Read The Wanderers for Free Online Page A

he remembered a feeling of asphyxia and being frozen when, at some point, he made out familiar figures at the end of the corridor. There were two white coated figures coming closer. One was his assistant. His white lab coat was bloodied and he had a monstrous wound on his neck, yet he still walked, his head slanted to the side and his teeth exposed in an expression full of repressed rage. The other one was Marisa. Her half-devoured face would plague his nightmares every day for the rest of his life.
    At some point, he found himself in an elevator, going towards the higher floors. Someone was screaming that downstairs was a slaughterhouse, that it was impossible to pass through there. Another spoke of the attackers, and a third of a gang of butchers.
    Once they were upstairs, they were all very nervous. The terrifying screams from below reached their ears. Doctors, nurses and patients all came up, relating incredible stories. Antonio, in spite of having first hand information, did not speak much. He was as pale as a whitewashed wall and he surprised himself examining the desk lamp he was tightly holding in his hand, as if he did not understand what is was doing there.
    The ensuing hours were by far the worst of his life. It was doubtless that the lower floors were the scene of a maddening battle. The echoes in the tall staircase brought all kinds of hair-raising sounds. The women cried, bunched together in a corner. Some found courage inside themselves and dared to go downstairs, but hardly any of them came back. Doctor Morales did come back, drenched in blood, but was unable to say anything. He had always been an upright man, devoted to his career, an author of several neurosurgery books and a lifelong member of a Catholic brotherhood. But those who saw the expression of horror that was etched in his eyes, knew that he would never be the same. They left him crouched on the floor, rocking back and forth, with a string of saliva slipping down the corner of his mouth.
    They finally appeared, relentlessly coming up the stairs. They were not, however, the immigrants Rodriguez had seen downstairs. They were patients now, doctors, custodians, visitors. It was all of them, with shredded clothing, bleeding wounds, severed or partially devoured limbs, and hungry mouths. They moved forward erratically, dragging lifeless legs, gaining step after step before the crazed eyes of the last survivors on the last floor of the Carlos Haya Hospital.
    Rodriguez did not remember much of what had happened after that. Panic had seized them all. He thought that they had run through the halls towards the interior of the floor, but there was no exit, just rooms with patients inside. There had been weeping and screaming in equal measure. Some of the rooms were locked from the inside. The emergency doors were blocked with a thick chain. Someone had called all three elevators, in hopes of finding a way to escape, but there were more of those things inside. Shaken by terrible spasms, they rushed out at the sight of human flesh.
    Antonio Rodriguez shook his head, fighting to react; he had been hypnotized by the grotesque scene that was developing before his eyes. A man came running down the hall carrying a chair, and he charged at a couple of the attackers with some success. It was then that he cursed himself for his lack of initiative, for not being bold enough to face the living dead. He joined that man, hitting the assailants with the desk lamp’s metal bar. The assailants fell to the floor, their heads dented with wounds.
    “ Come on, COME ON!” The man shouted, intoxicated by his success, the veins on his forehead noticeably swollen.
    The combination of the chair and desk lamp was working very well. The iron legs pushed them back and the seat kept them away. Then the desk lamp punished them severely, sending blood and splintered bones flying. But they always got back up. Even when blinded by the abundant blood that flowed from their wounds, they