Elena Vargas POV's
The Twingo wasn't fast, but it was small. That was its only advantage against the steel wall the military was building along the Autopista Sur.
I killed the headlights, pulled an immediate U-turn, and swerved onto the first unpaved road that snaked uphill, away from the barricade. The road led deep into the barrios built into the slopes—a labyrinth of red bricks, corrugated iron roofs, and endless, tight corners.
"Where are we going, Doctora? The Metro is down there!" Miguel stammered, pointing back toward the booming heart of the lockdown.
"The Metro tracks are elevated, Miguel. They seal the city using the major highways and the river valley access points," I explained, steering sharply past a burning trash pile. The smoke mixed with the dust and diesel, tasting like ash in my mouth. "We need altitude first, then we go below the city. I need a place cold, secure, and far from the light."
I was already forming the hypothesis in my head: the cold weakness. If the crystal structure I saw was truly biological—not chemical—extreme temperature shock could disrupt it. But where in this perpetually temperate city could I find extreme, sustained cold? The morgue was compromised. The university labs would soon be requisitioned by the military.
The only place I could think of was the old, decommissioned túnel de mantenimiento (maintenance tunnel) that ran beneath the Metro's San Javier line. A refrigeration unit had been left behind from a failed climate experiment three years ago—a unit I knew about because I had autopsied the worker who died fixing it.
As we climbed the hill, the scenes shifted from panic to primal terror. People weren't running; they were hiding, peering out from half-open doors. We passed three figures huddled over a fallen motorcycle—not trying to rob it, but actively tearing into the rider's body. They moved with that same horrifying, sluggish determination I'd seen in the morgue, their eyes fixed on the victim's face until the last breath.
"Don't look, Miguel. Look for soldiers," I commanded, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles were white.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed from the street above us, followed by a louder, sustained burst. A block away, a group of infected were streaming downhill, drawn by the Twingo's noisy engine. But they weren't alone. An armored Chevrolet Captiva, dark and heavy, roared past the stream of infected, its horn blaring a single, defiant note. The infected scattered like pigeons.
We were near Las Palmas, a higher elevation where the wealthy lived, and where the resistance—or the perpetrators—were far better armed.
Julian Herrera POV's
The Captiva smelled like spent gunpowder and expensive leather. Julián hated the smell of blood in his car; it ruined the resale value.
He had just put three rounds into the chest of his former security chief, 'Oso' (Bear). Oso wasn't a bear anymore; he was a slobbering, hyper-focused thing whose eyes, even as they glazed over, were fixed on Julián's face—the face of the man who promoted him, who paid his daughter's tuition.
They retain the faces that matter. The thought, first a whisper from Jairo, now screamed in Julián's head. He drove with a cold focus, the armored vehicle shrugging off the few rounds fired by desperate civilians. He had to get to the Patrón's secondary safe house near the university, an old hideout disguised as a coffee warehouse. He needed weapons, money, and most importantly, the hard drives containing the full distribution manifest for the Alfa product.
If the Patrón was going to burn the city to protect his experiment, Julián was going to burn the Patrón's legacy to protect himself.
He briefly checked the satellite phone. No signal. The military blackout was complete. He was on his own, cut off from his network, surrounded by the enemy's creation, and hunted by his boss's protectors. This wasn't a gang war; it was survival.
Julián passed the cluster of infected tearing at a civilian's remains and didn't slow down. He knew the geography of Medellín better than the city planners, and he knew the safest routes were not the main avenues, but the dark, forgotten service roads that paralleled the elevated Metro line—the city's spinal cord.
He needed to get low, away from the military patrols in the hills, and then get out.
Elena Vargas POV's
We descended rapidly toward the flats, finally reaching the industrial edges of the city where the Metro rails began their run into the tunnels. The access point I remembered was hidden behind a dilapidated bus depot, marked by a faded sign advertising Envigado Express.
"Okay, Miguel. This is it. The Twingo stays here," I whispered, pulling the car beneath a massive, rusting diesel tank. "Get the fire extinguisher from the trunk. It's CO2, our only defense if they get close—it might buy us a second."
I grabbed my handbag, the toxicology kit, and the Manila envelope. The adrenaline was stabilizing, replaced by a chilling sense of purpose.
The access hatch was a heavy, rusted steel disc set into the pavement, concealed beneath thick weeds. I knelt, wiping away the grime, and found the release latch, a sequence I'd memorized from the accident report years ago.
Clack. Hiss.
The hatch groaned open, revealing a vertical shaft plunging into absolute darkness, smelling faintly of sulfur and stale air conditioning. Below, I could hear the rhythmic clack-clack of a distant train on the active main line, muffled by the concrete. The maintenance tunnel was deep, isolated, and cold. Perfect.
"Listen carefully, Miguel," I said, handing him a flashlight. "We are entering a pressurized environment. If we meet anyone, they are either military, or they are desperate. Trust no one. Stay quiet."
I started down the steel ladder, the cold dampness of the concrete walls seeping through my clothes. Miguel followed, clumsy but determined. We reached the bottom: a narrow, cold service walkway, silent save for the drip of water.
I found the decommissioned refrigeration unit bay quickly. The heavy steel door was sealed with three massive bolts. It took all my strength to crank the last one open. I flicked on my flashlight, illuminating the room—a space roughly the size of a small clinic, lined with old cooling coils. A massive industrial freezer unit hummed faintly in the corner.
We were safe. We were cold. The sample would survive.
I leaned against the wall, catching my breath, the weight of the military report digging into my chest.
Then, my light beam swept across the back corner of the room, revealing a makeshift bedroll, a half-eaten can of guandolo (a sugary beverage), and a pair of worn military-issue boots.
——
Author's Note: Elena is in the cold and dark, but she's not alone! Is the occupant a soldier, a desperate civilian, or something that likes the cold?