Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  No matter what.

  If he’s keeping the cure with him, then it can only be in one place—the mayor’s office Diego is using as his bedroom, two floors down from where I am. I never went there myself, but I overheard people mentioning how fancy it is. So I go back to the staircase, wincing at the echoes of my rushed footsteps as I race down to his floor.

  Using my right shoulder, I budge the heavy door just enough to check if the outside is empty. After standing still to hear any sign of movement and finding nothing, I slip into the hallway, keeping my back glued to the wall and my steps light. At each corner, I stop and glance around, only going forward when I’m sure it’s safe.

  The closer I get to the mayor’s office, the louder my heart beats, blood warming my ears. It’s not only the chance to save my mother, but also the anticipation of actually facing Diego Vargas in the flesh.

  Chatter among workers is that the last time he left the building was over a month ago. I don’t know why, but Vargas has kept to himself all this time. He even stopped attending the weekly soccer match. The game was a long tradition of the cartel. Diego would join the unwashed masses and reward their hard work with free beer, plenty of meat, and loud music after a friendly match with his soldiers. Not anymore.

  So he’s here. Probably exactly where I’m going.

  I wonder if he looks anything like the painting on the wall outside, or if that’s all propaganda and he’s actually a short, tiny man who carries a beer belly and has rotten teeth from too many Cuban cigars.

  The mayor’s office is guarded by one man. He’s tall, built like a brick wall, but he’s also wearing a Barcelona jersey and flip-flops as is usual for cartel soldiers. The AK-47 rests against his chest as he smokes, slumped in a chair. He looks bored, confident that no one would reach the inner sanctum of Diego Vargas.

  I feel my neck, stretch my arms, and then flex my knuckles. I have the element of surprise on my side, but he has a rifle. This needs to be fast and efficient. I can’t thank my mother enough for paying for my Taekwondo lessons. Otherwise, this would’ve been a suicide mission. It still might be, but I can’t think like that.

  After a deep breath, I dash from the corner, fists clenched and adrenaline pumping in my veins. The guard raises his gun, but I grab it by its strap and yank it downward. He loses his balance, but I don’t stop there. Muscles tense, I strike him in the throat, the side of my palm hitting the carotid sinus on his exposed neck. A dangerous move that I doubt any of my martial arts teachers would’ve approved, but desperate times …

  Eyes wide and mouth agape, he loses consciousness in a flash, limp body falling off the chair and onto the floor. I have no time to check if he’s dead or not. After a brief hesitation where my hand hovers over the rifle, I grab the key to unlock the office instead.

  The place is bathed in darkness and silence, with a single ray of light slipping in between the draped curtains. Even so, I can see a mahogany desk, bookcases, a large plasma TV, and shelves filled with folded clothing and more shoes than I ever dreamed of owning. And, of course, hanging on the wall—the Guavina national flag with the Vargas cartel’s Jaguar symbol.

  But what really draws my eyes is the occupied king-sized bed in the middle of the room. I’m actually inside Diego Vargas’ bedroom. And he’s sleeping half-naked a few feet from where I’m standing.

  I hold my breath. I have done plenty of dangerous things for the sake of survival, but this one feels different. Crazier. Surreal. I swallow, heart pounding.

  He moves slightly, silk sheets sliding off his body and exposing even more of his defined back and tanned legs. He turns again as if to tease me with a full view of his broad chest and strong, square jaw. Diego Vargas, as it turns out, is hot. But that’s … not relevant right now.

  Taking my eyes off his uncovered form for a second, I tiptoe around the room to search the bookcases and shelves for anything that might resemble the cure for the most devastating disease in the history of this country, and, perhaps soon, the world. Which means, I have no idea what I’m looking for—a case, a vial, or a syringe? And where one would put such a precious thing?

  It wouldn’t be literally under his pillow, would it?

  I stare at the bed, biting my lip. Well, I’m already here. I might as well commit to the craziness.

  His chest expands and contracts as I slowly approach the bed, not daring to exhale a single breath. I kneel next to his face, patting the space between the bed and floor. When I find nothing under the bed, I extend my hand bit by bit, fingers almost reaching for his pillow and inches from his nose.

