Julián 'El Capi' Herrera POV's
The Mercado Central usually smelled of cilantro, ripe lulo, and butchered pork. Tonight, it smelled of fear.
I crouched behind a stack of empty crates near the south entrance, scanning the vast, covered plaza. The emergency floodlights buzzed overhead, casting long, twitching shadows. In the center clearing, usually reserved for the flower vendors, stood El Diablo.
He was surrounded by six of his sicarios, all armed with assault rifles. And there, kneeling on the wet concrete, was my sister, Camila. She looked terrified, her business suit torn, her face bruised. Diablo had a gun pressed to the back of her head, checking his watch.
"He's not coming," one of the men muttered.
"He'll come," Diablo growled. "Julián has a hero complex. It's why the Patrón never trusted him with the real business."
I checked my Glock. Fifteen rounds. Against seven heavily armed men? Suicide. But I wasn't here to fight them. I was here to feed them.
I looked back toward the street. The infection was spreading like a stain. A shuffling, groaning mass of people—hundreds of them—was gathering at the main gates, drawn by the lights but held back by the heavy iron shutters Diablo had pulled down. They were hungry, confused, and waiting for a dinner bell.
I holstered my gun and pulled out my knife. I wasn't going to open the gate; I was going to ring the bell.
Ten yards away sat a parked delivery truck loaded with propane tanks (pipetas) for the street food vendors. I moved low and fast, slicing the valve off the nearest tank. The gas hissed out violently, a white plume in the dark. I grabbed a flare from my emergency kit—standard issue for cartel logistics—and looked at the cluster of men in the center.
"Sorry, Camila," I whispered. "Close your eyes."
I struck the flare and tossed it into the hissing white cloud.
The explosion didn't just rip through the air; it punched it. A massive fireball rolled upward, shattering the glass skylights and blowing the iron shutters off their hinges with a screech of tearing metal. The noise was deafening—a thunderclap that echoed off the valley walls.
For a second, silence.
Then, the roar.
It wasn't human. The horde at the gate surged forward, pouring over the twisted metal like a flood of ants. They didn't run randomly. They sprinted toward the movement, toward the screaming men in the center of the market.
"Contacts! Fire!" Diablo screamed, shoving Camila to the ground and opening fire on the first wave of infected.
The sicarios unleashed a wall of lead. The noise was incredible, but it was a mistake. The gunfire only drew more of them. I watched as Diablo's men dropped one, two, three of the things—but the infected didn't care about suppression tactics. They only cared about faces.
I saw a runner in a torn waiter's uniform tackle the gunman on the left. The infected didn't bite immediately; it pinned the man down, staring into his eyes for a split second—a horrific moment of recognition—before ripping his throat out.
"Julián!" Diablo screamed, realizing the trap. He spun around, looking for me, dragging Camila up by her hair.
I moved.
I sprinted through the chaos of the fruit aisles, using the panic as cover. I didn't shoot the infected; I let them flow past me toward the louder targets. I vaulted over a display of pineapples and leveled my Glock at Diablo.
He saw me. He raised his weapon to shoot Camila.
I didn't hesitate. I didn't aim for his head—too small a target in this chaos. I aimed for his knee.
Bang.
Diablo's leg buckled, shattering the bone. He collapsed, screaming, his grip on Camila loosening.
"Run, Cami! Toward me!" I roared.
She scrambled away, crawling over the slick floor. Diablo tried to raise his gun from the ground, but he was too late. Not for me, but for them. The explosion and his own screaming had made him the brightest beacon in the room.
Three infected descended on him instantly. I saw Diablo's eyes go wide as he recognized one of them—it was the Patrón's driver.
"No... NO!" Diablo shrieked as the driver pinned him.
I grabbed Camila's arm, hauling her to her feet. "Don't look back! Move!"
We ran toward the rear loading docks, dodging overturned carts and slipping on blood and crushed fruit. The sound behind us was a wet, tearing grinder of flesh and bone.
We burst out into the cool night air of the alleyway. I shoved Camila toward a parked motorcycle—a heavy enduro bike left by a delivery boy.
"Get on!" I yelled, hotwiring the ignition with trembling hands.
"Julián... your arm," Camila gasped, pointing.
I looked down. My jacket was slashed, soaked in blood. A stray bullet or a piece of shrapnel? I didn't feel it. But looking closer, the wound was jagged. A scratch? A bite?
"It's nothing," I lied, revving the engine. "Hold on tight."
Dr. Elena Vargas POV's
The ground shook.
Seventy feet below the surface, dust rained down from the concrete ceiling of the maintenance room. The industrial freezer rattled on its mounts.
"Sancta Maria," Miguel whimpered, covering his head.
"That wasn't an earthquake," Sofía said, staring up at the dark ceiling. "That was an explosion. Surface level. Near the market."
I checked the temperature gauge on the freezer. It was holding steady at -20°C. The sample was safe. But the vibration meant something else: chaos was escalating above us.
"If there are explosions, the military will tighten the net," I said, grabbing the satellite phone. It was still dead, blocked by the jammer. "Sofía, these tunnels... do they connect to the Mercado Central drainage?"
Sofía nodded, her face grim. "Yes. But if there was a blast that big, the shockwave travels down. It might have collapsed the old storm drains. Or worse... it might have opened them."
As if on cue, a sound echoed down the long, dark tunnel outside our door. It wasn't the mechanical clack of a train. It was a rapid, stumbling rhythm. Footsteps. Running.
And then, a voice, distorted by the tunnel acoustics, shouting in desperation.
"...help! We need a medic! Is anyone down here?"
I froze. It was a man's voice, rough and commanding, but laced with panic.
"Soldiers?" Miguel whispered.
"No," Sofía said, gripping her machete. "Soldiers don't ask for help. They command it."
I moved to the door, putting my ear against the cold steel. The shouting was getting closer.
"She's losing blood! I know this access is here! Open the damn door!"
I looked at Sofía. We had a secure room, a biological weapon in the freezer, and a fragile safety. Opening that door could let in the military, the infected, or the cartels. But I was a doctor. And that voice sounded like a man dragging a body.
"Prepare the extinguisher," I commanded softly. "I'm opening it."
I threw the bolt and swung the heavy door open.
Stumbling into the light of our flashlights was a man soaked in blood, half-carrying a woman in a torn business suit. He looked up, his eyes wild, holding a Glock that was visibly empty, the slide locked back.
He looked at the freezer. He looked at Sofía's machete. And then he looked at me, his eyes locking onto my medical scrubs.
"You," the man gasped, collapsing to his knees but refusing to let go of the woman. "You're the doctor from the morgue. The one who stole the sample."
It was the man from the Captiva. The one who had cleared the path for us.
"And you," I replied, stepping forward to check the woman's pulse, "are the reason the city is burning."
The woman, Camila, groaned. "He's... hurt too," she whispered, pointing at the man's arm.
I looked at his jacket. The blood wasn't just from a cut. The fabric was torn in a distinct, crescent shape.
A bite mark.
I stepped back, the cold room suddenly feeling much smaller.
"Sofía," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "Lock the door."
The man looked at his own arm, then at me, realizing for the first time that he might be the very thing he was running from.
——
Author's Note: The timelines have converged! Julián is in the room with Elena, but he might be infected. Elena has the tools to test him, but it's risky.