Wild

By Isaac Barrao

We are faced with a specific anthology of the wildest and most brutal terror, not suitable for sensitive stomachs: zombies that roam from side to side, vampires who yearn to die, cruel and crazy soldiers, people with the gift of preventing murders, broken and creepy marriages. . . girls They are some protagonists of this series of stories, each one more disturbing than the last.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071504369

Book preview

WILD

ISAAC BARRAO

Title: Wild

© 2018, Isaac Barrao

© From the texts: Isaac Barrao

Cover illustration: Isaac Barrao

1st edition

All rights reserved

Index

FREEDOM

FOR A DROP OF BLOOD

YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD, BUT YOU STILL DO NOT KNOW

7

FEAR

INSTINCT

FREEDOM

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All my life I have tried to fit into society, in this imperfect world dominated by ... who knows? Since I have use of reason, the dictatorial limits of our democracy have told me what I have to do, I have been taught to obey specific parameters that dictate what is right, emphasizing with great care the actions that are wrong and, how not , show me the appropriate punishment in each of them. They forced me to go to school, to the institute and even to the university. Not that it is against learning, but rather in the way they have to teach you to behave in the hive, to enslave you, to robotize you as if you were the cog in a machine designed by those who knows, to produce the necessities and riches that they need in each moment, maximizing their ego and power.

From my point of view, during my forty years of life that I have been in this world as a woman, I have followed the established orders believing with absolute faith that it was my duty, my reason to exist. They have blindfolded me with the highest-rated reality shows, I followed the programs of the heart until the wee hours of the morning absorbing the lives of those famous people, those puppets imbedded in the same machinery as if they were mine. I have worked hard, hours and hours, day after day, with the democratic stigma tattooed on my heart, excited to get to ascend the capitalist pyramid to meet them. I have seen how our entire society structured with the deliberate intention of feeding our high-ranking business executives and our beloved politicians is deceived by them, those flesh and blood gods who pull the strings from the top and who, for reasons not I may or may not want to understand, they hide, they blur, they get confused between our society, between our families, controlling, spying on each movement, and can always be one step ahead of us, in charge, doing and undoing. Fuck! I have seen how parents, mothers, grandparents and siblings prioritize economic power, the selfishness of being to climb that fictitious level of material happiness, to abandon the love of their loved ones that end up being converted into mere obstacles, in vermin.

n this metaphorical way referring to that disgusting crisis that hit us about eight years ago, sweeping our ideals and beliefs like a hurricane.

Today is one of January of the two thousand fifteen. When did all this start? I do not know, but in truth I do not care, nobody cares. The bells of the Puerta del Sol clock rang as the strings retransmitted their peculiar sound, but nobody listened to them, at least in the way we are used to.

I've been sitting on the roof of my house for forty-eight hours, just outside the city. I hold my father's shotgun; He taught me how to use it. I'm sure he never would have imagined that it would blow his brains out with her. Do not misunderstand me, you in my place would have acted in the same way. With my mother I did the same, after my husband tore the jugular to bite, transforming it into one of those monsters without soul or feelings with a single objective reflected in their opaque eyes: devour my sweet and tender meat. For her, that was a primary utopian instinct. Without hesitation, I downloaded twice about the woman who gave me life, the same woman who, as they did with her, instructed me to fit into society. The first expansion of lead in the stomach spread his intestines in the floor carpet, slowing his progress for a few seconds to give me time to climb the stairs that lead to the roof. The second, in the head, relieved his immortal suffering forever.

My dear husband is still down there, posted on the stairs. I've been hearing your fingers tear through the wooden trapdoor I entered for hours. I can imagine how his nails are frazzled under the splinters, how the blood slips between his fingers without feeling anything; the pain has disappeared, at least for him.

I'm not sure that someone reads what I'm writing in this little notebook, but if that were the case, I hope you understand my feelings.

Do not judge me. I'm going to tell you one thing: I feel good, happy.

In spite of having lived a false life that they gave me with an exclusive purpose to sustain their material needs, they also provided me with an engineering that allowed me to work in the nuclear power plant that now frames my exhausted eyes.

It's ironic, you know? In his films, Romero was only right in one thing: the dead walked the earth. But they are not those beings to be feared. When the auxiliary emergency generators are turned off forever, there will be nothing to cool the fuel. Then the radioactivity of more than two hundred thousand atomic bombs will be released from the plant. No need to go into absurd technicalities so you can understand the end of humanity or the beginning of something better, depending on how you look at it.

