Title: The Salesman
Author: Kassfinol
All rights reserved
Genre: Post-apocalyptic – Moral horror
The vial clinked against fifteen others as Viktor put it in the backpack. Amber liquid, handmade label: ANTI-Z SERUM. It looked legitimate as long as you didn’t look at it too closely. If you didn’t know the amber came from baking food coloring and that the patented formula was energy drink with stolen codeine.
“What do you want in exchange?” —asked the woman in front of him. She was thin as a broomstick, with purple dark circles that looked like bruises. Her nails were broken and dirty, probably from digging graves or fortifying barricades. Behind her, a boy of maybe seven clung to her leg. The boy had scabs around his mouth and an empty look.
Viktor leaned back in his folding chair, the same one he carried from settlement to settlement. He adjusted his glasses, the ones he’d found in a looted optician’s shop and that, truth be told, he didn’t even need; he only wore them because he felt they gave him a professional air. He scratched his three-day beard.
“I’m hungry” —he finally said—. “Three cans of whatever. Or a chicken if you have one. I also need gasoline, one liter.”
“I only have two cans of beans and half a bottle of gasoline.” —The woman bit her lower lip. She had a badly sewn scar crossing her cheek; it was the kind of wound that gets infected, but you survive it anyway because there’s no alternative—. “That’s all I have.”
Viktor pretended to think about it, letting the silence stretch. The boy coughed. It wasn’t the dry cough of the infected, just hunger and untreated pneumonia, but the mother tensed as if an alarm had sounded. She put her hand on the knife she carried on her belt.
“All right.” —Viktor sighed theatrically—. “The two cans and the half bottle. But don’t tell anyone or they’ll all come wanting me to give them a discount.”
The woman almost cried as she took the dented cans out of her tattered backpack. Viktor handed her the vial. She held it with both hands, trembling.
“When does it take effect?”
“Immediately. One dose and if they bite you, your body is already prepared. It adapted.” —Viktor was already putting the cans away, getting ready to leave—. “But hey, avoid getting bitten on the jugular or any important vein; it’s not like you’re completely immune; this won’t keep you from bleeding out; it’s not magic.”
Lie upon lie. So easy it was almost funny.
The settlement was small, twelve or thirteen families crammed into what had been a community center. The windows were boarded up with rotten wood that smelled of mold and urine. In the corners there were piles of garbage nobody bothered to take out because outside was worse; it wasn’t safe. Viktor had arrived that morning, crossing a field where the bodies of three infected rotted under the sun, their swollen bellies bursting with gas, white maggots writhing in the empty eye sockets.
He’d already sold eight doses. Four or five more people and he could leave before nightfall. He’d learned not to stay too long anywhere. The questions eventually came, and questions were bad for business.
He was packing his chair when he heard the engines.
Three pickup trucks. Peeling military paint, bumpers reinforced with welded metal bars and barbed wire. On the hood of one there was a deer skull tied with chains. Viktor felt something cold run down his back. He knew those vehicles. Everyone who traveled the area knew them.
The Lancers. Militiamen who called themselves “The Restoration Forces.” In reality, they were a gang with big guns and delusions of grandeur.
“Shit” —Viktor whispered. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.
Eight men got out. They were armed to the teeth, with that air of someone who has slept little and killed a lot. They smelled of stale sweat and dried blood. One had his boots stained with something dark and viscous. The one who seemed to be in charge was a huge guy, almost two meters, with shoulders like construction beams. He had a scar crossing from his forehead to his jaw, passing through an eye that looked milky and dead. He carried a rifle slung over his shoulder as if it were part of his body. He spat on the ground, a yellowish phlegm that stayed there shining.
“Who’s the pharmacist?” —he shouted. His voice was like gravel being crushed.
Viktor felt all eyes piercing into him. His mouth went dry. The metallic taste of fear filled his tongue.
“That’s the guy” —said an old woman who hadn’t bought anything because she had nothing to pay with. Revenge was free, Viktor supposed.
The scarred man walked toward him. His boots crunched the gravel mixed with broken glass. With each step, Viktor could see the details better: dried blood under his nails, a gold tooth, a dark stain on his shirt collar that was probably someone’s brain.
