When Ismael woke up in the middle of the night, sweating and breathless, panic seized his mind.
I'm still at the hospital, he noticed after staring at the room shrouded in inky blackness. But where are Abe and Marta?
Although the memories of what had happened earlier came flooding back to him, he didn't have time to dwell on them. Something was wrong. After tugging the IV needle out of his wrist and trying (but failing) to turn on the TV or the lights, he peered out into the hallway and listened intently. All was quiet except for the storm raging outside and the timid slapping sounds of his bare feet on the linoleum floor.
"Hello?"
Power blackouts were frequent when it rained in Venezuela, which wouldn't have mattered much if San Isidro wasn't infamous for having its almanacs split into two seasons: the Deluge and the drought; something that, for whatever reason, filled the locals with pride.
"Noah himself couldn't have lived here," they'd often say, puffing out their chests. "He built an ark to survive a downpour of forty days and forty nights, but we withstand one that lasts six months... every year!"
Still doesn't explain where everybody went.
No nurses or doctors, no moans in the ER, no cries in the maternity ward... Nothing.
Without knowing where his feet would take him, the priest left the deserted medical center and walked through the narrow streets under the stormy sky, wearing only a hospital gown. He ended up drenched in seconds under the warm rain.
"Is anyone out there?"
As sewers overflowed, Ismael thought the thunder roaring above sounded like a giant's bellow. Perhaps God's.
"Hello?"
A distant rumble in the clouds was the only answer he got.
After walking around the town for the first time in months, he reinforced his opinion that San Isidro was beyond salvation; its sheer stillness infuriated him. While a few houses lining the streets might have been quaint at some point, the past few decades had deformed them with uneven walls and barred windows; the ever-increasing crime rate had forced the innocent to live behind bars, turning even the best-kept building into a prison intended to keep the rest of the world at bay.
Trapped in their own homes, people tried to keep claustrophobia from settling in by putting as much of themselves in their decorations as possible, and since everyone was eager to show just how special they were, not a single house looked the same—which made them all alike in their ugliness.
Anarchy was the hallmark of San Isidro: anyone could tear down the facade of their houses to open a shop and pawn their dreams for a loaf of bread. What had once been beautiful scenery had now become an amorphous landscape where people had turned their homes into improvised grocery stores or workshops that looked like prison cells.
I've seen prettier penitentiaries than these houses.
For hours, Ismael walked in silence without coming across a single person, remembering how much he detested this place. This can't be real, he told himself again and again.
Once he arrived at the main square, he finally bumped into a small group of people. At first, there were only a few of them, but soon, he found himself surrounded. In a matter of seconds, the whole town was there, and everyone had their faces turned up to the sky, fascinated by the lightning storm. Pedrito, Doña Josefa, Abraham, Marcelo, Marta, Ofelia, Héctor... all of them!
"My God!" Ismael whispered, unable to believe his eyes. The downpour was corroding their skin, each drop tearing apart their clothes and ripping out pieces of their flesh. They stood there, motionless, waiting to become skeletons in the rain as the muddy water turned red under their feet. "Why aren't they screaming?"
Despite knowing it was too late to save her, he grabbed his goddaughter, Ofelia, by the arm. When he pulled her towards him, the girl's skin and muscles peeled off, like a glove of rotten flesh, leaving her bloody bones exposed. Ismael let out a cry of anguish, then slipped and fell on the ground covered by human remains.
"I'm sorry." He was close to crying, but he knew tears were a luxury he couldn't afford. Afraid he'd be next, he got to his feet and ran away. "I'm so sorry."
As he fled the main square, the houses on either side of the street kept growing bigger. This is not possible. He didn't stop until his legs became as heavy as lead and a stabbing pain in his side had drawn all the breath out of him.
Where am I? the priest wondered, fearing this was a dead end.
Then, lightning sliced open the sky, showing him the way.
"The church! I can hide there."
In a stroke of luck, he found the door to the sacristy unlocked. Although it was as pitch-black in there as it was outside, at least it was dry. Ismael fumbled in the darkness with his hands outstretched until he saw a pale man come near him. His blood froze.
"Calm down," he told himself after a nervous chuckle. "It's your own reflection." But a second glimpse proved him wrong. It wasn't a mirror but a screen that laid before him. "Is someone recording me?" Instead of trying to find the camera, his focus remained fixed on the big, flat television in front of him. "This can't be me."
His hands shook as he touched his skin and confirmed his fears. In a single motion, he tore off a piece of his own flesh.
"This is a nightmare." Not pain, but a pleasant numbness came over him when he sank his fingers into his cheeks and reached the bone. "But whose nightmare is it?"
Unable to resist it anymore, he gave in to the temptation and ripped his face off, little by little, until he too became a skull.