A young woman with disheveled straight, black hair and smelly, wrinkled clothes was walking the dusty street that leads to the public cemetery. She weakly lifted her eyes at the flat, silver gate of the Citadel Cemetery that stood before her. Her hands shook at the very sight. It was as if she just got into heaven, her excitement was so intense.

As she took one more step, the white-painted guard house beside the gate slid open. A military officer in gray uniform with a scowling face scanned her with his judgy eyes.

“What brings you to the Citadel Cemetery?”

She gazed at him with eyes soft and weak. The way she looked at him betrayed the strength of her courage. Her boldness was because of her preparation for this interrogation. “I just want to visit a relative.”

“Isn’t it already announced years ago? No one’s allowed to enter the cemetery anymore.”

“Have some mercy, will you?” she blurted, slightly dramatic. “Most of us here have lost their loved ones! There are times that we yearn for them, and the only relief we are close to having is when we get to visit them, even if it’s only their grave!”

The officer snuck out the long nose of his gun through the dark-tinted sliding window, and pointed it to her direction. “If I were you, miss, I won’t push it,” he gritted in controlled impatience. “The president has decreed the prohibition of entering the cemetery since we moved here in the Citadel. We are licensed to kill anyone who dares to use force to enter. So, please, get the fuck out of here.”

A few minutes later, Natalia got back to the center of the city. What greeted her upon her return here were the towering buildings and ashy gray buses with Citadel Bus in white paint on them. As she took on the sidewalk, she could not help noticing the changes that went through this city. On the first year of the epidemic zombie virus outbreak, not a single soul could be seen walking around here. Although the survivors were safely rehomed in the condominiums, houses, and apartments inside the Citadel, the fear they carried within their chests had turned them in reclusive people, afraid of stepping out of their new homes because they might encounter zombies. But now, majority of the residents inside Citadel nonchalantly walked the streets and go on with their new lives. They were busy surviving but could finally manage to laugh and smile. Apparently, resilience and optimism was a Filipino’s natural trait. They easily bounce back and just laugh about the tragedies they experienced from their past. Then, life goes on.

Natalia looked up at the buildings again. An enormous billboard did not escape her eyes, it showed a full body photo of a popular fashion model—Cjay Aguirre.

The whole Citadel knows him. Who wouldn’t? Aside from being a fashion model and a celebrity, he is the unico hijo or only son of this country’s president. Her jaws clenched as she stared sharply at the billboard photo of the guy with tons of makeup and concealer on his face. She found his oozing boastfulness so appalling. His pride was made evident by his confident stance—standing with his legs parted and his arms crossed. The photo was taken in an upward angle, emphasizing the pair of blue jeans that Cjay was endorsing. It was also the photo angle’s fault why Natalia noticed that sinful bump of his’ swelling against the crotch area of his jeans.

Cjay’s teasing smirk was the icing on the cake. He captured her annoyance perfectly, an irritation that showed all over face. ‘He really got so much air in his head. He really thinks being a zombie is cool now, huh?’

She lowered her eyes and caught two girls walk past her. There was this mocking look in their eyes, followed by their hysterical laughter when they saw her looking at them. That was when she felt something drip from her lips. Horrified, she felt her chin and realized it was wet with saliva.            Natalia quickly wiped her chin and jaw with her palms before wiping her hands at both sides of her jeans. After recollecting herself, she resumed walking.

***

“SHE is the third this month!” Carlos De Aguirre could not help raising his voice at his son. It was his frustration getting the best of him once more, which only happens when his son, Cjay gets on his nerves.

President Carlos De Aguirre is the current president of the Philippines. Ever since the chaos caused by the epidemic was managed, the president before him was already gone. No one could tell if he was already dead or if he secretly flew off to go hiding in another country. Carlos was a doctor, a neurologist, which most of the residents of Citadel thought was enough reason for them to assign him as their new president.

Carlos was sitting on his swivel chair, behind a polished wooden desk with a varnish the color of a clear maple syrup. The name plate showed his name and ‘Philippine President’ below it. A few white strands streaked on his dark hair. It was still the president’s working hours so, he was still wearing his black slacks and white, long-sleeved barong with a white shirt underneath. He sternly threw a glare at the young man seated on the visitor’s seat across his office desk—Cjay.

