Elena Vargas POV's
The first body of the day didn't look dead,
only exhausted.
It was 4:00 PM in the Medellín Municipal Morgue, and the heat in the Valle de Aburrá always seemed to stick to the tile floors here, even with the air conditioning fighting a losing war.
This victim—a young man, maybe twenty, wearing a faded Atlético Nacional jersey—had the unnaturally relaxed look of a burnout, not a corpse.
I'd seen worse on a Tuesday after the weekend's rumba (party).
"This one is yours, Doctora," the attendant, Miguel, murmured, pulling the steel tray out.
He kept a respectful distance, constantly fanning himself with a discarded newspaper—the local El Colombiano. "Looks like a street overdose. Found him near the Comuna 13 cable car station."
I pulled on my blue latex gloves.
The man was cool to the touch, but not cold.
My first incision, made with the familiar, slick draw of a scalpel across his chest, revealed something immediately wrong. His blood was viscous, almost gel-like, pooling sluggishly in the sternum. It looked less like human blood and more like cheap, diluted red paint.
I opened the cranial cavity, which usually confirms the overdose narrative—swelling, hemorrhages. Here, the brain looked pristine, except for a fine, crystalline white dust clinging to the meninges.
I leaned in, sniffing the air cautiously. It wasn't formaldehyde or ammonia. It smelled like cheap Colombian perfume mixed with diesel and something acrid, metallic.
I scraped a microscopic sample, labeling it aggressively: Unknown Substance – Priority Toxicology.
"Miguel, did they send the preliminary report?" I asked, focusing my microscope. I could taste the stale, sweet corn flavor of my unfinished arepa lunch at the back of my throat.
"Only a note from the captain, Doctora. Says 'Immediate disposal, cause of death non-judicial.'
Real official-looking note, very stiff." Miguel tapped the stainless-steel counter. "The police are in a hurry, telling us to clear the docket, rápido."
My stomach tightened. Immediate disposal was the language of cover-up, not clean-up. Under 400x magnification, the white crystals were highly unusual, not matching any known cocaine or fentanyl analogue.
They had sharp, almost organic-looking branches, like something that wanted to grow.
This wasn't a recreational drug; it was a biological irritant.
The first scream wasn't from the street outside. It came from the back storage room where the overflow cooling units were kept. It sounded like a wet cough followed by the scraping sound of steel on concrete—the sound of a body tray being violently shoved aside.
I froze, scalpel mid-air. "Miguel?"
He was already halfway to the door, his eyes wide, making the sign of the cross. "Ay, Dios mío. I didn't touch anything in there. Maybe a stray cat?"
We both knew it wasn't a cat. The scream came again, guttural, demanding. Then, a sharp, horrific tearing noise, followed by a muffled, choking sound.
I grabbed the heavy, cold bone saw—not as a weapon, but as a ballast—and moved toward the storage room.
The security door was ajar. I kicked it open.
The scene was a nightmare painted in arterial spray. Two orderlies, brothers who usually joked about fútbol, were on the floor. One had his throat torn out, staring blankly at the ceiling. The other was pinned, his screams now bubbling into gasps. Standing over them, chewing on something indistinguishable, was the man who had been the corpse from the table next to mine.
He wasn't moving fast, but he was unstoppable. His jaw worked with a mindless, focused intensity. Crucially, his gaze locked onto the remaining orderly's face, holding it for a sickening, prolonged second before he bit down again.
He saw him. He remembered him. That was the first time I understood the rule: they retain the faces that matter.
I slammed the heavy steel door shut and wrenched the locking bolt home. The pounding started instantly—a heavy, rhythmic thud that sounded like a battering ram.
"Vámonos!" I yelled at Miguel, discarding the saw and grabbing my handbag, which contained the toxicology sample.
"Forget the front door, it leads to the reception. Back stairs, now!"
We burst through the staff entrance into the alleyway. The stench of diesel and fried arepas was overpowered by burning plastic and the metallic tang of fear. The streets of Medellín were silent in the way a jungle is silent just before a predator strikes.
I pulled out the keys for my battered Toyota Twingo, parked near an overturned vendor's stall, and fumbled to unlock the door.
