The air over Puebla's floating colony always carried a metallic scent, a mix of rust from the suspended bridges and the burned fuel of the generators.
From above, the Historic Center and the cathedral had been repurposed as the administrative hub of the island.
Narrow streets surrounded it, packed with people exchanging mechanical parts, canned food, and oddities brought from the ruins on the surface.
In a dusty workshop, hidden in a corner of the market, the protagonist adjusted the straps of his combat vest, practicing movements in front of a cracked mirror.
Both eyes showed a weariness unusual for a seventeen-year-old.
Two rusted knives hung from his belt, dulled after several missions to the surface.
He still couldn't afford a decent weapon, but he didn't care. It wasn't the weapon that defined a hunter—or at least, that's what he kept telling himself.
At the back of the workshop, a radio crackled with the day's news. The distorted voice of the announcer reported another zombie alert in the nearby ruins.
B-rank zombies had been spotted on the perimeter of the secondary bridge, right on the border between Puebla and the void.
People had grown used to these warnings, but for him… he still wasn't good enough.
The workshop door burst open. His childhood friend barged in, her smile out of place in the oppressive atmosphere of the room, carrying a supply box.
—Playing hero in front of the mirror again? —she said, dropping the box with a loud thud.
—I'm not playing. —He didn't turn around, fastening the vest one last time—. What's in there?
—Air filters. —She gestured at the box and then crossed her arms—. Your mom asked me to bring them. She says you haven't been home in days.
He muttered something inaudible and refocused on his gear. He had no time for trivialities, nor for family lectures.
Ever since he lost his father in a zombie attack as a child, he had decided he would never rely on anyone again. He only trusted himself.
—You know, real hunters don't lock themselves in a workshop all day. —She leaned toward him, full of concern—. Maybe you should go out, meet other people. Maybe one of those "real hunters" could teach you something.
—I don't need teachers. —His tone was sharp, but his hands tightened the straps of his backpack.
She sighed and dropped onto one of the crates, staring at the ceiling.
—Are you always going to be like this? —she asked, not expecting an answer. She quickly changed the subject, already familiar with the weight of his personality—. Did you hear? The people from Chicago are arriving today. An entire island.
—Chicago?
—Yeah. —Her enthusiasm was obvious—. My dad told me. They fled an imperial attack and now they want to settle here.
—We don't need anyone else.
—That's not up to you.
Outside, the colony's loudspeakers let out a shrill beep, announcing the arrival of a supply convoy.
Both of them knew what that meant: more tasks, more orders, and probably more trouble.
A group of young hunters passed by the workshop, laughing and joking among themselves. One of them, who always led the major expeditions, stopped at the door.
—Hey, dreamer. —The boy called out to him with a condescending tone—. When are you going to step out of the workshop and do something useful?
The protagonist didn't respond.
—Leave him alone, Saúl. —His childhood friend intervened, standing up from the crate—. He can do whatever he wants.
—Sure, sure. —Saúl shrugged, and before leaving, he tossed one last remark—. Though, with what's down there, I doubt he'd last five minutes.
The group walked away laughing, and she looked at the protagonist again, waiting for some kind of reaction. But he simply closed his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
—Where are you going? —she asked.
—To prove him wrong.
She smiled, though there was a hint of concern in her eyes.
—That's what I thought.
Without another word, he left the workshop.
Outside
The morning sun cast its dull glow over the rusted metal that formed the colony's suspended bridges.
That day, something different stood out on the horizon: a titanic shadow moving slowly toward them, darkening part of the buildings, its monumental size becoming evident.
He stopped in the middle of the bridge connecting the central district to the market, standing among a dozen onlookers.
Almost an entire city, far more advanced than Puebla. It was docking beside it.
—It's huge, isn't it? —his childhood friend commented, appearing at his side with a half-smile.
He barely nodded.
It was hard to ignore the deep hum of its propulsion engines.
—Too big, he said, crossing his arms. "That thing didn't come here without a purpose."
"Do you think they're a threat?"
"Everything is."
She glanced at him sideways but didn't respond. Despite years of friendship, she had never fully understood how his mind worked.
