During the entire time I was trapped, I never imagined that I would get out of there and everything would be safe, with rescue teams entering the school. First because the intermittent screams didn’t allow me to have so much hope, second because I was too focused on my own misfortune. I don’t like to be a nonbeliever, but I’ve never trusted the efficiency of public safety. In addition, I also followed the news while they were allowed to reach us about the first infestations of the virus and everything was the same: although we did not know exactly its nature, none of the infected cities managed to contain it. The disease before we lost contact. I was foolish to think it wouldn’t make it to Latin America, but we all have been this whole time. For these reasons, the nagging thought that my suffering and fear were far from over kept pounding in my head.

But now I felt strangely safe, as if the risks I’d taken all morning had finally come to an end here, outside the library’s second-floor bathroom. Immediately, of course, I realized how stupid that was. I hadn’t even thought about what I would do once I was released from the bathroom. Run in desperation anywhere? Trying to run away from college? Searching for my belongings in order to try to contact my family?

I turned my body towards the corridor that connected the second floor of the library with the classroom building, thinking that maybe the last option was the correct one. Before I could move, a familiar sound made me reflexively clench my fists. I turned my body back, looking for who produced the groan.

A few feet away, two zombies were coming out of the library and heading toward me—and I knew them.

The first thing I noticed was that one of them was fast. Much faster.

The second is that they were more hurt. Unlike those I shared the bathroom with, who had one or two visible bruises, but retained their once-human appearance, these had gray skin covered with veins and severe bruises. One of them – the slowest – had a hole where his right eye should have been. Both had bite marks and blood running down their bodies, looking as if they had been through more savage attacks than the one that ended Sarah’s life. Both were men.

The horror was in the realization that I knew them. More than that, in addition to wearing the same uniform, until a few hours ago we were in the same room, following the same class.

The boy without the eye was a little shorter, a brown boy named André. The other one, taller, was called Augusto and had kissed my best friend at last year’s end-of-semester party.

Unfortunately, that was all I could analyze, as I had to run away. I had no intention of trying to communicate with them, after all it would be useless: all they wanted was to secure a few bites of my flesh and eventually turn me into one of their own.

While the eyeless monster walked with slow, shuffling steps; the second, as soon as we exchanged glances, started a determined race. If it was just your companion, I could have easily fled, but I had to hurry and run as fast as I could towards the corridor that connected the library building with the classroom.

I ran on adrenaline and fear. I played handball since I was 12 years old and represented my school in national games since I was 14, so running was never a problem for me, which certainly helped me to escape as fast as possible to my goal: the glass door. Which indicated the end of the library.

It was wide open, as it always was when the library was open to students. I immediately looked at the lock, where a silver key with a nameplate was hanging.

I glanced back and was sure that if I hadn’t started running ahead, he would have caught up with me. I knew that Augusto was no runner, nor did he play sports, which made me even more intrigued by his speed.

I stopped seconds before I went through the door, making sure to pull the key violently. As I passed, I grabbed the handle, bringing the door with me so it slammed shut. Soon after, a new bang was present as the boy I once called Augusto threw his weight, forcing the door which opened into the library to stay closed. He slammed his bloodied hands against the glass, leaving red marks where he touched them. He also tried to grab the door with such force that I saw one of his teeth buck into an agonizing position. He didn’t seem to feel the pain.

No longer willing to waste time watching him, I stuck the key in the lock and locked the door behind me, just in case.

Not long after, the other boy arrived and joined his fellow zombie in his attempt to scratch and nibble at the door, albeit with a much less energetic attitude. Both had their eyes glazed with hate and hunger on me, but with clearly different behaviors. It was evident that whatever had poisoned them all had also gotten to them, but why were they so different? While Sarah also displayed predatory behavior, André, although deadly, seemed very slow. Little I could remember, but I didn’t believe it was some inherent characteristic of him as a person.

Why did I no longer see any of them as a person?

I realized that in my mind I called them “zombie” and that bothered me. They were hideous and deadly beings, but calling them by such a popular nomenclature made it seem like a dream. Unfortunately I wasn’t dreaming.

I didn’t dream the first time I saw murderous behavior on internet videos. I didn’t dream the moment I saw my best friend being pulled by a group of them and devoured right in front of me. I never once dreamed of being stuck for who-says-how many hours with two of them and a dead body in the bathroom. Even sleeping tonight, I wouldn’t dream either; I know there would only be nightmares.