“Do you sell the serum?” —he looked him up and down with contempt— “I got word you have a serum that protects us from zombies.”
Viktor nodded. His saliva tasted of copper and bile.
“Tell me your name.”
“Vik-tor.” —he stammered, took a breath and let it out quickly— “Viktor Sokolov.” —His voice came out weaker than he’d have liked.
“I’m Commander Reyes.” —He stopped half a meter away. A gust of wind hit Viktor’s face, and he perceived the smell of sweat, gunpowder, and something sweetish that could be decomposed meat—. “We have a problem, Viktor. My men are dying. The fucking dead have us cornered at every exit we try. We lost twelve last month. We need your serum.”
Viktor calculated quickly, his fingers trembling against the backpack strap. He could refuse, but those guys didn’t take no for an answer. He could sell them what he had, fifteen vials at most, but…
“How much do you need?”
Reyes smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. He was missing two teeth, and the ones he had were yellow.
“Everything you can make. I have seventy-nine men. And I’m going to need you making constant doses.”
Viktor’s stomach twisted. Seventy-nine men. If something went wrong…
“That’s… a lot of product. The raw materials are hard to get, I…”
“We have a whole warehouse of medicines. We looted a hospital two months ago.” —Reyes leaned forward. Viktor could see his own distorted reflection in that dead eye—. “We also have ammunition. And I don’t like to negotiate, Sokolov. Either you come with us and produce for my Lancers, or I leave you here with a hole in your head. What do you prefer?”
The Lancers’ compound had been a military base before the collapse. Now it was a maze of rusted metal containers, barricades made with crushed cars, and improvised watchtowers. The outer walls were decorated with infected heads nailed to pikes, their jaws still snapping weakly, black flies buzzing in dense clouds around the rotten eyes. The smell was unbearable: burnt flesh, shit, sweat, and something chemical that made your eyes burn.
Seventy-nine armed men. Viktor saw them training in the yard, a concrete space stained with old blood nobody bothered to clean. They cleaned weapons, stood guard, fought each other for fun. One had his face covered in recent scabs. Another limped, dragging a leg that was clearly infected, but not from a bite, just common gangrene. They all looked at him when Reyes led him inside, with that expression of hungry animals sizing up fresh meat.
They gave him a room that had been an office. There was a cot with a mattress stained with something brown he preferred not to identify, a rusted metal table, and nothing else. The only window was blocked with bricks. The door had a padlock on the outside. In one corner there was a plastic bucket. Viktor didn’t ask what it was for. He already knew.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you the warehouse” —Reyes said from the doorway—. “I want the first eighty doses soon.”
“How much time do I have?”
“As much as I decide.” —The door closed. The padlock clicked.
Viktor sat on the cot. The mattress creaked, and something moved inside it, probably cockroaches. He covered his face with his hands. Caffeine and codeine produced energy, killed pain, made people feel invincible for a few hours. But seventy-nine men taking it regularly… a codeine overdose caused liver damage. Tachycardia. Convulsions. Death.
And he had no way to dose it correctly; he’d never really been a chemist, just an opportunist with enough smooth talk to seem credible.
He was going to kill them. Slowly.
And if he confessed, Reyes would blow his head off without thinking twice.
The next morning, Reyes kept his word. The warehouse was huge, a cargo container full of boxes of looted medicines. Viktor saw antibiotics, painkillers, sedatives. Enough to set up a real pharmacy. The place smelled of chemicals and damp. In one corner there were dead rats, their rigid bodies covered in white fungi.
Reyes was leaning against a pile of boxes, smoking a handmade cigarette. The smoke mixed with his breath and came out in gray clouds.
“I see you’re thinking a lot” —he said. He blew the smoke out through his nose—. “Any problem?”
“No, none.” —Viktor grabbed a box of acetaminophen, his hands leaving sweat marks on the dusty cardboard—. “I’m just calculating the proportions.”
“Good.” —Reyes threw the ash on the floor—. “Because I have a lieutenant, Márquez, who’s convinced you’re a fraud. He says nobody can make a real anti-bite serum without a real lab.”