I am free. For once in my life, I'm free! Do not you understand? We're free! For once in our miserable programmed lives we have freed ourselves from them. I give thanks to God and pray that the few who remain in this world feel the manifestation of the truth before those free beings who seek our flesh, or perhaps our own creations, end with us. I pray that you will breathe the freedom that is given to you, so that you will taste free will without fear of being wrong, so that we feel your soul go through every square centimeter of your skin in the same way that I am living it in this moment, before leaving the hell and go to a better place, to a world that banishes selfishness, anger, hatred, flesh, envy ... to a world that only embraces love as the only viable alternative to salvation. Can you imagine that we discovered this absolute truth before this catastrophe happened? I do not know, maybe we had to go through here, before ascending ...

My beloved and beloved husband has just gone through the wooden trapdoor. It roars like a wild beast, dominated by the red elixir running through my veins. In his disfigured face a thought blurs: to fit his brown teeth on me. But you know what? I continue to see his soul, his sweet loving reflection between the stormy evil that forces him to advance towards me, to devour me, to follow his primary instincts without ties, without rules, without having to explain, doing what makes him happy ... Think about it .

I will not resist.

I prefer to die between the teeth of my love. I know what radioactivity will cause in my skin, however, it is not the way to die that scares me. I am not sure that I can bear the weight of our species, the selfishness towards a Mother Earth who welcomed us as her children, who kept us and fed us even knowing that at the end of our pathetic evolutionary link we would become her executioners, our executioners .

Look back, towards that world that was immersed in its cobwebs, disfigured by the interest and prejudices of a few, and tell me: how do you feel?

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FOR A DROP OF BLOOD

-I can not think. I'm tired of fighting for something I do not even know if it's worth it. I want to let myself go, that the destiny marked in the stars occupies the direction of my life, the path I have to take without my mind planning. Do not look at me like that. I'm not giving up. I'm just saying that I'm exhausted from making decisions.

Anne's reflection in the mirror of that sink embraced by the gloom, filthy and sprinkled with dried blood, remained silent, anchored in the immortality of a distant world. He inhaled the stale air and expelled a liberating scream. The sound waves shattered the mirror, and the reflection of his red eyes was latent in a portion of glass that lasted a moment before being crushed by his fist. He opened the door and headed right down a dark corridor. A spiteful, fleeting look, watched with longing the blood that once ran through the veins of humanity and that, now, decorated the walls. He wanted to accelerate the pace; too weak to carry out a feat of that magnitude. He needed to feed, and quickly. He looked up from the floor. His night vision was directed towards a figure that growled at the end of the journey, almost to the exit. Another growl, this time beyond, and another. Then, a terrifying melody of desperate screams shook the mall.

Leave, Anne whispered to the being who was lost in the gloom. The man, who had the skin off his face, where a dozen worms could be seen feeding on his muscles, stopped gargling to make a shrill and melancholy sound, until he shouted again when she pushed him with the few strengths that they were.

The immortality desired by our species, by the majority of the human race ... a utopia, an irrational quest to maintain a body beyond the reasonable limits of nature. It is an abomination, a curse. Who the hell would want to keep an empty case for all eternity? After all, if we had looked inside ourselves, at our soul, we would have realized that we have always been eternal, thought Anne. He left the corridor to go to the very heart of the mall, where countless shop windows had stopped attracting consumers with their flirtatious offer items long ago. He stopped. And once again I observe what the world had become: the dead walked in a pattern that had been anchored in a recondite past of their putrefied brains. Some were crowded into the opaque crystals of the emblematic clothing stores that once attracted entire families, and they continued to do so; others walked in a circulatory loop without being able to avoid colliding with every obstacle they found on their way, and when some of them were close and their eyes crossed, they emitted a kind of ridiculous growl accompanied by a couple of shakes with the head, Refocus on the invisible wheel that took them nowhere. The melancholy melody of the grunts spread to every corner of the cold night. There was no one to listen to her laments, other than Anne, although she did not feel the sound of hell, she came from there. He began to walk among the dead without any of them paying him the slightest attention. They had never done it. They passed by her and dodged her, as if she were a cancer or were afraid of getting sick. Nothing mattered anymore.

Everything was lost. Maybe it always had been and now he realized it. It is unfortunate to have to lose everything to get to understand certain things. However, it is so.

