Smoking Dead

Smoking Dead S. Bonavida Ponce Parody, zombies & adventures. The only truthful record after the Big Smoke, the world war against the horde of living smokers that ended years ago. Peter, an ordinary journalist, along with Corinne, a more ordinary camera operator than ordinary, travels the world obtaining information about those dark times. They will go to troubled areas never visited and interview unusual but wise characters... well, some. They will investigate the profound impact of the rise of the great mindless horde and will find surprises that will make them question which of all the stories is true. This novel contains humorously disturbing stories, characters from the present, past, and future, living and dead who are not convinced they are... And why not? Love. S. Bonavida Ponce Smoking Dead The documentary about the Great Smoke Translated by Santiago Machain © 2016 Safe Creative ISBN: 978-84-617-4370-4 Cover design Anna "Artlekina" Smirnova http://artlekina.deviantart.com Beta Readers Melisa Balaguer Mu?oz Genoveva Guti?rrez Ruiz (a.k.a. genolu) http://bit.ly/2aySiq6 Ignatiusbp https://es.fiverr.com/ignatiusbp Dedicated to my brother, the best gift from my parents. « And thank you very much Santiago Machain, tireless translator, for your expertise and patience in translating Smoking Dead » Zone Zero “Greetings, I'm Peter Whales. We are in what many people call Zero Zone, the worst plague in the history of human race...” At that moment, Peter looked at the microphone in his right hand when an annoying buzz interrupted his professional soliloquy. Tzzzz...Tzzzz...Tzzzz.... “Peter, Peter. We cut the shot.” “What? Corinne, I haven't had diarrhea for three days so you can come and give me some bullshit.” “We cut the shot and that's it. Give me ten minutes," Corinne replied. Peter and Corinne were in the middle of nowhere, exactly in a jungle area of swampy soil lost from the God’s hand, translated into colloquial language: a shitty place. A green field full of spiked grass up to their ankles. The tips of those plants were put in an annoying way by all the parts of the body. Once upon a time, according to the local archives preserved in AngKor, that place had been a tobacco plantation. But Peter didn't care, a strong uncontrollable diarrhea had been lodged in his lower abdomen for three days. Water, food, or perhaps both were acting against him. Because of strict international laws he could not take his own canned food either. Then, he had to eat the swill he was served in Thailand. "Maybe I've eaten a spoiled dog.” So, with diarrhea and belly pains it's no wonder Peter was in a very bad mood. “Shit. Fuck Marlboroach. Who sent me to do a report on the Great Plague of Smokers?” Corinne didn't answer. Peter continued to observe her, although not precisely in the eyes. "She's lucky to have the biggest tits I've ever seen on a woman, otherwise I would have sent her home weeks ago.” Unaware of Peter's thoughts, Corinne lowered the portable shoulder camera and moved a few meters away towards the Jeep. There she used some tools, adjusted some of the technical parameters of that junky, and continued to be entertained for a while. Meanwhile, Peter was still like a stick in the middle of that old sown field. "Fuck Marlboroach. I'm in shit up to my neck, if it wasn't for the mortgage... This documentary is a dead end.” The last words of his boss, Mr. Belvedere still resounded in his head. "It's your last proof, Peter. Screw it this time and you'll be Big Mother presenter again or worse.” Peter chewed a big KaBoom gum that helped him in moments of tension. Chewing. Inflate. Explode. Chewing. Inflate. Explode. And so he repeated the operation in an endless loop. “Can you remain still with that little noise? It makes me nervous; I can't concentrate. "What the hell's wrong with the buddy. Here it's cold from the milk, I'm getting muddy in the middle of this former tobacco plantation, and she has the holy balls to tell me she's bothered by the sound of my gum.” As a good Alpha male dominator of the species, Peter did what only a man can do, stop making noise with gum and obey. "I do it because I want to.” Corinne did not keep her promise to fix the camera in ten minutes. It took her more than thirty. And Peter's dissimulated anger was on the rise. “What took you so long?” Peter whistled. I had to clean up the gamma-wave polarizer to remove some of the interference from the residual strontium in the environment. That took me about two minutes. Then I had to touch up my nails, which took me another twenty-eight minutes. In an attempt at frustration, Peter threw the gum on the floor. “I wouldn't throw the gum on the floor, it's a strange element. You can look for problems with the WFSP.” This last sentence modified Peter's face. “And who's going to tell the federation of foreign particles? It's just you and me in this shitty valley.” “I wouldn't overestimate the World Federation Strange Particles. But it’s up to you.” “Fuck the particle federation.” However, despite those words, Peter bent down and picked up the chewing gum from the ground. He took a plastic bag out of the right-side pocket of his jacket and put the viscose mass into the plastic bag. “Come on, let's move on.” Corinne started recording. “Greetings, this is Peter Whales broadcasting for the PPC. We are in what many people call Zero Zone, the worst plague in human kind history. According to the opinion of many experts, the tobacco plantations in northern Thailand, like the one we are in were the outbreak of the worst epidemic that almost brought humanity to the brink of extinction.... A matter of chemistry "I hate chemistry. I don't know why my boss had the brilliant idea of including in my work plan the interview to this kind of old mummy extracted from the museum of national history. The scientific vision is important, or at least, that is Mr. Belvedere's opinion. Shit. If it weren't for these brainiacs who play Gods, maybe that would never have happened.” The old professor, dressed in a white coat and sitting like an old cowboy on the wooden chair stared at the blackboard Peter had on his back. “The Methyl Bromide or its scientific nomenclature, CH Br, so that you may understand it better, young man...” "The young man doesn't understand shit.” “...was widely used at the beginning of the 21st century. Curiously, my PhD thesis was based on it. A highly versatile and effective product. Effective in a wide range of temperatures and biocide action. The definitive fumigant. It served to control fungi, bacteria, viruses, mites, nematodes,” Peter silenced that list of names extracted from the underworld. “Doctor, I don't care about the family tree of your family. Could you tell us about the Zombie Fungus?” The old professor grunted badly. “You're only interested in that shit. Let's see when the journalists mature. That was years ago. You always come to interview me for the same reason. After so much time, haven't more interesting news come out? By the way, young lady, wouldn't you like to get the phone number of a scientific eminence?” Corinne recorded the whole