Smoking Dead. S. Bonavida Ponce
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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