The sound of the colony's loudspeakers interrupted her thoughts once again. A formal voice announced the official arrival of the "neighbors from Chicago" and asked all citizens to remain calm and cooperate with the authorities.
"They're giving them a political welcome at the pyramid," she said, pointing toward the horizon, where the peak of San Andrés Cholula rose above the rest of the buildings.
"The school?" he asked.
"Of course. It's the most important place in the colony. I don't know if you remember, but our next class is there," she replied before stepping ahead onto the bridge.
The protagonist sighed and followed her, though his gaze kept drifting back to the floating colossus.
The path to the pyramid was one they knew well, but that day, everything was different. Armed guards patrolled the streets, and the market stalls were closed.
The pyramid of San Andrés Cholula, with its yellow church at the top, was the jewel of the colony.
Now, its esplanade was decorated with flags from Mexico and Chicago—somewhat clumsy, in a way.
Few students paid attention to the decorations; most were focused on the local leaders, who lined up at the main entrance to welcome the emissaries from the new floating island.
The protagonist and his friend stopped at one of the terraces surrounding the pyramid, just far enough to avoid the crowd but close enough to observe what was happening.
"You know what's the worst part?" she said, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"That England has already attacked them." Her tone was graver than usual.
She pulled a small folded piece of paper from her pocket and showed it to him. It was a torn page from an old magazine, with a blurry image of a floating island engulfed in flames. "Chicago Resists English Attack," read the headline.
The protagonist took the page and examined it closely. The words "air raid" and "imperial weaponry" stood out in the text.
"So what?" he asked, handing it back.
"Don't you see? If England attacked them, Spain won't take long to try with us." She tucked the paper away. "If they see a crack in our defense, they'll come for everything."
"They always come for everything."
"My dad says Spain is negotiating with France to divide control of America."
She lowered her voice, as if afraid someone might hear her. "If we don't accept Chicago, they'll accuse us of treason for not helping them. And if we do accept them, we become an even bigger target."
The leaders of Puebla extended their hands to a man in a dark suit, who had to be one of Chicago's representatives. Behind him, a group of young people descended a metal ramp, wearing light armor and carrying weapons.
Among them, one stood out. He was taller than the rest. His eyes briefly met those of the protagonist.
"Who's that?" his friend asked, noticing the exchange of glances.
"I don't know," he replied, but he already had an idea.
At that moment, the church bells rang, marking the start of the ceremony. Everyone's attention shifted to the improvised altar where the leaders of Puebla and Chicago prepared to give their speeches.
The Classroom
The classroom was located at the base of the church crowning the pyramid.
The old, battered wooden benches were arranged in irregular rows inside what must have once been a church meeting hall.
Instead of religious paintings, the walls were adorned with maps of the floating world—some old and faded, others updated with handwritten notes on the ever-expanding imperial dominion.
The protagonist and his childhood friend arrived just in time for the start of the class. The murmurs of the other students, about ten in total, filled the space.
At the back, standing behind an improvised desk, was the teacher—a 25-year-old woman.
Her dark hair was tied back in a tight braid, and she wore a simple uniform that failed to conceal the scar running across her left cheek, a souvenir from a past battle on the surface.
"Take your seats, quickly."
The protagonist slid into a spot in the middle row, while his friend sat beside him. Both placed their backpacks on the floor, taking out only notebooks and pens.
"Do you know what happened this morning?" the teacher asked, leaning on the desk with crossed arms. Her tone suggested she already knew the answer but was waiting for someone to speak.
A boy in the front timidly raised his hand.
"Chicago's island arrived," he said.
"Correct," the teacher nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the students. "And do you know why that's important?"
The room fell silent. Some stared at their notebooks, pretending to concentrate, while others avoided her eyes. But the protagonist's friend broke the tension.
"Because the empires are watching us."
"Exactly." She slowly walked toward the largest map on the wall, where the main floating islands of the American continent were marked. "Listen carefully, because what I'm about to tell you isn't something you'll read in the official reports."
"Puebla," the teacher said, pointing to the small mark on the map representing their island, "isn't just another floating colony. It's a strategic point—the last bastion separating Latin America from the greed of the European empires. England, France, Spain, and Portugal have been advancing their imperial race for years. And don't think they're doing it just for political ambition."