interview from the side of the room. When she saw the old professor's attitude, she raised her fist to the height of her face and straightened her middle finger pointing it towards the ceiling in an unfriendly gesture. “I like them to resist," whispered the professor. “That excites them.” “Professor, I promise you by God, your mother and all the archangels that I will then pass you the telephone number of the camera operator, but please, can we start with the main topic?” The professor grunted and smiled all at once, if that was possible. Peter thought that they would begin to enter into an infinite loop, in which the professor would insist on giving his telephone number to Corinne, she would raise her hand in a defiant gesture, and he would kindly insist again with a “Can we start with the main theme, please?” Peter breathed a snort full of despair. "Marlboroach takes me. Let this old mummy begin to release all his boring speech or I strangle him with my own hands. It also reminds me of my old college chemistry professor, Mr. Moriarty. When God created the human species, why did he allow chemists and biologists to exist? I know only two worse professions. Lawyers and computer scientists.” To Peter's surprise the professor adjusted his crotch, smiled sarcastically at Corinne, and fell silent. “Professor, may we begin? Would you be so kind as to tell us about the Zombie Fungus?” “What kind of asshole invented that name? That's stupid. That name could only occur to a common newscaster. Surely some presenter from the FOXX network invented that name. But it is already known that not everyone can belong to the intellectual elite, as only a select group of people can do it. Its only correct name is Ophiocordyceps unilateralis.” “Of course, professor, could you give us your opinion on the toxin Ophio or how the hell is called that?” “Make no mistake young man, it is not a toxin. It's a parasite.” “Thank you for correcting me. Regarding the parasite, could you tell us briefly what it is?” The brief explanation lasted only three and a half hours. A really small time if we compare it with the usual talks and symposiums of these academics that could last weeks or even months. Corinne had to change the camera batteries twice. Between changing and changing the battery, the professor would lower his hand to the crotch and dedicate an affectionate virile male gesture to that beautiful female who resisted him so much. The Professor's mobile began to vibrate and he picked up the phone. Peter took advantage of that moment of distraction, grabbed Corinne by the arm and fled like Marlboroach's soul from the headquarters of the World Federation Plagues. "Why after the great plague did all the names start with World Federation? Many publicists survived after the great plague and yet the world remained devoid of ideas. Where did invention and imagination go? On these occasions I dream that it would have been better to have been annihilated by the great plague of smokers.” The old van, a radiant white with the logo of the PPC was waiting for them outside. "Old hysterical cockatoo. Three and a half hours of my life lost. It has been worse than the broadcast of a political debate.” Although Corinne was a freak and a somewhat special woman, deep down Peter knew badly that she would have put up with that old mummy. Since they had only recently been working together, Peter decided to take a small step forward in professional relationships. “Corinne, I'm sorry for what you've had to endure.” “What do you say?” “I'm talking about that obsessed old man.” “I don't understand.” “Woman. The lascivious gestures, the macho comments...” “But I liked him. I was just pretending to be interesting. I didn't want him to think I was a chippy woman.” A drop of sweat rushed down Peter's left temple. "This buddy is silly. Whoever understands her buys her. Where do they get the camera operators?". Peter drove the van back to the hotel. Corinne was still painting his nails on the co-driver's seat, this time in a strange violet shade. You have to drink a lot to become an Oxford-Cambridge University professor. According to Peter, until now the report had two good things and one bad. The two good things were always hanging on Corinne's front. The bad thing was the exhaustion of travelling to such scattered and disparate locations all over the world. At times like this he remembered his boss very much, while Mr. Belvedere enjoyed all the pleasures of the comfortable office, they moved more than a mint candy in a child's mouth. Mr. Belvedere had come up with the brilliant idea of giving them a little trip around the world, that way they could collect the different opinions, comments and various bullshit from the different smoking specialists. "As good as it is at home.” Before entering Ex Oxford-Cambridge University, careless Peter was struck with a small black post that was at the perfect crotch height of an average adult. “Fuck Marlboroach and all his children.” “Don't swear, Peter. They are forbidden by Clown President.” “Do you know where you and Clown President can go? What a pain!” Limping and still with a great annoyance in their noble parts, Peter and Corinne entered the Department of History of the 20 century of the Ex-University Oxford-Cambridge. The old professor of the such division, the highest authority in knowledge about the 20 century was waiting for them tanking refuge behind his table. It turned out to be the largest bottle-ass glasses Peter had ever seen in his entire life. “Are the two boys from the TV crew? Excuse me, but I can't see very well, I'm half blind. Would you like a whiskey?” Corinne and Peter shook their heads. “It’s a pity, boys. Whiskey opens the doors of the mind, it's scientifically proven” Having said that, the old professor poured himself a fairly loaded, ice-free glass of Jackie Danyels. Then he lowered it in one drink. “Then, you're interested in 20 century history? Specifically, at the dawn of the Great Plague. Interesting. So, let me explain to you guys, but before...” Without wasting any time, the old professor arranged for the second glass of whiskey. "YOUNG BUDDIES? Yes, Corinne's tits can be seen from France. Poor Professor, so much studying with Jackie Danyels is leaving him more than blind. The old professor began to speak. “The end of the 20 century could be compared with the worst times of the Middle Ages. Things were getting very ugly because of a section of the population that used drugs. Smokers. Many anthropologists, my colleagues have not yet been able to determine exactly what was wrong with those people's brains. Many believe that they had a genetic dysfunction in the empathic zone of the brain that prevented them from controlling themselves. The most reactionary anthropologists are simply of the opinion that smokers did not possess brains. A new sip to the glass with Jackie Danyels made the professor smile. “And now there's hardly any material left from that time, fifty years ago. All the papers were smoked: academic books, novels, even the toilet paper. Everything burned between his fingers. He was consumed by