Zombie Mountain ™ Short Stories

 

It was in late 1911 that I first met Doctor Rafael Carlos Garcia Muńoz, and though my initial reaction was a deep-seated revulsion, that feeling faded rapidly, the result mostly of his cordial and most pleasant manner.  He was an animated conversationalist, expounding fervently on any subject that caught his fancy, including his current unfortunate medical condition, which he masked with exotic spices and perfumes.  The origin of that condition was also a frequent topic of discussion, for he had been unable to successfully reproduce the exact manner in which it had come about, but still believed that if he could determine a cause, some resolution was possible. 

 

A child of privilege, he and his constant companion Esteban Torres had graduated from the prestigious Universitat de Valencia with honors in 1878, and the two set up a medical practice in Barcelona, which thrived, making both quite comfortable.  Indeed, after twenty-five years, the two gentlemen, both confirmed bachelors, retired from service to lecture and pursue certain avenues of research in disease prevention.  Their course of research and the politics of the Spanish Empire led them in 1903 to set up a small facility on an island of the coast of the African colony of Guinea.  A mountainous outcropping Fernando Po was ruled by a smattering of Europeans, and populated by a smattering of emancipated black Cubans and mestizos, and the dominate Bubi tribe, as well as a sprinkling of Nigerians, Cameroons, Chinese and Indians.  Most of the population lived in the main city of Port Clarence which was surrounded by plantations of palms and cocoa.  The interior of the island was a mountainous jungle rumored to be full of strange animals and a lost city.

 

Muńoz and Torres operated a makeshift clinic and laboratory serving the outlying plantations and the port as well.  Together the two men made great advances in understanding the pathology and treatment of tropical diseases, as well as several social ailments common to the crews of ocean going traders.  They were aided in their venture by a capable young German by the name of Englehorn.  While in port, the young seaman had been unfortunate enough to contract Yellow Fever and his captain had abandoned him on the docks where he was found and nursed back to health by the two doctors.  Englehorn’s ability to handle boats was matched by his aptitude for languages, and both skills served the clinic and its patients well.  By early 1905 the reputation of the trio began to bring patients not only from the island, but from the mainland as well.  But to hear Muńoz tell it, it is the nature of all things to end, and it was on a fateful January evening that the first portents of the coming disaster were to make their presence known.

 

The dry season had been drier than usual, and the wet season rains were months away.  Reports from the mainland of fires on the farms and grasslands, and even in the jungle were common.  On occasion the wind coming across the sea brought a sickly sweet smell and traces of ash would fall from the sky.  The islanders regardless of caste grew restless and knew that tragedy was in the wind.  So it came as no surprise one May evening that when the sun set in the west, it only served to reveal a ruddy glow coming from the distant mainland.  Wireless dispatches soon confirmed our worst fears, a an inferno was rampaging across the mainland spreading through grasslands, farms, villages and even into the deep jungle. Fueled by the dry conditions and unhampered by any attempts to control it the fire had driven thousands of refugees to the coast.

 

The next day as the morning winds brought the heat and the stench of smoke to Fernando Po the residents awoke to find themselves staring at a most terrifying sight.  Fed by the fire, great black clouds of ash were slowly creeping across the sky toward our small island.  Lightning flashed within these unnaturally dark formations causing the more superstitious to panic, and the more practical to gather up children and livestock.  Perhaps most damnable was the slow pace at which the storm came towards us, like a cat stalking a terrified bird, the time only served to magnify the fear that ran rampant through the port.  Long simmering disagreements boiled over into heated arguments and soon the clinic was overwhelmed with injuries inflicted by domestic squabbles, bar fights and the like.  When the storm finally came, a hot windy rain full of grey ash and soot, it was anticlimactic.  The good people of the island did more harm than the storm itself, and those of who had kept their heads were more than relieved.  But this was only the first portent of things to come.

 

That evening as the sun set and the rains washed the last of the ash from the clearing sky the population of the small island was witness to the formation of yet another massive cloud roiling over from the mainland.  Unlike the previous storm this one moved quickly and seemed to spawn strange curvilinear formations, like tentacles or water spouts that would reach out and then collapse back into the main body.  There was a noise as well, a high pitched hum like that of a mosquito but infinitely louder.  As the strange cloud moved closer it was apparent that this was no natural atmospheric phenomenon and once more people began retreating into the safety of their homes.

