The Dark Days (I)

The night is dark on the harbor. Not a streetlight illuminates the dozens of industrial buildings that reflect the moonlight: blue, dim, cold. High fences close the compound, as the walls of a medieval village. The colossal cranes create an almost futuristic industrial horizon. The only sound that is heard are the waves crashing against the hard concrete dams and, in the distance, steps. Sharp and determined steps, produced by stiff leather soles.

From the darkness a silhouette is born, and soon it is illuminated by the albino moonlight. It is a man in his thirties. His expression is hard and his eyes show accumulated fatigue. He wears straight-cut suit pants and a white shirt rolled up. Hung from a shoulder he carries a shotgun, and in his hands he firmly holds a rudimentary ax. Dark scarlett spots splatter both the shirt, and the face and arms of the enigmatic individual.

The waves give a brief truce that lets perceive a monotonous and continuous background sound. What appears to be grunts and hundreds of bodies crawling are heard in the silence of the night.

The man lightens his steps without ever looking back. Suddenly he stops and looks at a concrete tank that stands before him. A creak startles him as he raises his ax. From the darkness appears a woman in her forties. A large hole in the right side of her face allows a view of the inside of her mouth and part of the skull. Her right leg is broken and seems to have a new joint between the knee and the ankle. She slowly crawls while producing a sinister hiss with her mouth. Suddenly from behind her, two men and a woman appear, all with mortal wounds. Their pupils are grey, almost blue and the corneas of their eyes are bloodshot.

The man firmly grabs the ax and gets prepared for the work he has been doing for the past two months, a job that he has not sought, but he must do to stay alive, a job that hardens him a little more inside everyday.