Viktor’s heart jumped. He felt his pulse in his temples.
“There are always skeptics.”
“I told him to shut his mouth.” —Reyes threw the cigarette down and crushed it with his boot. The ember crackled against the wet concrete—. “But if it turns out he’s right, Sokolov, you’re going to wish the dead had eaten you first. Do you understand me? I’m going to tear your fingers off one by one. I’ll start with the pinkies.”
Viktor swallowed. The taste of fear was stronger now.
Three days passed. Viktor made the doses at a work table they’d given him, a metal surface stained with old blood that had never been cleaned properly. He mixed caffeine from crushed pills with liquid codeine and food coloring. Eighty vials. They looked exactly like always. But now he put in double the codeine. He needed it to act faster than normal, so they’d believe something was working.
The problem was that now he was watching them take the serum.
Reyes organized a ceremony. All the Lancers gathered in the yard, formed in military rows between puddles of stagnant water that smelled of rust and urine. There was a dead dog in one corner, its body swollen and covered in flies. Viktor had to stand in front, like a damn priest blessing his parishioners. The sun hit him directly in the face. Sweat ran down his back, soaking his shirt.
“This man” —Reyes said in a loud voice, lifting one of the vials—, “is going to keep us alive. His serum prepares the body to withstand a bite. To adapt. It’s the difference between dying like dogs or surviving until we take this country back.”
The men applauded. Viktor saw their faces. Some young, barely twenty years old, with acne and lost looks. Some veterans, with scars on their arms and that expression of someone who has seen too much. All desperate to believe in something. One scratched his arm constantly, leaving red marks. Another had his shirt stained with fresh blood that wasn’t his.
One by one they approached. Viktor handed them the vials and watched them drink.
“It tastes weird” —said one, a fat guy with his beard full of crumbs—. “Like syrup.”
“It’s medicine, not liquor” —Viktor answered. His voice sounded firmer than he felt—. “The taste means it’s working.”
“When will we know?” —asked another, younger, with very wide eyes—. “When will we know we’re protected?”
“In a few days you’ll feel the change. You’ll feel stronger and more resistant.” —Viktor wiped his hands on his pants—. “Trust the process.”
On the fourth day, the symptoms began.
A soldier named Ruiz vomited during breakfast. He was sitting at a picnic table when he suddenly stood up, ran to one side, and threw up everything. The vomit was yellowish, with blood. He fell to his knees, panting, with threads of saliva hanging from his mouth. The others moved away, looking at him with disgust and fear.
Another, Contreras, a skinny guy with tattoos on his neck, had such a severe panic attack they had to tie him up. He shouted that there were infected inside, that he could hear them in the walls. He banged his head against the floor until blood came out of his nose. His eyes were completely dilated, the black pupils swallowing the whole iris.
Three more developed uncontrollable tremors in their hands. One tried to clean his rifle and almost blew off a leg. Another couldn’t hold a cup without spilling all its contents.
Reyes stormed furiously into Viktor’s room. He didn’t knock on the door; he simply kicked it. The metal hit the wall with a crash that echoed.
“What the fuck did you give my men?”
“It’s… it’s normal.” —Viktor backed up until his back hit the cold wall. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture—. “The serum has side effects. The body is adapting to resist the infection. It’s painful, but that’s how change is.”
“Adapting?” —Reyes grabbed him by the shirt collar, lifting him until the tips of his toes barely touched the floor. His breath smelled of rotten meat—. “I have men who can’t hold a weapon because their fucking hands shake. I have Contreras tied up like an animal.”
“It’ll pass.” —Viktor could barely breathe. Reyes’s hand was like a vise—. “In a few days they’ll be better than ever, I promise you. Faster, stronger. The body is rebuilding itself inside.”
Reyes let go of him with a shove. Viktor fell to the floor, coughing.
“It better.”