 

The sound of the storm rolling across the island was unusual.  There was wind to speak of, but the high pitched whining hum had grown louder and was joined by a strange periodic squealing, as well as the sound of debris smashing through the upper branches of trees and thudding and skittering onto roofs.  To Muńoz it sounded as if small coconuts were falling from the sky.  Driven by in unquenchable curiosity, the two doctors and their young companion went to the main door of their clinic and ever so slowly and carefully cracked it open.

 

There was no storm.  The sky was blotted out, and the air was full of things, black things the size of a man’s fist, swarming like locusts.  It took a moment for the three men to realize what they were looking at, but as one of the flying blacked furred things careened past them slamming against the wall, they all were made quite aware of what had come for them.  Either threatened by the fire directly or by the sudden loss of food, the nocturnal predators that had once dwelt in the caves that dotted the mainland had been driven out, and swarmed to the nearest unaffected areas such as the coastal islands in search of new homes and food.  Yellow bats numbering in the hundreds of thousands had invaded Fernando Po.

 

Slamming the door shut Muńoz and Torres slumped into chairs and after a brief moment of silence began talking about abandoning the clinic and fleeing the island.  Young Englehorn protested, suggesting that they should stay and help fight the invaders, but Torres shook his head no.  The island he said was going to be ravaged by a disease for which it was already too late to do anything about.  Bats were the primary carriers of rabies and the sudden influx of this many of the small predators onto the island made an outbreak probable.  Even if people could be persuaded to avoid contact with the bats, dogs, cats, livestock and wild animals were going to become infected.  Transmission to humans on a large scale was inevitable.  The epidemic would overwhelm the cities and villages, only remote outposts would remain unscathed, and only then if ruthless vigilance against possible carriers was enforced.

 

That night, cowering behind the shuttered windows and bolted doors the three formulated a plan to leave the island.  They would steal a boat, something small enough for them to handle alone, stock it with provisions and then sail north hugging the coast to the Canary Islands and then catch a freighter back to Spain.  It was a beautifully optimistic plan.

 

The morning came without incident, and although they were tired the plan was put into action.  Englehorn went down to the harbor to identify likely candidates, while Muńoz packed up supplies and Torres went to various shops to buy supplies.  By mid morning Torres had returned to find Muńoz completely swamped by patients all of whom were suffering from bat bites or scrapes.  Driven by their Hippocratic Oath the two doctors labored through the day and into the night treating more than a hundred patients a great number of whom were bitten by bats and were suffering from fever, nausea and body aches.  This was of particular concern as these were symptoms of rabies, but the normal incubation for that disease was two to twelve weeks.  The development of symptoms in less than twelve hours was unprecedented and worrisome.  The three agreed that if they were to leave it should be before dawn, and Englehorn began ferrying supplies down to the harbor while the two doctors tried for some well deserved rest.

 

It was just after four o’clock in the morning when Englehorn woke the two doctors and the three men stole into the streets of the town.  The moon was full and bright allowing them some light by which to find their way across the dozen of city blocks that separated them from the waterfront.  Though both doctors were in their fifties they moved quickly, hugging the walls, ducking in and out of doorways, dashing across streets, all in a desperate attempt to avoid being seen.  The reasons for this secrecy was not clear, but the since the influx of infected patients, the doctors had developed an unnatural fear of the residents of Port Clarence and they felt the less contact they had the better.  Sadly, to their horror, they had good reason for such fears.

 

Skulking across the next street the intrepid trio witnessed the most puzzling of sights.  There in the middle of the road, just yards from the intersection, was a congregation of five men huddle together over a pile of cloth bags.  The men were working vigorously, tearing at the contents of the bags with a manic fervor that made Muńoz uncomfortable.  Whatever was in the bags was apparently edible, for the men were taking great wet globs of the stuff and greedily stuffing it into their mouths. 

 

Englehorn motioned for them to be quiet and together, shepherded by the young sailor, they dashed across the intersection towards the waiting shadows on the other side.  The crossing brought them even closer to the huddled men and their feast, and Muńoz paused as he came to understand what it was that was happening in the streets of the fever wracked town.   The bags weren’t bags at all.  Englehorn grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him back into motion.

 

In the safety of the shadows Muńoz collapsed and tried to stammer out what he thought he saw.  “Those men, they were eating, they were eating another . . .” But Englehorn forcefully cut him off.

