I don’t have much time to write. All access points to the Internet have already been deactivated, but I was able to access the internet from the police watchtower, thanks to a secret group of cops that help us. At least they used to. We haven’t heard from them since a long time ago.
A few months ago, some weird-ass videos circulated on the internet about a guy who was literally rotting alive in a bus in Rio de Janeiro, which I must say, is not extremely far to where we live. Some days later, one of the inhabitants of our favela began feeling real sick. He was our local baker, sixty-five years old, everyone liked him. Our favela is a bit far from the urban centers and not very large, because it was technically built in a land that used to belong to the military but was never used. In fact, we are so small and far from other communities that we simply call ours Favela. Naturally, everyone was on par with the news very fast. The nearest hospital is fifty minutes away, and not all of us have cars, so a Kombi driver that lives here offered to take him.
The baker, Pedro, only returned three days later, in the sunset. He had no idea what happened or where the Kombi driver was. Neither of them had picked up their phones when we called the days before. Pedro was visibly confused and mazy, saying non-sensical things. His condition had worsened too. His skin was pale and bloated, flies surrounded him, and his hair was falling out. But the creepiest thing was the metallic collar with green flashing lights implanted on his neck.
Next morning was when we met the first roadblock. There were a few unidentified armored vehicles parked, and masked cops were prohibiting anyone from leaving. We were confused to say the least. Since the bloody 2010 operations, there had been no drug-trafficking in our community. When we tried to argue or convince them to let us leave, since many of us had to go to work, they pointed their guns at us. We could not do much. When we attempted to call the news to expose the situation, we found out our telephone signals had been cut. Something was happening, we knew that. Something really bad.
The following day, we noticed they’d started building a wall and a watchtower in the entrance of the favela, which was also the only way out. This was when we first made contact with a group of cops that said they wanted to help, they started to bring us food and supplies, but they avoided revealing their identities as much as possible. Inside the favela, things were not looking good. Pedro, the baker, was found extremely sick, laying in his own doorstep. His skin was peeling off, dozens of worms and bugs were feasting on his flesh. We tried to take him to get help but the police wouldn’t let us through the roadblocks and wall. One of our denizens, a former nurse called Victoria, examined Pedro. She said his condition wasn’t like anything she’d ever seen. Pedro was supposed to be dead, he had no respiration, no pulse, he wasn’t even blinking anymore. Yet he still talked and moved.
One week later was when the shitshow really began. The wall was ready, and there were always helicopters and snipers in the watchtower monitoring us. One of the rogue cops who were secretly helping us had a conversation with me. He told me it was easier to help before, but now that there was a wall and 24/7 monitoring, supplies were harder and harder to deliver. Two of our allies in the force had been caught trying to get us supplies and vanished after being taken to the watchtower.
But that was not the worst part. Pedro was barely recognizable as human anymore, looking more like a movie monster than anything. Victoria, the former nurse, began to develop symptoms too a couple of days after checking him. She was found lying in the street, being eaten by rats, her flesh bloated and rapidly decaying. Then, we discovered at least ten more of our own had similar symptoms. Inability to smell and taste, cold skin, bloated limbs and bellies, and flies and bugs following them. Also, coincidently or not, all of them were apathetic, only mildly inconvenienced, as if they didn’t care their bodies were literally rotting alive. We did all we could to escape. Tried to find other exits, climb the wall, negotiate, riot, breach the wall… They answered with bullets and tear gas.
It had been three or four months since Pedro went to the hospital and disappeared for days. By this point, he had completely decayed, resulting in a disgusting pool of worms, rats, decomposed and smelly liquids and goo, and a few bones. One could say he was finally dead, but I swear I saw his bones moving once or twice by their own volition. Victoria and some of the others were not as rotten as Pedro yet, but they were far from a pretty sight. The condition had spread quickly. It wasn’t long before all of us were displaying symptoms. At first those were terrifying, but then we started feeling at peace, only kind of annoyed. Even the ones who didn’t go anywhere near Pedro started feeling cold and apathetic. I think it’s somehow transmitted by the air or something. Most of us have no ventilators or air-conditioners, so we leave the windows open during the day. If the infection is airborne, then it would explain how so many of us got infected so quickly.
My shed is located next to the watchtower and wall. Yesterday, I was on my window, observing the street. So many of my friends, neighbors, colleagues, even people I disliked. All of them had lives, families, dreams. And yet they were all rotting right there on the street, apathetic, like they were dead already. I wanted to feel rage, to try and escape this death camp they turned our favela into, to denounce them in the media, the internet… But I just couldn’t care. I felt less and less this inner flame inside my bloated body. But, for a moment, I was brave and listened to my courage, it told me to overcome my apathy, my fear, my limitations. And at this moment I remembered that one of the cops who helped us once left a cellphone here so we could call for help if we knew someone important, before she disappeared too. We didn’t do anything with it. Maybe we thought that if we behaved they would spare us. Maybe we were too scared. Maybe the sickness was making us not care.
I went to where she left her phone. I grabbed it, took it home and charged it. Luckily I had a portable charger with me, because the electricity had been completely cut a few days before. When I accessed the phone, I started writing this, even if my fingers were somewhat rigid and my eyesight was getting worse. But then, I accidentally looked at her open apps. There was a document called OPERATION JURUPARI. Most of it was written in code or something, but it had something that looked like the logo of the Brazilian army and of the federal government. I tried to read it, but I was not able to decipher most of it. The only parts that I cracked said something like: “one hundred electorally unfriendly communities”, “slums, quilombos, indigenous tribes”, “four cases of success already”.
Damn, they just blocked my access to the document. I think they’ve found me. Please, if you are in a situation like ours, react before you’re too apathetic. Before the wall is built. I wish we had.