—Then why do they do it? —the protagonist asked, breaking his usual silence.
—Because they control something we don't control: noctur.
She walked back to the desk, grabbed a piece of chalk, and wrote two words on the board: Zombies and Technology.
—What do you see here? —she asked, turning to them.
—Zombies and technology —another student replied.
—Exactly. Two things that will define the future of the floating world. The empires don't just use zombies as biological weapons to weaken the islands they want to conquer. They also control the technological advancements that could allow us to fight back. And that includes something you all saw this morning: Chicago.
The mention of the new floating island had completely captured the students' attention.
—Do you think Chicago is a threat? —the protagonist's friend asked.
The teacher sighed.
—I don't know. But I do know this: their arrival puts Puebla in a delicate position.
—And Spain? —his friend spoke up again—. Will they be the first to attack?
The teacher smiled bitterly.
—Spain has always preferred to act from the shadows. They may not send troops directly, but I assure you they already have infiltrators in several Mexican islands. They're waiting for the right moment to divide us.
The empires weren't just distant entities. They were here.
—So, what do we do?
—That's what I want you to figure out. —She paused and pointed at the map again—. You are the future of this colony. Your generation will decide whether Puebla remains free or becomes just another piece on the imperial chessboard.
"All right, let's get to work, kids. The first activity of the day…"
The students were engaged in an activity she had improvised: mapping out possible routes to protect Puebla's bridges in case of an attack. It was a mechanical task, but it kept them busy and, more importantly, distracted them from their own worries.
—This is bullshit. —the teacher said.
—What is? —asked Verónica, the childhood friend.
—That you guys are… my students.
There was a moment of confusion in the room. Some students glanced at each other, wondering if that was an insult. Verónica tilted her head.
—And what's wrong with that?
The teacher sighed and ran a hand over her braid.
—You are my responsibility. Every single one of you. —She paused for a moment, looking at each student before fixing her gaze on Gabi—. And it terrifies me to think that if I make a mistake, none of you will have a future.
It wasn't common for adults in Puebla to show weakness, especially in front of the younger ones.
Gabi noticed how Verónica's expression softened, as if she wanted to say something to comfort the teacher, but the woman had already shifted her focus.
—Keep working.
A few minutes later, the activity was over, and the students broke into small groups to chat while they waited for the next instruction.
Gabi sat in his seat, sharpening the edge of an old knife with a small whetstone he always carried. Verónica, as usual, scooted closer.
—Why are you always so obsessed with those things? —she asked, pointing at the knife.
—Because I need a better one. —Gabi didn't even look up as he answered—. This one is useless now.
Verónica scoffed, placing her hands on the desk.
—And what are you going to do? Spend all your money on another rusty knife?
—Probably. —His tone was so neutral, it sounded like a joke, but they both knew it wasn't.
Resting her elbow on the desk, she grinned.
—Well, I have other priorities. —She flashed a wide smile, though he barely noticed—. I need new clothes.
For the first time, Gabi gave her more attention than usual.
—Why?
—Seriously? —she laughed a little—. Because my bust grew, Gabi. My clothes don't fit anymore.
He blinked, unsure how to respond. Then he simply squinted and returned his focus to his knife.
—It's not important.
—Of course it is! —Verónica insisted, laughing again—. You never care about anything that isn't sharpening knives or talking about zombies.
—Because everything else is useless.
Verónica clicked her tongue and gave him a small shove on the arm, just strong enough to make him stop.
—You know what would be good for us? Getting out of this hole.
—Go where? —he asked, though his tone suggested he wasn't really interested in the answer.
—To the shops in Chicago. —She said it as if it were the most obvious idea in the world—. If you're going to spend your money, at least do it on something decent. I'm sure they have knives that aren't about to break.
—I don't need knives from Chicago.
—Well, I do need clothes from Chicago. —She stood up, stretching. Then she looked at Gabi with that look she always used when she wanted to convince him of something—. Let's go. Tomorrow, after class.
Gabi shook her head, but didn't say anything. She knew that, one way or another, she would end up getting her way.
"Besides," Veronica added, with a mischievous smile, "you could teach those kids what it's like to be the best zombie hunter in Puebla."