 

“It was a dog,” he said.  “They were eating a dog.”  The doctor was forced to his feet.  “Pray it was a dog.”     

 

Muńoz ran, for he knew that it wasn’t a dog.  The shapes that they had mistaken for cloth bags were a shirt and a pair of pants, and the dripping chunk that one of the men had ripped from the immobile shape had passed into the light of the moon long enough for Muńoz to see the four fingers and thumb of a disembodied hand, before it was carried upward and shoved into the hungry mouth of the man who had torn it free.

 

A block further and the three men stopped to rest in the shelter of a recessed doorway.  At first no one spoke but finally Torres broke the silence and whispered forth his concerns.  The basis for his concern was the rapid onset of symptoms, which suggested that the infection was not rabies, but rather something else, closely related, that engendered a similar set of reactions.  There were references he said, in the ancient medical texts, particularly Ibn Sina’s Al-Qanun fi al-Tibb, of whole towns succumbing to plagues of devouring violence that could only be stopped by beheading the infected.  Such outbreaks were rare and the ancient authorities often resorted to the wholesale burning of villages, with villagers imprisoned within, to bring the outbreak to an end.  What was happening in Port Clarence could be the beginning of just such an event.  If such a disease had come to the Fernando Po, then destruction by fire of the town and all of its inhabitants, might be the only way to bring an end to it.

 

With such a suggestion Muńoz felt compelled to get out of the town as soon as possible and without taking proper precautions stepped out of the doorway and into the street.  There was a man waiting for him, at least he used to be a man.  Whatever disease had infected him had transformed him into a simian beast lopping down the street, drooling incessantly.  He fell upon Muńoz like a wolf tearing at him with claw-like hands and knocking him to the ground.  There was a stench about him, not unlike sour milk or strong cheese, and his flesh was cold.  With Muńoz pinned to the ground the thing thrust its face toward his throat, mouth and teeth gnashing violently, clearly intent on ripping the poor doctor’s throat open.  Muńoz felt the cold wretched mouth close down on his neck, felt the teeth grasp the flesh, felt the canines pinch and pierce the skin, and then nothing, a brief moment of fear mitigated pain was gone.  Torres and Englehorn had pulled the thing off of him, and as Torres helped Muńoz to his feet, the young sailor was busy kicking the infected attacker in the head.

 

Someone was screaming, and by the time Muńoz realized that the horrible sound was coming from him, it was too late.  As Muńoz grew silent, and Englehorn finished smashing in the skull of his attacker, the town grew suddenly quiet, as if in anticipation of a coming storm.  The three men stood there, enthralled by the silence, hypnotized by it, and then it was gone.  From every side street monstrous shapes shambled into view moaning and screaming, hobbling toward their position slowly but inevitably.  Shocked by the dozens of things that suddenly lurched toward them Muńoz, Torres and Englehorn turned and ran as fast as they could, knowing that the harbor was just a few short blocks away.

 

As they ran the infected poured toward them, thankfully the transformed citizens of Port Clarence were relatively slow moving, and dodging them was incredibly easy.  But as each individual was avoided it merely fell in behind them, joining the shambling mob that was relentlessly trailing them.  Muńoz cast a glance backwards and seeing the horde of villagers, many of whom he knew as either patients or neighbors, lopping after him with empty black eyes, greedy hands and gnashing teeth, tears of compassion and regret came to his eyes. 

 

Coming to the waterfront we rounded the corner following Englehorn down the shell rock road that bordered the small bay.  The tide was in, and by the light of the moon Muńoz could see the small ship that Englehorn had selected for the trip.  It wasn’t much to look at, and it had seen better days, but the seaman had assured them that it was more than up to the task.  All eyes must have been on the two mast sloop for without any warning the desperate trio plowed head long into a large foreboding shape that had somehow blocked their path.  Knocked to the ground the two doctors and their assistant scrambled to regain their footing, fully prepared to defend themselves against the impending attack. 

 

It came as quite a surprise when the oversized shape took a few puffs from a pipe and in the most genteel of voices inquired “What’s all this running about in the dark?  A man could get himself hurt doing that.”  As a whole the three men let out a sigh of relief.  The man that had blocked their way was a well known Dane by the name of Larsen whom was universally referred to as Bull, both for his size and the manner in which he captained his steam freighter Adventura.  Under normal circumstances, such an encounter would have been something to have avoided, but given the mob of fever crazed cannibals pursuing them, Bull was the perfect individual to run into. 