the Great Horde of Smokers. The Great Clown delivers us from them.” “Excuse me, professor, how do you think it all started?” Peter asked. “At the end of the 20 century the countries of the world, governed by a social class of misfits called Politicians passed laws prohibiting all kinds of drugs. This led to the consumers of tobacco, nicotine and strontium being repudiated by society. As a result, the companies that sold tobacco closed down. However, an illegal supply of joint-tabaco came up for sale clandestinely. The former country of China and another called Thailand were the ones which catapulted this secrecy. Nevertheless, something disastrous happened, in the tropical forests of Thailand there was a small fungus. The Zombie Fungus. This entity evolved and merged with the illegal tobacco plantations. As no one cared about exerting any quality control, it was uncontrolled in those areas, because it had the capacity to absorb the vital energy of the entity it inhabited and control it. If you'll excuse me for a second!” the professor interrupted his speech and poured himself the third glass of whiskey. Peter was really excited. “Quite an academic and intellectual. You can see that for many years he has been instructing himself in the noble art of enduring alcohol. The kind of man I'd like to be when I grow up.” “Then something happened,” the professor continued: “The fungus transmitted its properties to the tobacco plant. Some of those tobacco crops from ancient Thailand were exported to China, and these corrupt shoots ended up in almost all tobacco plantations.” A new pause interrupted that condensed history class. The old professor was delighted with Jackie's cup in his hand. “The physical change was barely imperceptible. Glazed eyes. Weak pulse. Skin in a state of putrefaction. In short, the normal physical state of a smoker. No one could tell the change. But some people did start to notice something. The great medical professionals intervened. They held many conferences, great symposia, and after all these talks throughout the world, after living at everyone's expense, they agreed on one opinion: it was a serious worldwide case of conjunctivitis. Hips! The teacher's free hand came between the cup and his mouth. The hiccups had hit him hard. “But the truth was much more terrifying. Hips! Smokers began to be dominated by the fungus-zombie-tabaco.” “Excuse me Professor,” said Peter, “do you mean to tell me that no medical professional at that time detected the real root of the problem?” “Well, at that time it was very difficult to find honest doctors. I told you those were bad times. They were either dishonest or stupid. The most common phrase in the medical profession at the time, ‘That's just a virus. You'll be cured,’ has gone down in history. Hips! On the other hand, there was the maladjusted social class of the Politicians, who received succulent sums for doing nothing. Well, if they were good for anything, for talking.” “Unbelievable. How bad the world was!” “After all,” continued the old professor with a crisp blur between small, uncontrolled burps and various hiccups, “that disease only attacked the outcasts of society. Hips! Smokers. People who were sick and without resources. All their money was spent on the illegal substance. It was then that the great demographic debacle happened, and at the beginning of the 21 century the majority of smokers began to die. Their bodies, apparently lifeless, were deposited in areas called cemeteries.” “What is a cemetery?” Corinne asked innocently. “She will not like the answer.” “A place where the dead were buried, guy,” replied the professor calmly, who still did not recognize a woman in the figure of Corinne. “Bury?” replied Corinne visibly upset. “Like plants? Didn't they burn them like now?” “No, they didn't burn them.” “How disgusting! But where did they bury them?” “In the earth or in small vaults, something like small houses.” “Don't go on, don't go on, professor. I feel like vomiting.” “What delicate boys there are these days. Well, as I was saying, Hips! a few years went by like that. Smokers died and were buried; they died and were buried and so on...” Corinne put on stone-faced expression before all that talk, the last words of the old professor were impressing her very much. “Luckily, in historical journalism class they already explained to us beforehand the old legends of the ‘burial’ rite. How barbaric.” “Well, as I was saying,” the old professor continued animatedly, moving his eyes in a nystagmic way, “inside the lifeless bodies, the Zombie Fungus continued to generate new spores. These were transmitted at an alarmingly fast rate between the buried bodies of the cemeteries. Above all, in those lifeless bodies full of tobacco, which favored the growth of the fungus, since the combination of nicotine and strontium boosted the fusion. The prevailing humidity underground favored the effect called Buried Steam Pot, with which the disaster was, Hips! served at the table.” “And then, one day, the worst happened...” he made a theatrical stop. “The smokers came back to life. And an immense horde, led by Patrick Swuaize, Nat King Cole and Errol Flyn, among many others, came back to life wanting to smoke everything and everyone.” “Horrible, Patrick Swuaize!” Unfortunately, that wonderful history talk ended after Jackie Danyels' sixth cup. The old professor collapsed irreparably on his table, from the corner of his lips began to regurgitate small slimy slime, and his body, almost at the edge of the ethyl coma, also began to emit small noises similar to snoring. “These academic types bore me to death, they think only of drinking and studying.” “But what do you say, Corinne, a man of great wisdom and knowledge like the professor? Six glasses of whiskey. He must be very wise to put up with so much. Do you know that in order to be accepted into the former Oxford-Cambridge University, applicants must undergo severe drunkenness tests?” “Huh! What was the point of burying people? What nausea has come over me.” C’mon Peter. Mortally boring I am. Besides, he hasn't looked at my tits once. What a nerve.” Interview with Clown President of the Top Section “Thank you so much for having us, Great Clown.” The Great Clown from Above had a huge smile. He wore a huge white, bulging pair of trousers that came big to him. To prevent him from dropping it, he had it securely fastened with red elastic straps, although to the misfortune of Peter and Corinne, the Great Clown was not wearing his usual red nose on that occasion, which he only wore in public. “Oh, oh, oh, boy, stop treating me with so much respect. I'm just a clown.” Corinne couldn't focus the lens well; she was very nervous. Her friends would die of envy when they knew she had met the Great Clown from Above. “Of course, sir,” Peter apologized. “Just call me, Clown Smith. We reserved the word ‘sir’ for the elderly.” “Of course, Clown Smith.” “Awesome. You want a lollipop?” Corinne accepted the great multicolored lollipop. “I remember the history classes where they put us in exciting documentaries. After the end of the great