One of the dead stopped in front of her. He seemed to watch her. He was dressed in a dark suit and carried a briefcase clutched in his left hand. Anne fixed her eyes on an identification sticking out of her chest and said: Jim Parson, insurance agent.

- Damn son of a bitch. A faint laugh came from her throat. There were none for this apocalypse, right?

Jim's white and opaque iris scrutinized his funny friend. He bent his head in a reflective angle, as if he understood each of the words. A trickle of blood slid from his lips when he opened his mouth and emitted a dull gurgle. He had nothing more to say and continued his journey, slowly, lost.

Anne sighed. He thought about lying down on one of those massage chairs that he had seen right at the entrance of the baths, and waiting for death to take her away with the dawn. After all, it had been a hundred and fifty years since he had seen the sun, and that seemed like a good time to do it. Defeated, she turned on herself and headed towards her last trip. But then a bark forced her to look away and her suicidal thoughts vanished. A German shepherd with healthy, well-fed fur walked among the dead. With a happy and carefree step, he dodged the rotten ones; They were not interested in the pooch either, who continued until they reached it and sat on their hind legs a couple of meters from their position. He had a backpack tied on his back with a note written in red letters and stuck with insulating tape, which said: look inside.

-Come on man. What kind of joke is this?

He hesitated He looked at the massage sofas that were piled against the wall, next to the entrance to the toilets. Then he knew it was not coming. Immortality was slipping from his hands. His knees buckled. The ground was cold, dirty, abandoned by the cleaners who now walked in a circle behind the white veil of their eyes. It was not a good place to die. However, one could not choose how and when. For a moment, a sudden dizziness clouded Anne's field of vision. He had to put his hands on the threadbare tiles, imitating his furry friend, who kept waiting with his tongue out.

-Dammit...

The vision returned to focus sharply. He did not wait for another relapse; I knew I would not have another chance. He advanced on all fours to cover the couple of meters that separated her from Raben (that's what the sheet hung on a necklace around her neck said), and reached inside the backpack, as the note said. Anne's eyes narrowed as her hand touched the object. I knew what it was. It had been a long time since he had decided to stop killing humans, even before the bloody zombie apocalypse, and feed on those four hundred milliliter blood bags. He pulled out his hand, clinging with all his fingers to the transparent polyvinyl chloride that stored the elixir of life and, without further delay, dug his fangs into it. He sucked the blood with avid craving and speed. His body clung to life, and his century-old cells absorbed the reddish plasma.

The dog remained motionless, observing with its honey-colored passive eyes how that stranger regained her senses. Anne dropped the empty blood bag. The dead who walked nearby stirred, then returned to their particular infinite walk; except one. Jim had stopped in front of her, again. He looked at her again in that strange way, as if trying to express something, while twisting his arms.

-What's up friend?

-Argggggg.

-I understand you, Jim. This is crap. But that's what there is.

A red dot lit up in the center of Jim's head. A dull sound preceded the impact and his skull burst like a rotten watermelon. Anne dodged the viscera. He looked in the direction of the shot. On the second floor, a teenager with a blue Lakers cap on her head was signaling her with her right hand to climb, while with the other she held a sniper's rife.

Raben moved. He glanced at his new friend, and paraded through the dead with his peculiar invisibility in front of them.

Now that you're recovered, I know you can hear me. Come on, go up, said the voice of the girl from the Lakers, stationed on the railing on the second floor.

-I do not know what this game is about, girl. But let's find out.

Anne bent her knees and pushed herself enough to get past the four meters and reach the top floor. It landed at a safe distance; Even if it had saved his life, he did not trust it.

My name is Chris, said the Laker girl, not paying attention to Anne. She turned her back on him, with the same calmness and confidence as if accompanied by her best friend, and headed for a pulley tied to the fall guard. He looked down, and waited for Raben to enter the cage. Then he pulled the rope until the dog was a sufficient distance to jump, lie on its owner and eat it licking.

Although it was night and only had the lighting of a sad emergency lights that would soon stop working, the non-human vision of Anne captured the environment in detail. The only entry ways to access the second floor were the elevators that had been unused for some time, two escalators and an automatic, whose section ends to the second floor were blocked by bars welded to the adjacent structures, and in one of them, the one that touched more to the left, accommodated a door with hinges. An arduous job for a single person, who had not bothered to pick up the electric generator of gasoline and the welder with dozens of electrodes scattered all over