 

Between attempts to catch their breath the three tried to explain the situation to the incredulous Dane, but there is nothing like actually seeing a horde of bloodthirsty monsters rush around the corner to drive home the gravity of the issue.  Even Bull was taken aback by the appearance of the ravenous things, and after selecting a particularly heavy boat hook, herded the three men onward and followed closely behind.  Putting some distance between themselves and the pursuing throng Englehorn paused at the site of his hidden cache of supplies.

 

Bull grabbed a large rucksack at random and kept moving.  “Grab what you can carry men. Adventura was set to leave at dawn, and she should have a fine head of steam by now.  We’ll put some distance between us and this mob.”  Englehorn, Torres and Muńoz followed suit, though Muńoz was careful to grab the bag full of medical supplies.  Less than a hundred yards further and the team were running up the gangplank that led to Larsen’s ship.

 

Once they were all onboard Bull and Englehorn pulled the walkway up, effectively blocking any easy way of access from the land to the boat.  As the degenerate hordes made their way onto the dock below Bull violently rang a brass bell located near the door to the wheel cabin.  As he did so, the crew of the Adventura crawled onto the deck like ants out of rotten tree.  Bull shouted orders which were obeyed without question or hesitation, or nearly so.  One mate, ordered to cut the dock lines rather than untie them caught site of the things that were clamoring about below and froze, either out of fear or confusion.  Either way Bull rapped him swiftly against the back of the head and told him that unless he moved he would be joining the dockside rabble.  In seconds the bow lines were cut and the stunned man, whom Bull called Allnut, was coiling the remaining line.  Muńoz staggered as the ship lurched forward and the bow swung out away from the berth.  The stern slammed into a piling hard, causing the dock to split and splinter, tossing the monstrous horde into the water and against the hull of the ship.  Several unfortunates, caught between the remaining piling and the boat itself, were screaming in agony as the stern of the Adventura ratcheted forward and crushed the men, popping their heads like grapes.

 

When Allnut finished, he and Bull conferred briefly, casting glances toward the two doctors as they did so.  After a moment or two of consideration Allnut nodded to his captain and then shambled down the rail to where the three men were trying to stay out of the way.  He addressed Englehorn first, “Captain’s not fond of Germans, and I can’t say that I am either.”  His accent revealed him as a Brit.  He pulled a fat greasy cigar out of a shirt pocket.  “But given that we have little choice in the matter, he says that you can bunk up with the crew, and if you work out there may be a space for you.”  A quick flip of a match and he lit the cigar and took a long drag.  “Doctors, we have an empty hold you can use as a cabin, it’s not much but considering the alternative.”  He cast a glance over at the mob milling around on the dock.

 

Torres nodded his understanding.  “We are appreciative of the situation sir, and you can relay our thanks to Captain Larsen.  If we could ask, what is our destination?”

 

Allnut turned to stare at Port Clarence.  The sun had broken to the east, and the dawn revealed a city devastated.  Smoke billowed from four different fires, and crowds of the infected dotted the dock and the shoreline.  Somewhere a church bell rang.  “Not that it makes a difference, but were loaded with Cocoa, and headed for ad-Dar al-Bay.”

 

Englehorn asked, “Where?”

 

The gruff sailor adjusted the handkerchief that he wore around his neck and waved for them to follow him.  “Ad-Dar al-Bay,” he repeated.  “It’s a city in Morocco; you might know it as Casablanca.”  With that the mate led them below deck and to their makeshift quarters.

 

Once Englehorn and Allnut had departed, the two doctors made it their first priority to clean and suture Muńoz’s wounded neck.  Torres treated the area with alcohol as a preventative for infection and then while Muńoz bit down on a leather belt, closed up the wound with some silk thread from his medical kit.  After they were done the two men stripped and tossed all their clothes out the porthole.  They scrubbed themselves as best they could with rubbing alcohol, and then changed into clean clothes from one of the packs.  Muńoz had lost a significant amount of blood and was extremely tired.  Torres forced him to drink several glasses of water before injecting him with a sedative, a new drug at the time from Bayer called Luminal.  After that Muńoz fell into a deep sleep.

 

When Muńoz next regained consciousness it was evening and he was incredibly hungry.  Thankfully Englehorn had been kind enough to bring the doctors an evening meal, a stew of some kind, salty with a meat that was tough and reminded Muńoz of both chicken and crab.  Englehorn said one of the mates had shot a crocodile and the ships cook was busy smoking the flesh, but the organs had been turned into the stew.