plague of smokers, the world got deserted. Only 25% of the population survived. The sectors with the most smokers were swept from the planet: lawyers, politicians, computer scientists, construction workers, taxi drivers and the unemployed. Curiously, within the circus sector, very healthy people, the clowns survived. They represented the lowest rate of smokers. After the great crisis, the clowns of the world joined forces and thanks to them we are still here.” “How would you define the replacement of the Clowns to the old rulers?” Sitting behind his table, a big smile was drawn on the face of the Great Clown from Above. “Oh, boy. Very simple, very simple, very simple. Look at that simple explanation, because clowns never say the ugly thing.” “And that's Clown Smith?” Peter knew the answer. Everyone knew it. They taught it in schools from an early age. It was repeated by all the clowns at their rallies. The clown-like mantra for excellence. Even so, being able to ask a great clown leader that question filled him with pride. “Very simple, boy. We never say what is not true.” “How could they get organized so quickly after the end of the great plague?” “Oh! Boy…” the great clown leader's smile was out of control. He threw three white balls into the air, and as he juggled them, he continued to speak. “Humanity was in crisis. For years, the old ruling caste, the Politicians had led the world to its own destruction. Always spitting out what is not true, and filling their pockets with other people's money. Fortunately, the great plague wiped them out. Then the clowns gathered. Accustomed to travelling from one continent to another, we held a great clown conference. They were hard moments that had to be overcome with a big smile. With the Politicians extinct, only we, the clowns, were left, the logical evolution to our previous leaders. And clowns do know how to make people laugh. And bring people together,” a big smile was drawn on the mouth of the Great Clown. “Oh yes, boy! Sooooo much simple. In a decade we do more work for humanity than all Politicians in a hundred years. We built schools, hospitals, we end wars, we end hatreds. We healed this world which seemed to be turning into a great cosmic dump. And we, the clowns, liked that very much. Do you know how we did it, boy, do you know that?” “Yes, Clown Smith. Never saying what's not true.” “Veeeeery simple. Very good boy. You've earned this lollipop.” The Great Clown from Above was euphoric. “Do you know what divided people, boy? The borders. They were nervous about them. They created disputes, fears, wars, stupid confrontations. And on top of that, for defending them, they forced people to say what is not true. Oooooh! What a scare. Oooooh! What a fear. Don't cross the imaginary line if don’t want to be hurt. That's why the great founding Clowns eliminated the old countries of the world and their borders. They created four large areas of a purely administrative nature. The Top Zone, the Bottom Zone, the Left Zone and the Right Zone. So, everything was much simpler and people could breathe easy.” “Fantastic Clown Smith, but how did you get so much in so little time?” “Oh, oh boy. Success only comes after a great effort. My grandfather, one of the great founding Clowns, helped create the Official Clown Circus. The only global entity that doesn't start with WF. You know, World Federation Plagues and other organizations with names in English, the old dead language. At the Official Clown Circus, ten long years of studies in Applied Clownology await all aspiring clown candidates. Within it we must study great disciplines: Ethics, Acrobatics, Smiles, Honesty, Courage, Moral... While we study all these hard subjects, we must travel halfway around the world doing practices. Making people laugh in more than five different languages is a complicated task. In addition, we must always be attentive to ‘Never say that which is not true’. And finally, after those ten years, if our teachers think we are worthy, a highly qualified committee, composed of more than one hundred children from all over the world, chooses the leading clowns. Everyone knows the motto: ‘Only someone as innocent as a child can wisely choose your leader’.” The Great Clown from Above stopped the juggling of red balls in his tracks. “Oh, oh, oh, I’m sorry boy, I must appear on stage. I have a matter to discuss with some clown representatives. Please stay in the front row. Both of you are invited.” “Thank you, Clown Smith.” “Thank you, Great Clown,” said Corinne with a barely imperceptible thread of voice. The Great Upper Clown went to his closet and put on a giant jacket with colored stripes. He sheathed himself in a giant red wig. And finally, he put on his round red nose. It was spectacular. Peter and Corinne followed him, and as he had promised, he sat them in the front row. Parliaments and courts had been replaced by circus tents. The opposition and the government discussed the affairs of the state by throwing pies in their faces, because according to the great clown leaders, it is better to undertake important things in a humorous way. The Great Clown Smith came out in the middle of the stage and with his big smile drawn in red he shouted: “How are you aaaaall?” The clown-like act had started, Peter, Corinne and the rest of the audience exploded with a Goooood! The great hero Peter drove the rented caravan under a scorching sun. The PPC van was in the workshop, a joint of tricky mechanical matters had broken down, forcing them to temporarily rent a vehicle. The new purchase had a thin sliding glass hood, which by order of Mrs. Corinne, was forbidden to cover, close or do anything that prevented the passage of the sacred sun through that place. “That way I'll get a wonderful tan,” she said with a big smile that illuminated her face, as she cheerfully put on her sunglasses. Peter, grumpy with so much sun, tried to think of something else. They had given him the address of the guy they were going to visit. The receptionist at Kentucky City Hall was very efficient, taking only two hours to check the information on her computer. After the Great Smoke, with the death of most computer scientists, a happy consensus opened among the few computer connoisseurs left alive. Some of them whispered forbidden words like G?INDOUS, IPONES, YAVA and a thousand other nonsense. All that hellish string of incompatible programs had been left behind with the whole old system. Throw the incompatibility out. The World Federation Programmers had created the definitive Operative System, free, compatible one hundred percent with all electronic device of the planet. The SOS, as the Super Operative System invented by WFP was affectionately called was a substantial improvement in global computing. In addition, the new programmers, full of good humor had taken the opportunity to include in that name, an implicit play on words, using as a base the famous dead language of antiquity, English. In any case, despite great advances in computer science, the ineptitude of some receptionists had not improved much at that time. “Will it be much longer? I