  Dark brown eyes gaze at me, eyebrows rising in surprise. I dive my hand under pillow anyway, a last desperate attempt that ends with me grabbing only air. There’s nothing under his pillow.

  And now, Diego Vargas is holding my right wrist.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Diego yanks me forward, my body falling on the bed. He tries to pin me down, but I use his strength to gain momentum. Rolling over, I straddle his body, my knees sinking into a surprisingly soft mattress. Finally, I force his hands above his head.

  He doesn’t struggle against my hold anymore. In fact, he’s actually smiling. “I know I might die any second now, but I had a dream like this once, and, let me tell you, it was a blast.”

  I blink, stunned by his suggestion. Suddenly, I’m aware of his heaving chest under my body, his warm skin rubbing against my thighs.

  A little flustered, I clear my throat. “Shut up. Where is it? Where’s the cure?”

  He raises his perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. “Rico didn’t send you to kill me?”

  Maybe I should’ve brought the gun if only to intimidate him faster. Oh well, inflicting pain will have to do.

  I take one of his fingers and pull it backward with a good dose of strength and velocity. He yells, and then coughs a laugh mixed with pain.

  “Whoa, isn’t there are a safe word we should agree to first before starting? I need my trigger finger working—”

  “This isn’t a kinky dream you’re having, Vargas. I want the cure. Now.” Preferably before your guard recovers, if he’s alive. “Tell me where it is, or I’ll snap another member of yours.”

  “Oh. Well.” He clears his throat. “Isn’t that disappointing? For both of us.”

  He locks my body with his legs and tosses me to the side.

  Those badly drawn wall paintings don’t do justice to the handsome man pinning me down. The strong jawline with high cheekbones and aquiline nose would guarantee him the leading role in any primetime telenovela. But, unlike famous actors, his defined muscles aren’t there just for show. He presses me firmly under his weight, giving me little room to struggle.

  My heart beats loudly as our eyes meet. I feel exposed under his dark brown eyes, as if I’m the one half-naked, caught by a mysterious stranger.

  “Who told you about the cure? Was it—”

  His words break the spell holding me hostage. I kick him right in the groin. Diego curses as I slide out from under his body, letting myself fall onto the floor. While he recovers from the blow, one eye closed and hands on the affected area, I crawl away and quickly stand.

  There’s a moment of shared hesitation. I stare at the door. He stares at me.

  I dash to the door, but he jumps off the bed and yanks me backward by the arm. We crash into each other, his face burying itself into my curly hair.

  He grabs the back of my neck, but I step on his foot and shove my free elbow into his ribs. Free from his grip once again, I scurry to the door and pick up the unconscious guard’s rifle.

  Armed, I go back inside.

  At the sight of my weapon, he stops and raises his hands with a sheepish grin. “Okay. Let’s all calm down and start over.”

  His quick surrender brings to surface the surrealistic quality of the scene. Here’s the leader of a cartel, a man who controls this whole town, standing in front of me with tousled hair and in his briefs. His green, yellow, and red briefs—the
colors of our national flag. A patriotic drug lord. Huh.

  I shake my head to focus, raising the gun even higher. “You want to start over? Then tell me where you’re keeping the cure, or I shoot.”

  Hands still in the air, he studies me with a frown. Finally, he takes a few steps forward. “I don’t think you will.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. Now, tell me where it is!” To make a point, I place my finger on the trigger.

  Unfazed by the threat, he tilts his head a little, index finger pointing at me. “What’s that in the back of your neck? That scar I touched?”

  I resist the urge to feel the mark with my hand, suddenly self-conscious. Glancing at the ground, I take a deep breath before facing him again.

  A flash of recognition crosses Diego’s expression. “Did you…? Were you in Bonita?”

  The name uttered out loud is enough to shock me whole. I relax my hold on the gun, momentarily struck dumb. “How do you know that?”

  He opens his mouth to answer when large arms wrap around my waist from the back, lifting me as if I’m made of air. The impact throws the gun away. While it clatters loudly on the floor, I hit the person holding me in the ribs with my elbow, but it does nothing against the rock-solid chest behind me.