But it didn’t pass. On the sixth day, Contreras had a seizure so strong he bit his tongue almost completely off. Blood poured out of his mouth, soaking his shirt, dripping to the floor in dark puddles. He made muffled sounds, his eyes white. Márquez had to put a stick between his teeth so he wouldn’t choke on his own tongue. The tongue hung from his mouth, almost cut off, connected only by a thread of flesh.
Ruiz developed severe jaundice. His skin took on a sickly yellowish tone, like old wax. His eyes were the color of urine. He staggered when he walked, bumping into walls. He vomited constantly, a green liquid that smelled of concentrated bile and something else, something rotten and sweetish. He scratched his skin until it bled, leaving red marks on his arms. He said it itched from inside.
Márquez, the skeptical lieutenant, appeared at Viktor’s room door. He was thin but wiry, with muscles like steel cables. He had eyes that didn’t blink enough and a square jaw constantly clenched. He cleaned his nails with a knife while he talked.
“I know what you are” —he said. The knife tip scraped the dirt from under his nails—. “A fraud.”
Viktor didn’t answer. He kept his gaze down.
“I’ve seen your supposed serum” —he made air quotes with his hands—. “I tried it.” —Márquez spat to one side. The saliva landed near Viktor’s shoe—. “How long do you think you’ll last when they start dying?”
“They’re not going to die. They’re changing.”
“Fucking liar.” —Márquez stopped cleaning his nails and pointed the knife at Viktor—. “But you know what’s funny? That Reyes won’t believe me until it’s too late. And by then, I’ll be waiting to open your stomach and pull your intestines out while you’re still alive. I’ll make you eat your own liver.”
Viktor felt hot urine running down his leg.
On the thirteenth day, Ruiz died.
His body simply gave out while he slept. They found him in the morning, stiff on his cot, with skin yellow like old paper and eyes open, fixed on nothing. His mouth was twisted in a horrible grimace. He’d vomited blood during the night and choked on it. The pillow was soaked in a thick black liquid that smelled of decomposition. At least the dead didn’t turn into zombies.
Reyes gathered everyone in the yard. Ruiz’s body was covered with a stained tarp. Viktor stood to one side, with two guards flanking him. One of them pushed him with the rifle barrel every time he tried to move. The sun beat down relentlessly, and the flies buzzed around the body, slipping under the tarp.
“Sokolov says this is part of the process” —Reyes said. His voice was dangerously calm, almost a whisper—. “That some bodies can’t handle the adaptation; this is something normal.”
Viktor felt seventy-eight pairs of eyes on him. Some incredulous. Others furious. One spat in his direction.
Márquez stepped forward. He cracked his knuckles, a dry sound that cut the air.
“Commander, with all due respect, this is a lie. There’s no adaptation. That serum is good for nothing. He’s killing us slowly.”
“Do you have proof?” —Reyes asked.
“I have common sense.” —Márquez pointed at Viktor—. “This son of a bitch is poisoning us. Look at Contreras; he’s worse than ever. Look at the others, all trembling, vomiting. Does that look like adaptation to you?”
A murmur ran through the rows. Viktor saw hands moving toward weapons. One took out a knife. Another frowned at him with a nasty look.
“I…” —Viktor swallowed, knowing he had only two options. Confess and die fast, or keep lying—. “The serum works. Ruiz had a preexisting condition. His liver was already damaged before taking the serum. But look at the others.” —he spread his hand toward the others— “They’re stronger. The tremors are because their muscles are rebuilding. The vomit is because the body is expelling the old toxins to make room for the new chemistry. It’s just science.”
“Enough!” —Márquez took out his pistol and aimed it directly at Viktor’s head—. “Stop lying, you fucking coward.”
Reyes raised a hand. He scratched the scar on his face, an almost absent gesture.
“Lower the weapon, Lieutenant.”
“Commander…”
“I said lower the weapon!”
Márquez obeyed, but his eyes stayed fixed on Viktor, full of promises of violence. He clenched his jaw so hard the muscles in his neck stuck out like ropes.
Reyes walked toward Viktor. His boots crushed flies with each step, leaving black stains on the concrete. His expression was unreadable.
“Give me one reason not to let him kill you right now.”
Viktor breathed deeply. In his head, he calculated. If he confessed, he’d die. If he lied, he’d die. But if he lied well… he’d have a chance.