get bored” Peter’s daydreams vanished with the advent of Corinne's mystical question, who added a yawn from his professional jargon of “I get mortally bored”. “It's that house over there.” Peter's index finger pointed to a large white house. The building had two floors with a huge porch at the bottom. The house was in the middle of a green grassy meadow and the estate contained several majestic looking oaks. The whole house was surrounded by wire fences. Large red-bottomed signs and white letters displayed: NON-SMOKING AREA. Someone dressed in a white suit opened the front gate for them. Peter drove the caravan into the compound. The young man in the white clothes shaken his hands in a friendly way. Corinne, camera on her shoulder was the first to enter the house. “We are Peter and Corinne; we are delighted to be able to visit Mr. N... The young man interrupted him abruptly. “If you call him ‘sir’, you are doomed. You must call him ‘Rick’. Just ‘Rick’.” “Rick?” Peter replied. “Yes. Call him Rick. Rick Grimmes. Follow me.” The future interviewee was sitting in a rocking chair on a small balcony at the back of the house. Between his hands was a strange gray-faced doll. That figure did not have any human features, in the face of the alleged toy were missing eyes, nose, ears, eyebrows, hair. The strange figure wore a wide white gabardine, the hat of equal color, was surrounded by a blue ribbon and a scarf, also blue, appeared timidly under his neck. Rick looked at the inanimate object as if he were talking to it. On the torso of the doll were eight shimmering green buttons, the belt, colored as the buttons was tied tightly to the abdomen. The rag doll’s feet ended up in tiny red boots. “Rick? Rick Grimmes? We are Peter and Corinne from the PPC.” The man who answered to Rick Grimmes' name was sitting in a wheelchair. When he heard his name, he nervously left the doll on the floor. From the description in the psychiatric chart, the man must have been over a hundred years old, but it was barely noticeable. Rick took advantage of the pause to scratch with his right hand the leafy beard of his face. “Please sit down,” commented the young man dressed in white attire. Peter and Corinne agreed. “They're coming back,” the old man in a wheelchair said. “Excuse me Rick, what did you say?” Peter interrupted quickly. “Smokers. They're there. They're waiting for us.” Corinne had been recording the whole time. She was a real nail fanatic, quite a snob, but above all she was a professional camera operator. As soon as she smelled something similar to news, she connected her camera and recorded everything. It was like a disease. Peter couldn't help but look at Corinne's professionalism and, by the way, also noticed the two extra good reasons that Corinne always had hanging on her front. “It's not over. It's just a truce” Mr. Rick abruptly pulled Peter out of his erotic daydreams. “Rick, why do you think that? Would you mind if we record him while we talk?” “Do as you like.” The old bearded face in a Texan hat stared at the horizon. He kept muttering something to himself, as if Peter and Corinne were not in that room with him. “It all started years ago. One day I woke up after a long coma. At least that's what they told me. Then I went out into the street and met one of them for the first time. His face was swollen, his eyes glazed, his skin rotten, and worst of all, a cigarette butt in his right hand. They looked at you with their lazy eyes, their arms hanging down and the eternal smoking cigarette fag-end that they put in their mouths by simple inertia. Some even babbled ‘giiiiive me a liiiiight...’. They hissed each and every syllable of the words they uttered through their filthy mouths filled with rickety yellow teeth. No, the young people can't even imagine what that was all about. Hordes of smokers ravaging everything. Do you know what was the worst thing about it?” “No, Rick, what was the worst?” “Their touch. If a smoker touched a person for a long period of time, that person became a smoker instantly. It's horrible. One day Bill and I found ourselves inspecting an old gas station. Bill was a young boy from the Kansas area, I don't think he'd ever left his village, and he was checking the pumps for gas and then I smelled them. When that happened, problems started to take place. I remember that conversation: ‘What... what...? What's up, Rick,’ stammered the good Bill who sensed the problems in the air. ‘They're here,’ I replied. ‘You're... you're... Are you sure?’ ‘Yes. “How... How do you know for sure?’ poor Bill kept replied incredulously. ‘Because of the smell, Bill, because of the smell’. ‘Smell, smell of what? Rottenness?’ ‘No, Bill, nicotine’.” Rick looked at the place on the floor where he had deposited the faceless doll and continued talking. “Then, without warning, a smoker came out of the shadows. Bill fell to the ground. He rolled and rolled across the ground. A brave boy is able to hurt. I missed the first shot to the head of that smoker; both were very close. Bill couldn't get the smoker off his back. Finally, I fired an accurate shot, the bullet pierced the smoker's right temple, but that wasn't enough. Smokers could resist worse injures. After all, they never had brains, and that smoker was so small that a single shot wasn't enough for anything. The smoker continued to fight the desperate boy, without giving him any truce. The smoker's hand rested on the face of the poor, frightened Bill. He fought with all his soul, managed to kick the monster out of the way and shot him twice bluntly. But it was too late. Then I noticed the first symptom in my companion, he started crawling like a desperate little dog on the floor, looking for some cigarette butt or something remotely similar to put in his mouth.” Rick put his right hand to his chin, scratched his beard hard, as if trying to remember something. “Then the second symptom appeared. Bill had never smoked in his life, but he began to intone the words a thousand times cursed: ‘Giiiiive me a liiiiight...’. He had already been converted. Luckily, I had three nicotine patches in the pocket of my jacket. I shot a porous patch right into his hand. That gave me a vital time. Bill, or what was left of him, started desperately sucking on the patch. He was eager for nicotine. It's the last thing he saw before I shot him with an accurate gunshot between the eyebrows.” Rick fell into a deep silence, swinging his body slowly in the wheelchair. “Rick, why did you say this was a truce before?” “I repeat. They're out there. They're waiting for us. They're just giving us a break. Humanity never learns from its mistakes. In every region, country, habitat, there is a place; a place of nightmare enveloped in a thick fog that is not such. The NON-Zone.” A masculine voice interrupted them. “Excuse me, it's time for medication. You must leave. Rick must rest.” Corinne and Peter slowly left the room. The boy dressed in a white robe kindly accompanied them to the exit. “Is he always like this?” Peter asked intrigued. “Oh, no. There are worse days. Some days he thinks he's Superman or even God.” “How