the sun, and scenes of abandoned cars making up confusing mazes. He at least knew that he was moving towards the north, going deeper and deeper into the western part of the city.

At a point, he sat down on some cement stairs and he felt overwhelmed by a deep sensation of sadness and desperation. It seemed that all of Malaga had succumbed to the overpowering horror of the zombie infection. It was as if there was
no one
left at all. His dream of finding a redoubt controlled by survivors now seemed to him like a far-off and incoherent dream. How could he have let himself be carried away by such a puerile and senseless idea?

He remained seated for a few minutes, trying to decide if going back for his boat would be the best solution. Perhaps if he navigated a little more towards the west, things would present themselves differently. But then a far-away howl made him start: it came from the tunnels he had been following. The howl reverberated, horrible, bringing sinister echoes to where he was, and he forced himself to stand up and continue moving.

Plunged into sad thoughts, Aranda moved forward for longer than he could say. He found a wide tunnel with roads on each side of the poisonous waters and walked them at a good pace, using his hands to avoid losing the reference of the tunnel wall.

A long time later, he found himself in what seemed to be a hazy chamber. The walls were lost in every direction, plunged into the darkness. Only one vertical ray of light entered through a small hole in one of the ceiling covers.

He climbed up the deteriorated ladder and lifted the manhole cover scarcely a few inches, enough to take a look. He saw a completely empty plain: there was not even a trace of living dead, nor any of the other things he’d seen each time he looked outside. Far away, he could see a tall fence made up of a metallic grille. He looked to the other side and saw some white cement bleachers, and recognized the place instantly: it was the Carranque sports center, an extension of several kilometers with two soccer fields, one athletics track, gardens and several buildings with indoor pools and multi-use rooms.

Juan experienced an unexpected feeling of euphoria; he slid the cover to one side and showed his head a little more to have a complete view of the area. In that very moment, a small object touched the nape of his neck, and from behind a deep voice said:

“
You had better say something, anything, or I’ll blow your brains out right now.”

Chapter 12

“My name is Juan Aranda and I’m alive,” said Juan calmly.

“
So it seems, but stay calm and don’t move,” said the voice. “You can’t see me but I’m pointing at you with a
Heckler & Koch G36
. Do you know what a
Heckler & Koch
is, son?

“
No.”

“
It’s a damn good rifle, that’s what it is. I could reach up to 800 meters with this beauty. The projectiles fly out of this lovely thing at 920 meters per second. Maybe these things interest you, or maybe not, but I’d like you to clearly know that if you dare to even turn around, I’ll scatter your brains nine feet away from here before you can blink an eye. Is that clear enough for you?”

“
Crystal clear,” said Aranda slowly, perfectly pronouncing each word.

“
Good. I can see you’re calm, I like that, because that way I’ll be calm as well. Everyone’s calm. Now tell me. Is there someone else with you down there? Think well before answering, because if I even hear just a fart coming from that fucking sewer you came from, I’ll shoot.”

“
No, I’m alone, although it’s possible that there might be some zombies in the tunnels.”

There was a short silence, before the voice spoke again.

“
Good. We can solve that. I’ve never seen one of those things climb up a ladder. Now tell me, do you have any weapons? Any knives?”

“
I have a few tools in my backpack, but I have it on my back, see the straps? I couldn’t get anything from here.”

“
And that’s the way I want it to be,” answered the voice. “Are you hurt? Do you have any wounds? I don’t care if they’ve ripped off your whole leg or if it’s hardly a wimpy fucking scab on your elbow, if you have any wounds I want to know about it and you had better not lie.”

“
No, I’m not injured,” answered Juan, sighing.