 

The men asked their young friend about the ship, which the sailor was happy to report seemed well run and amicable.  The captain was a tough man, who didn’t tolerate laziness or drinking.  Men under his command were expected to work for their pay, but the wage was fair and the crew seemed to at least respect the man.  Allnut, was the first mate, but he spent most of his time in the engine room working on various pieces of equipment.  Englehorn had been assigned the duties of cabin boy, cleaning up after the captain and crew, and running menial errands for who ever needed them.  That he was more than qualified for the position, and was capable of much more, made no difference to Bull, and the captain made it clear that the young man was not to take on any jobs other than those he was assigned.

 

As for their former home, ships and soldiers had been dispatched from the mainland, and there were radio reports of intense fighting and shelling.  A blockade had been setup, effectively placing the island under quarantine.  With this news all three agreed that they had made the right decision, but secretly Muńoz knew that Torres had doubts, that the Adventura could be a plague ship, and that the most likely carrier on the entire boat was Muńoz himself.  Determined to protect the rest of the crew, as well as the next port of call from infection, Torres decided to quarantine Muńoz and keep close tabs on the rest of the ship.

 

Over the next several days Muńoz’s wound healed nicely, but he began to ache at his joints and he had a low fever.  Fearing that he might succumb to the virulent frenzy that swept through Port Clarence, Torres kept his partner sedated using the Luminal liberally.  The rest of the crew showed no sign of medical problems, save for those normally associated with running a ship, and Torres soon ingratiated himself with the men by tending to their various wounds and injuries as best he could.  Though the crew had grown comfortable with their two passengers, the captain had concerns and Muńoz was unfortunate enough to overhear a conversation between Torres and Allnut that warned the doctor that if Muńoz began to exhibit any signs of carrying the disease, he would put the two men in a lifeboat and set them adrift.  Torres assured Allnut that Muńoz’s symptoms weren’t a sign of infection, but rather the result of an uncontrolled case of malaria.  The lie seemed to satisfy the gruff first mate, but Muńoz knew the truth, the Luminal may have slowed its progress, but there was no doubt he was infected.

 

It was under these conditions that the two doctors hit upon an idea as to how to cure Muńoz.  Using the Luminal Muńoz would be placed in a deep state of unconscious, and then he would be alternatively immersed in hot and cold water for extended periods.  It was hoped that the unconscious state would protect the brain from pain, while the hot and cold baths would act to kill whatever pathogen caused the disease, much like the process of pasteurization.  It was a risky procedure, but one Torres thought he could handle on his own, using the equipment at hand.

 

What happened following to Muńoz following the injection, Muńoz himself could not say, but Torres recorded the treatment in detail in his journal.  After assuring that the subject was unconscious and failed to react to stimuli, Torres immersed the patient into a bath of seawater.  Though not anywhere near freezing, the seawater was cold enough to slowly drop body temperature.  After an hour, Muńoz’s body began to show the early signs of hypothermia, but Torres did nothing and let the body drop even colder well below what was normally considered safe.  Then he pulled the body from the tub and slid it into another tub, this one filled with water at extremely high temperatures, near boiling.  While immersed in this bath, Muńoz head was wrapped with cool wet towels.  After twenty minutes in the hot bath, Muńoz’s body temperature began to rise above a safe level and Torres plunged him back into the cold water tub.  This alternating process of cold and hot water treatments was repeated four times in about five hours.  Afterwards, Torres wrapped the body in moist bandages and made sure the man remained unconscious for another twenty hours.

 

The next day Muńoz awoke feeling tired but relatively pain free.  He had no fever and it appeared that the treatment, as radical as it was, had been successful.  The only issue was a lingering odor of spoiled milk, which seemed to come directly from his skin.  Torres theorized that the moist bandages had contributed to a dermal yeast infection.  Regardless, there was no trace of infection, and Muńoz was soon up on deck and taking in the sea air. 