“I need to strengthen the dose.” —He pointed toward the warehouse with a trembling hand—. “I see what’s happening. Some bodies resist better than others. The weak ones like Ruiz can’t take it. But I can make a stronger version that speeds up the process. A dose that finishes the adaptation once and for all. Those who survive will be completely protected… but they won’t have to go through the slow process.”
It was such a big lie he could almost feel its weight. But it was the perfect lie.
Reyes studied him for long seconds. Viktor kept eye contact, although he felt his legs were going to give out at any moment. Sweat ran down his forehead, dripping into his eyes, making them burn.
“You have three days” —Reyes finally said—. “But the next one who dies, you die with him. And it won’t be quick. I’ll leave you with Márquez first.”
Viktor worked for two days without sleeping. In his mind there was no longer room for fear, only for the plan. He’d crossed a line. It was no longer about getting out alive. It was about getting out alive while everyone else died.
He prepared seventy-eight new doses. This time there was no subtlety. Pure codeine mixed with phenobarbital he’d found in the warehouse. Enough to stop the heart in less than an hour. He added more food coloring, more sugar, so it would taste better. So they’d swallow it eagerly.
On the third day, Reyes organized another ceremony; this time the atmosphere was different because the men were nervous. Contreras was still tied up in his room, moaning. Three others were in beds, trembling, sweating. But Reyes was convincing. He told them this was the final test. That after this dose, they’d be complete.
Viktor distributed the vials. He watched each man drink. Some hesitated. Márquez stared at him, without drinking. Viktor felt panic rising in his throat.
“Why aren’t you drinking, Lieutenant?” —Reyes asked.
“Because I don’t trust this son of a bitch” —Márquez said. But Reyes put a hand on his shoulder.
“If you don’t drink, you’re out of the Lancers. And if you’re out, you’re a civilian. And civilians don’t survive out there.”
Márquez squeezed the vial with evident annoyance. Finally, he brought it to his lips and drank. Viktor felt a sick relief.
Forty minutes passed.
The first to fall was one of the young ones. He simply collapsed, clutching his chest. He started convulsing on the floor, foam coming out of his mouth. His eyes turned completely red, the blood vessels bursting; blood sprang from his ears.
“What the fuck…?” —Reyes started to say, but then he fell too. His massive body hit the floor like a felled tree.
Chaos erupted.
The men started falling one after another. Some screamed, clutching their stomachs, vomiting blood. Others simply collapsed, dead before touching the floor. Contreras in his room started screaming louder, and then simply stopped screaming.
Márquez was on his knees, looking at his hands. They trembled violently. He raised his eyes toward Viktor. His eyes were bloodshot.
“You…” —he spat blood—. “I knew that…” —He couldn’t finish. He fell face-first onto the concrete. His body shook twice and went completely still.
Viktor didn’t wait to see more. He ran.
He ran over convulsing bodies. His shoes slipped in puddles of blood and vomit; when he reached the fence, he climbed as best he could, feeling the metal cut his hands. From there he could hear the screams, fewer and fewer, until only silence remained.
He ran down the dirt road, without looking back. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs begged for mercy. When he finally stopped, he was miles away. He leaned against a tree, panting, trying to breathe to steady himself.
In his backpack he still had several vials of the original serum. The harmless one, the one that only gave caffeine and hope.
He sat there, looking at them. His hands were stained with blood from the fence cuts. Or maybe not only from that.
He thought about Ruiz. About Contreras. About the seventy-nine men he’d killed. About Márquez looking at him while he died, knowing the truth too late.
Viktor took the vials out one by one. He put them in a row on the ground.
He could destroy them and end this.
But to the west he’d heard there was another settlement. A place where nobody knew his name yet. A place where he knew people were desperate to believe in something that would give them a little peace and confidence.
Desperation always pays well —he thought.
Viktor carefully picked up the vials and put them back in the backpack. He stood up, wiped the blood off his pants, and started walking west.
Behind him, the flies were already finding the feast he’d left behind.
The End
Cowardly people always think of themselves first.