by Dan Alatorre
“Depends.” Dr. Carerra stepped into the doorway between the two rooms. “When was your last one?” Leaning on the door frame, one of her hands dangled at her side while the other rested on her hip.
“Dominique,” he whispered, rushing to her. He pulled her close and buried his face into her shoulder, his hands sliding along her back. The long, dark curls of her hair brushed past his face. “Oh, I’ve missed you,” he said.
She slid her hands inside his shirt, wrapping them around him, squeezing him as if she never wanted to let go. A soft moan escaped her lips.
Leaning back, he took her face in his hands and crushed his mouth to hers, devouring her warm, full lips. He kissed her again and again, tears coming to his eyes. Pressing his cheek to her face, he rocked back and forth in the doorway, his hot breath rushing over her neck. “You left New York without saying goodbye.”
She stroked the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair. “I had to maintain appearances in front of the others. I’ve missed you, my love. I can’t stand being away from you.” She closed her eyes and kissed the back of his neck. “Especially not now. Maya said you were having mood swings. Anger and rage.”
“I’m handling it.” He drew a deep sigh, pulling away from her. “And the work is almost done. Soon—”
“Okay. Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips, shaking her head. Her voice fell to a soft whisper. “Not now. Let’s talk of other things. There’s plenty of time to discuss all that later.”
“I wish you were right.” He stepped away to face the window. The Bali skyline glimmered in the afternoon heat. “Doing . . . this, these things—” he turned to her. “It’s not how I envisioned spending my last remaining days.”
She closed her eyes, leaning her head back. A tear ran down her cheek. “I . . .” she sniffled, staring at the ceiling. “I wish I could do more for you.”
“Don’t say that. You did what you could. Everyone has. The latest version of the meds have made me feel better than I’ve felt in months. That can’t be a bad thing.”
“No.” She shook her head, mascara streaming over her cheeks. “It’s not.”
“Be strong.” He went to her, taking her in his arms. “We need you strong, this team we’ve assembled. And later . . . I mean, after . . .” He gazed into her eyes. “Our boys will need you to be strong. You’ll be all they have left soon.”
“But one in five survive. We have to think about that. You could—”
“Don’t believe the stats from the cretins that created this nightmare. Don’t pin your hopes on a lie.”
“The numbers . . .”
“Numbers don’t bleed.” He walked to the window, leaning on the frame. “They don’t cough all night until their ribs ache and their throats are on fire. They don’t vomit blood and pass out in the shower from the hammering pain of a migraine. They don’t cry as child after child parades by in a nonstop blur of hospital visits that only end at the morgue. Numbers . . .” he shrugged. “They give the wrong people false hope. And any numbers from Angelus are lies.”
She crossed the room to him, stroking his back. “You said you were feeling better.”
“It takes bigger and bigger doses and more each time.” He lowered his head. “That’s the fine print. Three injections a day become six, become nine. Pretty soon I’ll be shooting up every fifteen minutes just to stay awake.”
Wrapping her arms around his naked torso, she pressed her cheek to the warm skin of his shoulder. “They’re working on the longevity.”
“I’m working on longevity, too. It’s all I have left. That, and you—and a little more work. Then I can go. I’ll know I did what I could, regardless of the personal costs.”
She lifted her chin to rest on his shoulder. He leaned his head against hers, both of them staring out the window. A gentle breeze swept across the landscape, making the palm trees dance and sway. “Do you remember how we used to be?” she asked. “Before we started our life together? When we first met?”
“I think about it all the time.” He put his hand on hers. “The pretty young intern who got invited into the big prospectus meeting.”
“I was there to take notes. Not even notes—I was the backup to the note taker.”
“I remember blue eyes and long dark hair. A pink glow on tan cheeks, from a weekend at the beach. And a smile that lit up the room.”
“I remember a tall, confident hedge fund manager, holding court over all the big, powerful people at the company. And they all listened. You owned the room.”
“You wore a green silk blouse.” The tip of his finger traced the curves of her French nails. “Green, with little white flowers on the bottom of it. I barely made it through my presentation.” He turned to face her, chuckling as he leaned back against the window frame. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. Then or now. You showed me how to love again. After I lost Megan, I never thought I’d care for another woman that way, or want a family. You gave all that back to me.”
She rested her head on his smooth, firm chest. “I still have that blouse. I take it out of the box in the hall closet sometimes and daydream about how things used to be.”
“Tell me.”
“I think about things I wish I’d done differently. Like not getting Sadie the job at Angelus, or not even going to med school. Not saying yes to Keenan when he proposed after high school. Lots of what ifs.”
He pulled his head back so he could see her face. “I think sometimes if we took out the bad things in life, it might take away the good things that came after. Our paths led each of us to the other. For better or for worse.”
“Mostly better.” She snuggled against him. “Hug me.”
He put his cheek to her hair, closing his eyes and pulling her closer.
“Tighter,” she whispered. “One day soon, I might not be able to do this, and I want to remember.”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Remember me how I was before this started, not who I’ve become. The me from a few years ago.”