 

A day later they were in Casablanca.  There was some concern amongst authorities that they had come from Port Clarence.  Apparently the entire city had been burned to the ground with all inhabitants lost.  Captain Larsen eased these concerns with a forged log book showing that we had left a week earlier than the outbreak, and a hefty bribe to the port master.  Young Englehorn had performed his duties with distinction and was offered a permanent berth on the Adventura which he happily accepted.  Allnut, the gruff first mate, made arrangements for the two doctors on a freighter heading to Spain, at Captain Larsen’s expense.  The two doctors spent one last night with the Adventura and then transferred their meager belongings to the Susan B. Jennings.  Muńoz never saw Englehorn, Captain Bull Larsen or Allnut ever again.

 

The trip to Spain was uneventful, though the Doctors spent considerable funds preparing for their sudden return to Barcelona.  Winter still gripped the region, and the two doctors had little in the way of protective clothing.  Although, oddly Muńoz seemed not to be bothered by the chilly breezes that blew across the Mediterranean Sea.  Indeed if anything, he was more comfortable at temperatures that would make other men shiver.  This strange adaption to a cooler climate, coupled with the milky odor were the only discernable after effects of the infection and subsequent treatment.  Such aberrations seemed a small price to pay for survival.

It was not until March of 1905 that the true nature of Muńoz’s transformation began to become clear.  That was the day that Muńoz awoke and had the greatest of difficulty speaking.  It could be done, but only with intense concentration and the result was a muted, whispering lilt that was at best a parody of his previous voice.  To Torres surprise the cause was rudimentary, Muńoz’s lungs were no longer functioning in any appreciable manner, indeed the volume of air moving in and out of Muńoz’s mouth was fully less than a tenth that of a normal man.  A full examination revealed a similar situation with his heart and circulation, all of the man’s vital signs were severely depressed, and were it not for the fact that he were moving and talking, Torres would have considered the man near death. 

 

Both doctors agreed that examination of the metabolic processes that allowed Muńoz to function without significant respiration or cardiac activity was needed, and so the two embarked on a battery of examinations and analyses that put their medical and scientific skills to the ultimate test.  In the end it came down to the odor that still originated from Muńoz, the stench of spoiled milk had never faded and was a clue to the strange transformation that had altered his physiology.  For Muńoz’s metabolism had suffered a radical change, instead of functioning in a primarily aerobic manner, the tissues of his body had become anaerobic not unlike yeast cultures.  This was the source of the sour odor that came from Muńoz, and also explained his comfort at cooler temperatures. 

 

It was an amazing discovery, but it was not without its negative connotations.  His immune system had slowed as well and as a result, bacterial colonies had begun to thrive.  The cold was keeping these things from overwhelming him, but routine cleansings of the intestinal tract and the abdominal cavity were going to be required to keep things in check.  Additionally, certain specialized cells seemed to have died out all together including sweat glands, hair follicles and the cuticle of his fingers and toes.  It seemed unavoidable; the bat-borne virus had killed Doctor Rafael Carlos Garcia Muńoz and radically altered the metabolism of his body.  Only Torres’ treatment had protected the brain, preventing Muńoz from suffering damage from the extreme fever and making him a mindless cannibal like those that had ravaged Port Clarence.

 

Such a finding was astounding, and the two researchers spent several marathon days carrying out experiments and documenting their results without sleep.  Thus when Torres collapsed and Muńoz was forced to carry the poor man to his bed, it did not immediately cause concern.  But a day later when Torres began to complain of joint pain and a fever Muńoz became suspicious.  By that afternoon Muńoz had confirmed that Torres had somehow contracted the fever and was now manifesting symptoms.  He broke the news as gently as he could to his oldest dearest friend and the two spent some time commiserating and deciding on a course of action.

 

It was agreed that Muńoz would repeat the treatment of Luminal combined with cold and hot water immersions.  The procedure would be significantly easier as cold water and ice were readily available.  Together they outlined the procedure, prepared the syringe, and baths, and scheduled when the transfers would occur.  No detail of the procedure was left to chance and the notes that Torres had made were consulted frequently.  Despite such preparations when the time came neither man was fully prepared to carry out the procedure, and Muńoz’s hand shook as he injected his friend with a dose of Luminal.

 

Over the next five hours Muńoz labored over the body of his friend, transferring it from cold water bath to hot water both and then back again.  Over and over again Muńoz dragged his friend from one extreme to another, always careful to follow the schedule the two had laid out.  Time crawled slowly and on more than one occasion Muńoz despaired that his friend might not respond to the treatment, but always he followed the directions and made sure the procedure was completed.  Afterwards, with his friend wrapped in bandages and left in his bed Muńoz collapsed in exhaustion, disturbed only by the fear that Torres would not survive the treatment.