  Damn it. Diego was stalling me. This is a disaster. This is a tsunami of disasters.

  “Pepe, wait—”

  Vargas’ protest comes just as I grab the guard’s groin and crush his testicles, twisting them too. Even six-packed, weight-lifting muscle giants have testicles. In pain, he releases me, and I make a run for the hallway.

  As I turn a corner in the direction of the stairs, people shout behind me. I need to reach the roof. Fast.

  I shove my body against the door of the staircase and jump five steps, then slam the roof door open and climb down the building as fast as I can. I slip twice, but my firm grip saves me from an early grave. Well, not early. With everything that has happened in my life lately, it seems more likely that I was supposed to have died a long time ago, and fate simply gave up for now.

  Rolling off the pile of garbage, I land with no air in my lungs. No time to breathe. I have to go.

  The food line is shorter now, but the crowd will hopefully help me disappear. Once I’m far enough from City Hall, I race to the jungle, leaving Punta Franca behind.

  Exhausted and out of breath, I stumble over overgrown roots more than once, falling onto the muddy ground. The thought of being followed works like a whip snapping at my back. I glance back in the direction of the town multiple times, afraid they’re following me, guns ready to shoot, but I see nothing between the trees.

  There’s no option left. I took a risk. I failed. Horribly. I can’t stay here anymore.

  Hours later and soaked in sweat, dirt all over my face and clothes, I stop in front of the shack, hands on my knees to catch my breath. In contrast to my pounding heart, the shack is quiet. Peaceful even.

  Drizzle hits the metallic roof, water running off it and dripping down onto the front porch. I enter the kitchen, breathing heavily, and grab my gym bag, the only thing I was allowed to bring with me to Bonita—a ruse by the Army to make us believe we wouldn’t be locked there indefinitely.

  My Taekwondo uniform is still safely tucked inside, a relic from a time when I believed I had a shot at being happy. I trail the dobok’s fabric with my fingers before tossing the uniform away to make room for cans of beans and water bottles, as well as anything else I can carry. After separating Mother’s next dose, I place the remaining Diazepam pills into a plastic bag, making a knot so they won’t fall out. I have enough doses left to last me two weeks.

  This means I have two weeks to find somewhere safe for us—somewhere that has fresh water and food. And I have no idea where to start.

  As I pack the supplies, every noise sends shivers down my spine. Every bush that moves, every snap of a branch, has me panicking. For once, hearing my mother’s moans as she wakes up is a relief. I take a piece of raw meat and place the pills inside it—there’s no time to cook it.

  She eats the meat almost in one single bite, her mouth wide enough that I’m afraid her jaw will dislodge. Her eyes flutter as she falls asleep.

  Traveling with her again will be a nightmare, but watching the cartel kill her for being infected would be even worse. I have no choice.

  After locking the bedroom door, I head to the kitchen only to stop dead in my tracks at the sight of Diego Vargas himself, sitting on the counter with a gun pointed at me.

  “Hello,” he simply says.

  I take a step back, breath caught in my throat and eyes wide. I don’t understand. Nobody was following me. How…?

  “I’m a city guy, but after living for years in a jungle, you learn things. Like tracking,” he answers my unspoken question. “I’m not very good at it, I admit it, but you aren’t very good at hiding your tracks either.”

  Not half-naked anymore, he’s wearing a black tank top and black cargo shorts. A dark brown baseball cap hides his eyes from me. When I imagined my death, I didn’t picture anything like this. I was expecting his soldiers would find me first, surrounding the shack from every side, but he’s alone. As far as I know anyway. Doesn’t make him any less dangerous.

  Instinctively, I block the way to the bedroom door, silently begging for my mother to stay quiet. If he finds her…

  Diego points at the door. “No need for that either. I watched you in there. I hope you don’t mind, but I had to confirm you weren’t really working for my brother. Who’s the woman inside?” At my silence, he continues, “Judging by her age… She’s your mother, right? At first, I thought you were infected yourself, but this makes more sense.”