could our great world hero look so bad?” “The last great battle in Dallas. A fight to the death against Patrick Swuaize.” “Wow...” “Yes, Patrick, the King of smokers was superior in everything. Style, movement, strength, performance... He was the only smoker capable of dancing, singing and putting a cigarette butt in his mouth all at the same time.” “How could he...?” “Beat him? He only had one chance. He grabbed his old Texan hat, and throwing it towards Patrick's face, he managed to create a little distraction. If Patrick fell, the rest of the smokers would be history, the gregarious instinct of the smokers encouraged them to choose a leader, so if Patrick fell, the smokers wouldn't know where to go. Smokers have always needed icons to continue to exist. And Patrick was the greatest of them. Our great hero knew it, so he played his last card. Humanity's last chance. With his perfected Karate technique, he made one last flying kick less than a meter away from Patrick's face. And he did it. The body of the famous smoker fell to the ground, but the smoke intake had been excessive. Anyone else would have died, or even worse. But not him. Not our great hero. However, his mind, filled with all that crap, simply broke. Since then he is in neuropsychiatric treatment, away from all those he saved in life.” “Oh,” said Corinne in distress. “Poor man.” “Yes, that's right. Mr. Norris sacrificed his life and sanity for us.” Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police A giant building stretched out before Peter and Corinne, the rectangular shape resembled an old warehouse and a gigantic fence surrounded the entire perimeter. A very large stone arch welcomed them and in the apse of the arch it could be read some sculpted letters: Defending the law. An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman waited for them under the arch of the entrance. “Welcome Corinne and Peter. This is Fort Dufferin. My name is John Alexander and I will guide you through the main building of the world's most important headquarters. Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police Headquarters. The world's oldest safeguards.” The speaker wore the typical officer costume, a red jacket with a black belt, sky-blue puffy trousers, and flawless black boots. In addition, the man wore an elegant brown hat that elegantly highlighted the whole. Corinne painted her nails carelessly, while Peter recalled his childhood youthful dream of being an ex-cop on horseback. A broken dream at an early age by his inability to open easily legs, a prerequisite for horseback riding. For this reason, as a young man, he was considered unfit for ex-police service. Peter still remembered the words of his teacher Paquita Johns from pre-school: “Peter, you are no good to be a member of the Ex Canadian Mounted Police, but quiet, you can always devote yourself to some easier job for your skills, as a journalist for example.” John abruptly pulled him out of his daydreams. “Please don't record anything in the whole room, but you can take notes. We will begin our tour shortly.” It was normal for Corinne to be absent in this situation. Everyone knew the strong celibacy of the famous police force. An Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Policeman vowed not to engage in any sexual activity while serving on the corps. Add to that the fact that he couldn't record anything with his camera at all, and the only distraction for the camera operator was to paint her nails. A couple of former mounted policemen passed in front of them and greeted John Alexander. “Hello Mountie.” “See you later Mounties,” John Alexander politely replied to the former mounted policeman couple who had just crossed his path. “Excuse me,” interrupted Corinne boringly, “what does Mountie mean?” The former policeman smiled with a correction typical of the ancients. “Mounties is what we call each other. The origin of the word was lost some time ago because of the Great Smoke, that cruel war against smokers that took place more than fifty years ago. Unfortunately, the smokers burned all the books and only the oral tradition remained. “What about computers?” Corinne said, not without a certain reluctance. “The computers of that time had great deficiencies. Since there were no humans to maintain their archaic data systems, they soon became volatile. In addition, they had different operating systems that were incompatible with each other. The few devices that survived the Holocaust showed unconnected, ambiguous or even contradictory data.” “Didn't they have the SOS system?” “No, citizen Corinne, at that time they didn't own our beloved SOS. Humanity was not as united as it is now and they only thought of their own.” “Sorry,” Peter interrupted, “and, who gave them the necessary information about what a Mountie was?” “With regard to your question,” the former policeman smiled, “the clowns gave us the answer, for they possess an astonishing collective memory, not in vain were from antiquity great travelers and great guardians of oral transmission. The word Mountie comes from an ancient group of clowns called Monthy Pailton. After the Great Smoke, and thanks to our heroic acts, the clowns decided to nickname us the Mounties, in honor of this group of ancient clowns. All members of the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police take this nickname very seriously. And after this subsection, if you will please follow me.” John Alexander guided them through the first floor of the main headquarters. Very stripped-down offices governed the decor. The second floor, with large wooden beams, had a pre-smoking style. The Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police led them to a large room with many seats, in the middle of which was a gigantic round table with letters carved in an ancient language. “It is English. I studied it,” said Corinne as she gladly patted her hands as she came out of her silence. “This Corinne is a strange woman. Who learns English which is a dead language? She is ridiculous, being able to learn the Newspeak”. “It says something like. T... H... E…R... F... O... R... C... E... What does it mean? Don't I know that word? Is it some kind of hair shampoo? “What I thought. You have no idea about English. What a phony.” “I'm glad you asked me that question. It's the old doctrine we follow in the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police. Jediism contemplates The Force, an energy underlying every being or object in the universe. “Oh! Yes! He really knows English. Now you have impressed me Corinne.” “I didn't know that the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police followed a religion,” struck Peter in amazement, “especially when years ago it was mathematically proven that God doesn't exist.” “But The Force is no God, citizen Peter. The Force unites us all.” “Like string theory?” Peter asked. “Like Paterson nail polish?” Corinne continued. The Ex-Former policeman looked at them very seriously. “Much more. Infinitely more. The Force unites everything. Even the Force itself is united by itself of how strong it