 

It was twenty hours that Muńoz had to wait, twenty long impatient hours in which Muńoz could do nothing for his friend but watch and wait.  He slept for the first half, and then prepared and ate a modest meal.  With five hours to go, it dawned on Muńoz that Torres would be famished when he awoke, that they should celebrate, that he should prepare a feast.  So the remaining hours were spent gathering the ingredients and combining them in the most spectacular of ways.  He made ropa viejo, picadillo, and arroz con pollo with a black bean sauce.  He prepared madeira and bought an exquisitely delicate flan.  He brought out the fine silver, the best crystal, and plates they only used for special occasions, matched with silk linens.  With an hour left he lit the candles and left to awaken his friend, carrying with him a plate of bread, cheese and a large knife.

 

It had been nearly twenty hours, and Torres had yet to show any sign of awakening.  Even as he unwrapped the bandages his friend lay still and silent, and Muńoz began to fear the worst.  His fear grew as the bandages parted revealing the grey still flesh of the body below.  Tears filled his eyes as the stiffness in the limbs hinted at the rigor so commonly associated with death.  In despair Muńoz collapsed at the side of the bed and wept.  So deep was his sadness that it was only when Torres sat fully up right that Muńoz noticed that his friend was moving. 

 

Tears of anguish turned to tears of joy and with unbridled zeal Muńoz embraced Torres cradling the man’s head against his own.  But for all of Muńoz’s elation, for all of his happiness, for all his joy, Torres sat as still as stone, and as silent as the night ocean.  He said nothing and his breast did not rise for he did not breathe.  Slowly Muńoz ceased his uncontrolled outburst, and came to realize that the body of his friend was warmer than it should have been, in fact it was more than warm it was hot, sweltering, feverish. 

 

With a start Muńoz drew back.  The doctor looked into the eyes of his friend, and he saw the eyes, those dark, hollow empty eyes.  All trace of his friend was gone forced out by the infection that brought only rage and pain.  In a last desperate gesture Muńoz reached out and placed his hand ever so gently against Torres’ cheek.  It rested there for a moment, and for a second there was a glint of something that might have been recognition.  Torres reached out and placed a hand on Muńoz’s wrist.  A smile broke on Muńoz’s face as hope gave way to belief and then once more a hint of joy.  It was just as that joy began to blossom that Torres lunged forward pushing Muńoz to the floor. 

 

Torres rose up off the bed and as he did so his jaws opened wide in a great maw of gnashing, ravaging teeth and blood and spittle.  He roared as he came up off the bed.  Like a great beast hungering for prey Torres slavered forward forcing Muńoz to scramble back across the floor until he was pinned against the dresser.  Torres or what was once Torres stalked toward the cowering Muńoz, slowly and methodically.  It gave Muńoz more time and as he pulled back into himself the tray of bread and cheese tumbled down off the dresser and onto the floor.  With it came the knife, the steel blade shone like a star as it lay there on the floor calling out to him.  With a swift fluid motion the blade was in his hand and a moment later he was on his feet.  Torres lunged but Muńoz slipped to the side letting the thing that was once his friend slam into the dresser and the wall as well.  Unaffected, the creature spun around and searched the room for its prey, there was a flash of brilliant steel, a lightning strike that cut across the thing’s throat leaving a trail of crimson in its wake.  Blood erupted from a gash in the Torres-things neck and flowed like a torrent across its chest.  Torres staggered back and Muńoz took the opportunity to strike again.  A second gash, a third and Torres collapsed backwards onto the dresser.

 

Hours later, as he fed pieces of the body into the flames, there were tears in his eyes.  His friend of forty years was dead, killed by his own hand, and as much as he would want to there was no time to mourn.  The body was infectious it had to be destroyed, and the rest of the house had to be cleaned as well.  Blood coated the floor of the bedroom and it took hours to mop up and feed the rags into the flames.  But it was the last piece that Muńoz held onto that brought the grieving doctor to his knees.  He held it at a distance, the thing that he had hacked off of the body of his friend, and with care he said his goodbyes and tossed the severed head into the flames.  He watched for a moment, to assure that it was well into the blaze, and then despite all of his reservations he walked away, unable to watch as the still undead head of his friend mouthed a silent, raging scream as the fire consumed the last traces of Doctor Felipe Torres.