Degeneration by David Pardo

1
    T he sun had stopped shining days before.
    I've always been a somewhat temperamental man, with firm convictions that noticeably mark my strong character. I've always been a hard man, the type who doesn't cry, the type who fights to hide his feelings from others. Because of my strong character, I refused to abandon my home when the living dead epidemic came over the village. I thought that I could fortify my house and protect my family... maybe I was mistaken.
    My life was normal until a few months ago. I was happy in Navarrés, a small village of the providence of Valencia, Spain, whose inhabitants hardly numbered three thousand.  I worked on my father-in-law's farm, surrounded by animal feed and pig excrements. I was married to a wonderful woman and the proud father of an adorable little boy. I had an idealistic life in a rural setting; it was peaceful and far from the city smog that had watched me grow up. I used to like to take walks along Playa Monte Lake and to get lost in the Selda Hills. Exchanging the convenience of the asphalted city for the fresh air of the country had been the best decision of my life and –far from consumerism and a cosmopolitan society– I was finally able to grow as a person. I soon discovered that there were different ways to go about life and that happiness isn't always tied to a bank account number. Anyway, I'm talking too much about myself and this isn't my story: it's theirs. I'm just one more in the grand scheme of things.
    The first images of the epidemic reached Navarrés via TV. A morning news program was doing a live broadcast of one of the mass demonstrations against the Government's social cuts. People were peacefully protesting in the streets of Madrid when, suddenly, the cameras panned away from the reporter and began to shoot a group of young people who were running towards and beating the protesters. The youngsters were yelling fanatically while they toppled over people. Their clothes were torn and covered with blood.  They seemed to be wounded and extremely violent. Seeing so much unrest, many of the protesters thought that the anti-riot police had started to use its force against them; which, in turn, caused panic to instill amongst the thousands of people who had gone to protest peacefully. The crowd started to run from one place to another, confused and unsure of what was happening. Some people got tripped up and fell to the ground; others piled up in the doorways of buildings and invaded the few shops that had remained open. Asphyxiation from trampling, fights, and looting ensued in midst of the chaos: people had gone crazy.
    While terror took hold of the streets, the anti-riot police seemed unresponsive, exchanging stupefied glances. After having seen their brutal wrath on previous demonstrations, it was ironic to watch them there: in a line, unsure of what to do. That day they hadn’t been given orders to control the protesters and when they reacted on their own initiative to calm the upset mood, it was too late. They waived their billy clubs, raised their weapons, and shot rubber bullets at those who had caused the riot, but the troublemakers didn't stop; they continued to wreak havoc amongst the protesters. Soon, the situation got out of the police officers’ hands and they, too, found themselves being attacked by the violent agitators. A camera captured one horrifying scene: one of the troublemakers pounced on a police officer and bit his face, ripping his cheek off and taking a piece of flesh the size of a tennis ball with it. The officer fell to the ground, convulsing. Then, suddenly, the programming was interrupted and no more information was made available.
    During the two days following the riots in Madrid, news arrived to us little by little. Some TV channels theorized that the dead were coming back to life, but governmental sources quickly squelched this type of report. Still, in a digital age of instant, uncensored information, social networks were on