Julián 'El Capi' Herrera POV's
Julián didn't run from the chaos; he ran toward the source of the profit.
He was three kilometers away, high in an unauthorized penthouse near El Poblado, looking down at the city lights twinkling prematurely through the smog. The scent of good whiskey and betrayal was thick in the air.
"Tell me again, Jairo," Julián hissed, pressing the cool metal of his Glock 19 against his lieutenant's ear.
"This shipment—the one that arrived from the coast last night. It was moved to the distribution center in Itagüí?"
Jairo, a man who survived three previous turf wars, was shivering, sweat soaking his crisp white linen shirt.
"Sí, Capi. But… the runners… they started using it themselves this morning. They said it was 'different.' Strong."
Julián removed the gun, but the cold dread remained. The Patrón had been clear: this specific consignment was for export only, highly volatile, and not to be touched. Now, half a dozen runners were foaming at the mouth in the loading dock, and the Patrón's paranoia was about to turn into a bloodbath.
"Different how, Jairo? Did it kill them?"
Jairo swallowed hard. "Worse, Capi. It made them hungry. Not hungry for money, but… carne. They ate Marco. With their hands. And they knew his face, Capi. They looked at him right before they tore him open, like they were confused."
Julián walked to the window, watching the distant smoke plumes rise from the Centro. This wasn't an overdose; this was a disaster. This tainted perico was a plague, and it had been distributed to his entire local network
. He had just gone from running the city's logistics to managing a biological containment zone.
Mierda.
He picked up the encrypted satellite phone—Elena's stolen asset, unknowingly now in his hands—and punched in a number. It rang once, then connected to a deep, familiar voice.
"The product is compromised. Code Black. I need an extraction point for my men, now. Not air. Ground. The military is already locking down the main highway."
The voice on the other end was clipped. "Too late. The asset is already activated. Get out, Capi. They will burn the city to protect the secret."
Julián slammed the phone down. The Patrón wasn't protecting the business; he was protecting himself from the fallout of his own dangerous experiment. Julián was suddenly just another target trapped behind the barricades.
He grabbed his keys to the armored Captiva and ran for the service elevator, leaving Jairo to make a quiet death or clean up the mess.
Dr. Elena Vargas POV's
I sped down the steep, narrow streets leading away from the morgue, the little Twingo's engine screaming in protest. Miguel was crying softly in the passenger seat, chanting an old prayer to the Virgen de Chiquinquirá.
"Focus, Miguel!" I snapped, swerving to avoid an overturned chiva bus near the university campus. "Tell me about the police captain who delivered the body. Did he seem agitated?"
"Agitated? Doctora, he was terrified! He had a bruise on his neck. He kept repeating: 'It's the dust. Don't touch the dust.'"
The dust. The crystalline substance clinging to the meninges. The military was involved, the cartel was using it, and the bodies were hungry. The pieces snapped together with horrifying clarity. This wasn't some organic fungus; this was a weaponized toxin.
As we reached the major access ramp leading onto the Autopista Sur, my worst fear was confirmed. The main highway, the artery connecting Medellín to the outside world, was completely sealed.
Military HUMVEES formed an impenetrable perimeter, their lights strobing in the rapidly darkening twilight. Soldiers in full riot gear were pushing back crowds of confused, shouting civilians.
I had the key to understanding the disease in my handbag. I had the official military report confirming the cover-up in my lap. But I was trapped inside a military cage with an infected city.
I quickly pulled the Twingo into a shadow beneath the elevated Metro track, checking the rear-view mirror. A massive, dark convoy of trucks, flanked by armed guards, was moving rapidly down the highway toward the newly established barrier, pushing aside any civilian vehicle that got in its way.
They were extracting something—or someone—important.
I knew right then that I wasn't running from an epidemic. I was running from a crime, and the perpetrators were escaping while locking the rest of us in.
The convoy was speeding, and if I didn't move now, I'd be pinned between the advancing military and the hunger spreading on the streets.
——
Author's Note: The cover-up has begun! Elena has the report, but should she trust the university lab to analyze the sample, or go completely underground? Vote 1=Lab 2=Underground. Results decide next episode.