is.” “Unbelievable, more than string theory,” exclaimed Peter. “Unbelievable, more than Paterson nail polish,” added Corinne. Peter and Corinne looked at each other with a certain skepticism, although this initial reaction soon disappeared before the voice of John Alexander, who possessed a surprisingly captivating voice. Both Peter and Corinne had fleeting daydreams about the entity appointed by the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police, although their personal ramblings differed greatly from each other. Peter mentally ratified the words of his former teacher Paquita Johns. He could never have been an ex-cop. “Look at him. How he arches his legs as he walks.” Corinne, for her part, thought that the members of that police force were very boring characters, not one of them had deigned to look, albeit out of the shadows, at the deep neckline she carried for that occasion: “Are they blind or dumb?” thought the disillusioned Corinne. And again, being moved only by the most atrocious boredom, Corinne in the middle of that room again asked a question. “Why were the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police the only police force that survived the Great Smoke?” John Alexander took a penetrating look into Corinne's eyes. “By a simple rule not possessed by the rest of the police forces of that time,” John Alexander knew how to use silences well. “It was the only defense corps that banned smoking.” A prolonging “wow” arose from the throats of Peter and Corinne. “All the old police forces allowed…” John made another deliberate pause, “smoking among their ranks. Poor puppets of disease. All these entities were struck down by the Great Plague. All but us.” John Alexander stared at them. “Please follow me. I have one last surprise for your documentary.” Peter and Corinne went down to the basement. A place carved in stone with strange marble columns that joined the floor to the ceiling. Many galleries with different tunnels made their way from the center of the room to which they had descended by elevator. “Do you have a 3D documentary screening room down here?” Peter's astonishment was genuine. Meanwhile, Corinne showed her particular face of disenchantment at the prospect of being a passive spectator. She was still enormously bored with those former policemen and her nail polish was running out. “No, citizens, still better,” continued John Alexander with a laugh. “They're in the information room. The Stone Room. Paper is an extremely volatile material, as our ancestors discovered for their misfortune, as well as a powerful food for compulsive smokers. Computers are also really fragile machines, no matter how much we improve, in the face of a new catastrophe, their circuits and lack of energy would turn them into useless material. Humanity cannot rely on paper or silicon to preserve its legacy, our valuable historical heritage. So, what is the only thing that lasts? The only thing that survives the passage of time?” Peter and Corinne didn't know what to answer. “The stone. A robust material, highly resistant, which also has the attraction of being in large quantities on our planet. Since we won the war, the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police has been carving the history of mankind into stone. These stones contain in newspeak and pictorial drawings the history of humanity since the Great Smoke. This will survive a catastrophe. The disease of smokers, the Great Smoke, the rise of clowns to power, the contribution of the Ex-Former Canadian Mounted Police. All that and more is carved here.” Peter looked around, trying to write down what he had just heard. “And this is the end of our journey. If you are so kind, I will accompany you to the exit, not without first commenting to you, citizen Peter and citizen Corinne, the sale of gift products made in Fort Dufferin at the exit. If you want, you can take with you a lightweight stone book weighing only four hundred twenty-three ounces, or a beautiful necklace pendant made of seven stones, the latest in fashion. Think about it, Peter and Corinne, because with the second purchase we make a significant discount.” Pepa Frank's diary “Corinne, everyone thought he was a legend, but Pepa Frank existed.” Corinne, sitting peacefully on the co-pilot's side, looked at Peter without any trace of effusiveness. The van continued at good speed along the road on its way home. “It's incredible, we have the only copy of Pepa Frank's diary.” “How interesting,” said Corinne in her usual tone of boredom. “I can't wait to read it.” The van was advancing at constant speed along that secondary road in the Left Zone, a very torrid place. “Let's stop for lunch. I can't wait to read Pepa Frank's diary. I'll read it to you aloud.” “For my sake, don't bother.” “This dude is silly. One of the most important journalistic discoveries and look at her. As if we had found a pot of jam in bad shape.” Peter stopped the van in a service area in that desert area which had not been passed by a single vehicle for a long time. “It starts like this...” Peter began to read the newspaper aloud, ignoring Corinne's words. ~~~~~~~ Dear Daily, May 3rd. My family and I have climbed into the attic of the neighbors' house. It's horrible, the bad guys who smoke passed in front of the house the other day... My dad said to be very quiet and quiet. Everything was a game. We had to be quiet and quiet, otherwise the bad guys who smoke would find us and we would lose. Dad thinks he can fool me. Maybe if I get it with my little brother Pepito, but I'm older, I know it's not a game. May 20th. The neighbors have finally welcomed us in their attic. Mrs. Juarez didn't want to at first, she said 'there are a lot of mouths to feed', but Dad brought all the food from home and gave it to her. The safest place in the world is a good attic. Bad gentlemen who smoke don't like to climb stairs, or do sports because they drown from the effort, or at least that's what Dad says. We'll be safe here. June 15th. Tonight, is especially bad. Dad made us shut up. Today the game became very dangerous. I looked out the window and saw horrible things. Lots of bad gentlemen who smoke, sad eyes, extinguished by the rain, cigars in wet mouths. And those brown and gray dresses because of the strontium. Strontium was to blame for everything, Dad always repeats. The bad gentlemen who smoke howl like a herd of hungry dogs. I think one has seen me. I hide. I'm very scared. Dad tells me to hide, otherwise the smoker will come and smoke me. Bad gentlemen who smoke are very scary, Dad laughs, says they are some ‘chacuacos comechingones’. I laugh so I don't know how scared I am. June 28th. The meal is over. Mrs. Juarez is nervous and angry. Andresito, her son, is a very good friend of mine. But there is little food. There are no tortillas left and Mrs. Juarez gets very angry when there is little food. July 3rd. Dad promised to come back with food. I didn't know that in Mexico there was so much bad guy who smokes. Mrs. Juarez says that God has punished all those drug addicts. But I think that if God is good, he couldn't have punished