“I’ll take you now and then, and with mood swings and ‘roid rage, with any negative side effects and any other changes.” She sniffled, looking into his eyes. “I’ll stand by you, as you take vengeance on people who did unspeakable things to you and others, and I’ll keep working night and day to find a cure.” Tears welled in her eyes again. She swallowed hard. “I’ll take any of it over a long, slow, irreversible, slide toward death—but only if you will, too. If you’ll fight with me—for you.”
He lowered his chin, easing his forehead to rest against hers. “The drugs may keep me on my feet, but I fight every day because you give me the strength.”
* * * * *
DeShear stared at the wall of bamboo trees. The wind crashed their tall, thin trunks together, sending knocking sounds down to earth, like musical sticks or hollow blocks hidden somewhere high up in the long green leaves.
But through the noise of the wind and the trees, the distant sound of children reached his ears.
He caught glimpses as he walked. Running, laughing, singing, sitting, the sun shining bright on their t-shirts. There were hundreds, maybe more. Bits of color flashed through the foliage. Red, white, green, blue—clothing of every color, every shape, every size; some faded, some new—all adorning the mobs of children in the big field.
To his left, the road cut a hole through the barrier trees. He walked to it, his eyes on the distant children. It was a pleasant sound, a soothing one—and a nice difference from the undertone of the rest of the campus.
A cluster of girls made a circle and danced. Another group played jump rope. Beyond them, soccer and ring toss. Tumblers and jumpers and mad-dashers playing tag, he stared in disbelief at the throngs of children at play.
It had been many years since he’d paid attention to that sound, or cared to remember it, and it warmed him inside. “This must be the orphanage, or the school,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “Or both.”
Lanaya stood next to him, h
er jaw hanging open. “There are so many.”
“Halo.”
DeShear turned to see a wrinkled old woman approaching from the blue buildings. The tanker was parked next to the building behind her. She waved at DeShear, donning a dark colored head scarf and a semi-toothless grin. “Halo, teman-teman saya.”
“I’m sorry,” DeShear said. “I’m new to speaking Indonesian. I speak very little.” He put a finger to his chest. “Saya . . . tidak berbicara.”
“Ah.” She held her arms out at her sides as she walked, her long, dark dress frayed at the hem. “Parlez-vous français?”
He shrugged. “Sorry. American.”
The old woman took his hand, patting it. She looked up at him with brown eyes that were fading to a milky white, gently pulling him toward the playground. “Come. You can see.” She pulled again, and he followed. “Come.”
Her steps were short and hobbled, but she moved quickly. She swept her free hand outward at the field full of children. “Indah. Beautiful, yes?”
Still holding the old woman’s hand, DeShear nodded. “Where did they all come from?”
Lanaya walked behind them, saying nothing.
The field was even bigger than he’d thought. Easily a few hundred yards away still, it spanned close to a half mile in each direction, a strange, green playground chopped out of the jungle. A thick line of bamboo bordered it on all sides.
It’s not a fence. Where would they go—and why would they leave? It’s a visual barrier. This area isn’t meant to be seen from the ground.
DeShear’s host stopped but still held his hand. She smiled as she viewed the children. “Semua ciptaan alam itu indah.”
He caught “beautiful” again, but that was all. “Do you work in the school, ma’am?”
“I am saudara,” the old woman said. “Sister.”
“Sister? Like a nun?”
She pulled him along, walking along the bamboo wall. “Come. You can see.”
“Where is the orphanage?” DeShear said. “The buildings for the school? This way?”
The old woman hobbled over the grass. “Come.”
DeShear followed, towed at a quick pace by his elderly host, nearing the hundreds of children. It was as if an entire grade school had been released at one time. Kids of all ages were scattered everywhere. He passed by a tall metal pole with speakers on top.
That must be how they call them in from recess.
As he got closer, the groups were easier to see. Not all of the children played. Many sat watching, or sat on the sidelines not watching, as others played.
Lanaya stayed on the road as DeShear dropped the sister’s hand and walked toward the children. Clad in the cleanroom suit from head to toe, his taller white frame stood out in sharp contrast against the green of the field.
An errant kick launched a soccer ball in his direction. A small, barefoot boy galloped after it, running in a lopsided way. “Bola, bola.”
The ball rolled close to DeShear. He walked forward to retrieve it, but the boy was faster.
“Bola.” Panting, the child called after the ball, plodding along with his hands outstretched. “Bola.”
DeShear’s stomach lurched at the sight of the child. The boy had the same jaundiced color as the guards at the gate. The same half-open jaw. He was shoeless, with messy hair, and his dirty clothes fit poorly and had holes in them. His curved spine forced his right side down onto his hip. He didn’t run lopsided because he had no shoes; he ran that way because that was the only way he could run. His head was too large for his body, giving the appearance at a distance of being younger than he was. The face of the child was thirteen, maybe older; the body, maybe five or six.
The boy picked up the ball and ran back to the game, moving in his unbalanced lope. “Bola . . . bola.”
A sick feeling rising in his gut, DeShear inched closer to the hordes of children.
The sickly look was present on many faces. Some were missing legs or arms. Boys playing soccer without shirts displayed massive surgery scars on their backs. Children with shirts had blood stains seeping through around rectangular bandages.