  I’m considering lunging at Diego. We fought once, and I won. Maybe I can win again. But the gun… We’re too far apart. He would shoot me before I had the chance to grab it.

  Mother and I are at his mercy. Everything I did to keep her safe—all the sacrifices—and now we’ll end up dead because of one stupid mistake.

  “She’s harmless. You don’t need to hurt her.” My hands are trembling. My voice shakes. “Please. Just… Please don’t hurt her.”

  I hate begging like this, but for my mother, I’ll do anything. I have to.

  He raises his head, giving me full view of his face at last. “I won’t. But I want to talk to you properly this time. No kicks, no punches, and no grabbing anyone’s privates.” He looks up as if imagining something, and then smirks. “Well… Maybe we can do that later, but for now, let’s talk. Can we do that?”

  Talk? Why would he want to talk after what happened between us? This has to be a trick.

  With no other options for now, I sigh. “All right.”

  Diego lowers his gun and takes off his cap, placing it on the counter next to him. Tension disappears from his shoulders. “First, I want to know how you knew about the cure. Who told you?”

  My eyes linger on the discarded gun. I could reach for it … but he casually rests a hand on the weapon’s grip. Did he sense what I was planning?

  “Nobody told me anything.”

  He frowns. “You need be honest with me, or this conversation will be pointless.”

  “I am. I overheard two people talking about the cure, about you buying it from the Americans. That’s how I found out.”

  Diego clicks his tongue and narrows his eyes. “When and where?”

  Revealing that would mean revealing what I was doing. I sneaked into his bedroom, but so far, he doesn’t know I’ve been stealing his supplies for months. That information might change his mind about having a friendly conversation.

  At my silence, Diego waves a hand dismissively. “That’s fine. We’ll talk about that later. When you’re more comfortable.”

  How he will make me comfortable is left unsaid. It’s not like the gun has disappeared. He can still shoot me at any time he wants. But against my better judgment, I’m curious as to where this is going. This would’ve played very differently if he were simply here to
capture or punish me. Something else is going on.

  “I’m assuming the cure must be for your mother.”

  “Yes.”

  Diego frowns, and then rubs his clean-shaven jaw. “That number on the back of your neck—does it mean what I think it does? Were you in Bonita?”

  It always comes back to that damned place.

  Biting my lip, I nod.

  “Who released you?”

  Despite the tension, the absurdity of his question compels me to speak freely. “Released? No. No one gets released from that place. I escaped with my mother.”

  Diego crosses his arms over his wide chest. “You’re telling me you managed to get past the wall, the patrols, and all the Army blockades? That you crossed the sea then the jungle with an infected? Seems hard to believe.”

  Fire rises inside me at his dismissive tone. “I guess I branded myself and my mother with a hot iron for shits and giggles.”

  He stares at me, piercing gaze drilling a hole into my skull. I don’t like it. I feel exposed, just like when we fought. There’s something in his eyes that makes me uncomfortable, as if he can see past all my walls and steal any secrets they were protecting. He’s studying me—my weaknesses and my fears.

  Yet, I hold my head high and stare right back at him, so all he can see is my defiance.

  Finally, he nods. “Fair enough. I believe you. But here’s the real question I want to ask—can you do it again? Can you make that journey one more time?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m asking if you can help me get inside Bonita. And then bring me home again.”

  I can only blink and stare. He’s crazy. He has a death wish. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

  Going to Bonita is suicide. No, it’s worse. It’s slowly dying from cholera, from hunger, or from a knife in your back. That, or ending up infected. Nobody in their right mind would want to go to a place like that.

  But Diego doesn’t know. He can’t possibly know how bad things are in there. The Army isn’t telling anyone, and if other people escaped, they wouldn’t talk about it either for fear of being sent back. General Ortiz claims our country is free of the disease, and everyone is safe thanks to the quarantine. Stripped of their liberties, working for food and water, under martial law, but safe. Never mind that Bonita is a pit of death, where the poor, the sick, and the innocent are discarded and forgotten by the rest of the world to be used by violent men who enjoy abusing the little power they have.