them. Every night I pray for Dad, so that he will come back. With him here everything will be better. The bad gentlemen who smoke howl at night. It's horrible. Glazed eyes. Grey and brown clothes. That lost look. One night I looked out the window again. I stared at them. I recognized one, he was an old neighbor of my parents. Mr. Vel?zquez was good when he didn't smoke. Why did good people start smoking and become bad? July 6. Dad is back. It's an immense joy. He hasn't brought much food, but I don't care about that. Mrs. Juarez has reproached him that there was so little. I kept quiet because we are in her house and Mom taught me to respect our elders and that when we were guests in someone else's house we should keep quiet. But every day I hate Mrs. Juarez more and more. Dad is weird... August 2nd. Many estimated daily days have passed. I'm still not over Dad. I'm sad. The day after coming back with food, Dad started to get sick. Mr. and Mrs. Juarez examined him. Dad had ingested a lot of smoke, they said. Soon he will become a smoker. One day I woke up and Dad was no longer with us. I couldn't believe it. Dad had always been good, why do good people always leave? First Mom with that bad disease, and now Dad, because of the tobacco smoke. I miss you so much, Dad. August 13th. Yesterday I saw Cantinflas walking the streets. He smoked a great cigar. At his side Mr. Mariachi played a very sad song while smoking. Cantinflas touched his mustache while he extracted smoke from the great cigar. Dad loved the movies of Cantinflas, but to see him like this now, in the street, surrounded by smoke and ugly smell, surrounded by bad gentlemen who smoke. I became very sad. I couldn't help crying. Mrs. Juarez was very angry when she discovered that she was looking out the window and that she was crying like a spoiled woman. Didn't she know that she was putting them all in danger? I bit my tongue and swallowed saliva. I didn't want to put them all in danger. August 28th. Food is scarce, we barely have enough to put in our mouths. Luckily, being an attic, the water is not lacking. Mrs. Juarez has a huge jerrycan of water on top of the roof. On the roof. But we can't open the windows, the bad guys who smoke could hear us, and the smoke from the street could get in. It is very hot. Cantinflas and Mr. Mariachi are always around the house. Would you hear me the other day when I cried? September 3rd. Last night we were very scared. My brother no longer makes jokes. And Mrs. Juarez is no longer angry. Now she always looks raptly at the same point. Cantinflas was on the other side of the door. Sniffing. We knew it was him because Mr. Mariachi accompanied him singing and smoking. “Oh, oh, oh, brunette. Ay, ay, ay, my love. Ay, ay, ay, tobacco of my heart”. A dark, melancholic song. We listened to his sad howling. We were all very quiet, very quiet, very frightened. I was so scared that I peed on myself. Mrs. Juarez was looking at her husband, and has been looking at that same spot since last night. September 9th. Mr. Juarez and I are on the roof. It was horrible. Last night... I was so scared. Just writing I'm not afraid. I don't want any of this to be forgotten. My little brother coughed, couldn't control himself, he had one of his attacks. But Cantinflas was on the other side of the door and heard the cough. Mr. Mariachi began to howl a very sad song. Then they began to scratch the attic door. Soon more bad gentlemen who smoke were on the other side of the door. “Giiiiive meeeee a liiiiight,” we could hear his hoarse lament. They broke the door, Mr. Juarez was shaking his wife hard, but Mrs. Juarez was not immutable. Mr. Mariachi entered first, behind the rest of the smokers, then grabbed Pepito by the hair and smoked my little brother in the face. Mr. Juarez, with tears in his eyes, wanted to save Andresito, but his son was already in the middle of three bad gentlemen who smoke and Cantinflas at his side. Cantinflas told him, with such a sweet voice, a story of good children and bad children who smoked. With his sweet, feigned voice, he attracted him to him. There are no good moustaches. My little brother was succumbed to by the irresistible force of the almost hypnotic voice of the now feared Cantinflas. Mr. Juarez with tears in his eyes walked in my direction, I was almost paralyzed, scared to death with so much bad sir who smokes, Mr. Mariachi, the evil Cantinflas, Mr. Velazquez, smoked and laughed. I don't know how Mr. Juarez and I ended up on the roof, there a huge fence closed the way to the bad guys. I couldn't stop crying. Mr. Juarez closed the iron fence behind us. September 14. Mr. Juarez and I hadn't eaten in two days. The food stayed down in the attic. Luckily, we had the giant water can. But that wouldn't be enough. At night Mr. Mariachi sang. And Cantinflas spoke to us with that sweet voice of yesteryear. We couldn't go down. The attic was full of bad gentlemen who smoke. Mr. Juarez stroked my hair tenderly, like my father did. He picked me up sweetly with his hands and we approached the edge of the roof. Three plants separated us from the ground. September 18th. I will never forget September 14, that day we were born again. In the distance, with helicopters flying through the air, we could see strange men. Mr. Juarez stood on the edge of the building not knowing what to do. Then a voice sounded from a megaphone, “We are the Mounted Police of Canada. Be still, sir. We come to save you. It was a giant helicopter, the bad guys who smoke started howling very loudly, the bad guys who smoke are really annoyed by the noises. Inside the helicopter some clowns with red noses held out a rope and told us to tie it under our arms. I was the first one to go up. In addition to the clowns and the Canadian Mounted Police, some men in brown skirts were looking at us. “We are Shaolin Monks, not small subjects,” that's what they told me. And then they picked up Mr. Juarez, who was crying a lot. I didn't cry anymore. At that moment I looked at those red noses of the clowns and I knew that the world would be a better place again. Now I have to leave you dear diary. I am in a safe place and the clowns will take care of us. Here I have many things to do. Signed: Pepa Frank. ~~~~~~~ A chubby tear rolled down Peter's cheek. That was something unbecoming of a male with hair on his chest. He clarified his voice and tried to hide the best he could. “It’s hot Corinne, isn’t it? Don't you think that this incredible story of survival and courage so authentic made me cry? It's this terrible heat. An emotional account of the first days of salvation. What did you think?” “ZZZzzzz...” For every answer, a little grunt came out of Corinne's throat. Her posture seemed to indicate a deep trance in the country of Morpheus, neck slightly tilted, temple leaning against the window. She seemed really asleep. “Corinne?” A new drop of sweat fell on Peter's temple. “Well, at least she hasn't seen me cry.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=67033160&lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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