He stumbled forward, his heart in his throat, taking it in, unable to stop himself from seeing what the field presented.
A girl with no arms smiled at him, her dress a tattered rag. Next to her, another girl sat on the ground, her eye sockets shriveled and empty.
“What’s happened?” DeShear said, his voice trembling. “What’s happened to all of you?”
The girl with no eyes turned her face to him. Her words flowed slowly from her hanging jaw. “Apakah kamu punya permen?”
“What?” DeShear swallowed hard, his voice breaking. With tears welling in his eyes, he took a step toward her and extended his hand.
“Permen?” Another girl echoed. “Permen.”
The children swarmed in on him, hands out, clamoring at his cleanroom suit. “Permen?”
DeShear’s jaw hung open, his breath coming in short gasps. They were all deformed in different ways. Misshapen heads, missing teeth, missing limbs. Some sat on the grass, staring off at nothing. Others limped forward, fresh bandages on their backs or abdomens.
He didn’t want to breathe. He didn’t want to see. But it was everywhere, all around him. Every child he saw had a different malady.
They were too thin, too dirty, too short, too ragged. They were undernourished, with sickly yellow skin. Their faces looked at him, but few had much glimmer of awareness in their eyes. They were less like children and more like . . . newborns. Alive and functioning, doing human things, but not engaging in the recognition and intelligence that even a one-year old displayed. They were slow and disengaged, not really seeing, not really hearing.
Dozens crawled toward him over the grass, dragging their legs behind them, not a wheelchair in sight.
“Permen. . . permen.”
They mobbed him, gently pawing him, idly chanting.
“Permen. . . permen.”
“Sister!” DeShear turned to the old woman, the force of the mob of children pushing him this way and that. “What is it? What do they want?”
Lanaya stood with her hands over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.
“Permen.” The old woman held a wrinkled hand up to her brown, weathered face, pinching her bony fingers closed and pointing them at her mouth. “They ask, ‘Do you have candy?’”
Candy. DeShear gasped, his words no longer leaving his mouth, his knees wobbling. Dozens more children pushed forward from all areas of the field.
The old sister clapped her hands three times. The children stopped, the field going silent. All eyes were upon her, each child standing completely still. A strigidae owl screeched in the distance.
“Biarkan dia dating,” the old woman said. The children near DeShear stepped and bumped, moving backwards to clear a path for him, back to where the sister stood on the road.
He waited, unmoving, not yet ready. His heart pounded as he yanked the hood of his cleansuit down past his face, staring at the old woman and choking on his words. “What’s happened to them?”
“Parosesseen.” She turned and pointed a brown, wrinkled finger. The bamboo wall came to a corner and turned, exposing more blue buildings.
Above the doors, a sign said “Processing.”
Chapter 32
“Ms. Madison?” the young agent asked. “They’re calling for us to go back to the main building and depart for the hotel.”
Camilla glanced at her watch. “Thanks. I’ll be right there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The young woman turned to go.
“Hastings,” Camilla said.
The agent stopped. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Any word on DeShear or Ms. Kim? Have any of our people seen them at all?”
“No ma’am. Not since we started the tour.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Camilla stared down the dirt road, the sun hanging low in the sky, as the agent joined the others. Camilla took one last view of the many large buildin
gs before heading toward the rest of her group, a long line of white-suited agents in front of them.
“Excuse me.” Camilla trotted to their guide. “I need to arrange for a hired car.”
The man kept walking, not looking at her. “We have orders to take everyone to the hotel.”
Camilla stopped, putting her hands to her hips. “Orders?”
“I mean,” the guide stopped, facing her. “Our orders—our instructions—were to see that you are all safely returned to your hotel.” He worked a smile onto his face. “So you may have enough time to prepare for this evening’s reception.”
“Uh huh. Well, I have another meeting first, so I need a cab. Have one sent to the front of the security building. Now. And I’ll be taking several of my staff with me.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the guide said. “But—”
Camilla narrowed her eyes. “Do you want me to miss a video conference with the Vice President of the United States? Do you think that’s good business for your employer?”
The man’s jaw dropped. “No.”
“Then call me a cab, and do it quickly.” Camilla pointed. “I want it at the front door before I get there. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The guide walked away quickly, then broke into a run.
The young agent leaned close to Camilla. “We have a meeting with the Vice President?”
Camilla turned to her. “I asked if he wanted me to miss a meeting with the Vice President.” Camilla grinned. “I didn’t say I had one. Grab some other agents and have them mill around my cab as everyone boards the buses, so it’s not obvious whether DeShear and Lanaya went with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay.” Camilla said. “If you get asked, they did.”
* * * * *
“How is security?” Maya asked, sliding a needle into The Greyhound’s arm.
“There isn’t any.” He looked away from the syringe, focusing on the tube taped to his other arm.
Dominique picked through a series of bottles in a padded suitcase. “That’s not entirely true. My good friend Dr. Hauser arranged for security, but apparently only for himself. A few of the men with him are soldiers from the Indonesian Army, dressed as civilians.” She stood, walking to the bed. “I suppose the rest of us are on our own—although he made it clear during the conference call with the board that wouldn’t be the case.”