Cjay mockingly lifted the corner of his lips into a devilish smile. He slouched on his seat and parted his legs to be more comfortable in his position. “What can I do? She can’t handle me,” he shrugged.

“You’re not intentionally scaring your assistants, aren’t you, Cjay?”

“Why would I do that, Dad?” he chuckled as if in disbelief.

“We both know why,” he seethed.

Cjay’s eyes looked bored. It was just that, this scenario happens monthly it comes to the point of boring and tiring. Every month, he will be called to his father’s office room in Malacañang (the Philippine President’s official office and residence).

“Look, Dad—” Cjay sat straight, “—it is not intentional, okay? If they’re scared of me, that’s their problem.”

“Or maybe, you just want to pursue this fly-solo shit you are insisting on me,” his father retorted.

Cjay could not help laughing. “Dad, I know that lately, I keep saying that I want to be alone. I made it a point for so many times that I don’t need an assistant, but who’s the boss here, right? You’re the boss, Dad! You know what’s the best, right? So who am I to go against you?”

Of course, he was only trying to get on the good side of his father. This was the only way for their argument to be over. He really wanted to get out of this office already, because he could already foresee that this discussion would not get anywhere. At the end of the day, whether he likes it or not, the president would still hire Cjay a new assistant.

Carlos laid his back against the back rest of his seat. His stern expression slowly softened. “You understand our situation, right, Cjay?” He emotionally stared into his eyes. “What if you lose control? Who will help you when I’m not around?”

His stretched a weak smile with his lips so pale and dry they almost looked white. All of a sudden, Cjay was reminded of what he already is—a zombie. His skin was already a mix of pasty and ashy gray out of dryness and slow decay. His hair was still black but had already stopped growing or shedding off.

Cjay lowered his head and listened to his father’s long litany. Yet, at the back of his mind, he was wondering when will he get his point? That he didn’t want to have any assistant because who in their right mind would want to help a zombie like Cjay once he loses control? Once he was taken-over by his hunger for human flesh and began attacking people? Most likely, his assistant might run for their life or kill him when that happens.

“If only your mother is still here, then your father will have a partner when it comes to taking care of you. Someone who cannot just simply resign when the going gets tough because they really care about you,” the president stared sadly into nowhere. “No matter how I try, I just can’t find someone that can take the place of your mother. Aside from my hectic schedule for things more important than my love life, I can’t also imagine myself loving someone else.”

Just as he thought, his father would really find a way to insert his dramatic, tragedy of a love life in this conversation. He held back the urge to roll his eyes by shifting his gaze to the picture frames on top of the drawer behind his father’s swivel chair. One of them held his parent’s wedding picture. Cjay hid the loneliness that that picture brings him deep in his chest. It was just so sad to think that the picture of a happily married couple, almost hugging while smiling at the camera, was nothing more than just a picture . . . a frozen memory good for flashbacks, because he would never see that smile in person ever again—his mother’s smile.

His mother used to be also a doctor. She was one of the first people who responded upon the first signs of the zombie virus spread within the country. And what did she get out of her vigilance?

Death.

Before his grief consumes him, Cjay returned his eyes on Carlos. Looking at his father, he realized that he—and the residents of Citadel—were lucky because the president is a very understanding man. He did not allow his anger or sadness about his mother’s death to distract him from doing things that more urgent than grieving. He helped a lot of people survive the epidemic and that was commendable. Cjay was secretly proud of his father for being that kind of person, that kind of leader. Carlos became too uptight though, but Cjay knew it was reasonable. Cjay believes that his father was being strict because he didn’t to lose more lives, and lead grieving people. Because in this new society, people who grieve could not contribute to the city, to the government—they were a liability. It might sound harsh but, during times like this, pausing to grieve won’t save lives.

“I’ll call my secretary,” Carlos said, breaking the silence. Cjay was assuming that while he was thinking of his parents, his father was silent too because he was reminiscing the times he had spent with his mother while she was still alive. The president picked up his cell phone from the desk. “I’ll tell Maribel to find you a new assistant”

‘Well, fuck.’  “Does this mean, I can’t come out again of this house, unless you get to hire someone?”

The cell phone was already pressed against Carlos’ ears as he sadly smiled at him.            “Yes.” His father’s attention immediately went to the person on the other line. “Hello, Maribel . . . . Yes. I want you to hire a new assistant for Cjay.”