I force myself to ignore my diaphragm painfully demanding air and focus on my attacker.
He’s bigger than I am, but his rage is unfocused, messy. And easily redirected.
I grab his wrists, buckle his hips, then roll off his body and to the side.
Free from his grip and on all fours, I cough and wheeze for air, my throat raw and neck on fire.
When he threatens to lunge at me again, Pepe forces his arms against his back, immobilizing the older man and lifting him from the ground. He keeps struggling against Pepe, but the effort is futile.
Still coughing, I take Diego’s hand and stand. He glances at my neck, a flash of anger crossing his face. Fuming, he marches to Pepe and his battling captive.
“Enough. I won’t have you threaten my people. I’m sorry for what happened to you, but we had nothing to do with this. The only one to blame is the bastard who came to your village knowing he was bitten. Not us. Your son was gone the moment you let him stumble his way into the jungle, and you know it. You can’t blame Isabel for defending herself.”
Chest heaving, the villager says nothing. Around the scene, Ana Cruz and the rest keep their guns aimed and ready. Carlos Alberto, the teen acting tough earlier, furiously blinks away the sweat running over his face.
“We do what we have to do to survive.” Diego points at the fire, still ten-feet tall. “And that pyre tells me you know that. So, calm down and let us help you.”
Gradually, the anger in the old man’s face disappears and turns into defeat. Diego nods at Pepe, who lets the man go. He slumps his shoulders and stares at the ground.
“What’s your name?”
“Moacir,” he croaks.
“Okay, Moacir, do you have somewhere else to go?” Diego asks him. “Any family left?”
He merely shakes his downcast head.
Diego reaches into his backpack and takes out two water bottles and a granola bar. “Here, take these and go to Punta Franca. It’s five hours south of here. Tell them Diego Vargas sent you and wants you to be given a good bed and work.”
Moacir stares at the supplies, and then glances at the others behind Diego. He barely seems to register Diego’s words while staring at me, grief painfully clear on his weary face. As much as I want to avoid looking back, I don’t. The least I can do is give him that.
Finally, he moves on, gaze resting on Carlos Alberto’s trembling rifle. Moacir closes his eyes for a second too long, and then lunges.
I take a step forward, realization dawning, but it happens too fast for anyone to do anything about it.
Moacir throws himself at the boy, shoving the barrel of the rifle into his mouth and forcing Carlos to shoot.
The blast scares the birds away as his dead body falls backward and into the pyre, the flames rising high and engulfing him completely.
We can only watch, stunned.
An hour later, rain pours down, extinguishing the dying fire as smoke rises from it. Nobody speaks for a long time. There’s shock on their faces. Some hold the crosses hanging from their necks to find comfort in faith.
My body is frozen as I look past the dying flames, past the charred bodies, and into my own past. Pyres like this one weren’t uncommon during my first days in Bonita, with smoke columns that lasted hours and hours. They were the safest, cleanest way to deal with multiple infected.
I fed the flames with bodies myself, dragging them while they screamed and tried to bite my arms. It was necessary to soak them in alcohol or gasoline or else the fire wouldn’t consume their muscles fast enough. I have seen men and women rise from pyres, skin charred and exposed, trying to reach us even then.
But I have never seen someone run toward the fire willingly.
It scares me how close I was to doing the same, to giving up. How will I survive that island again with so much guilt on my shoulders? I don’t want to end like Moacir, but facing Liam, facing my past, fills me with dread.
I feel Diego’s piercing gaze on me. Slowly, I glance back. He’s patting Carlos Alberto’s shoulder lightly while crouched next to him. The young cartel soldier sat on the ground after puking behind a few bushes. Now, he has his head between his knees in an attempt to hide the tears.
While the boy cries, Diego frowns at me as he gets up. For a moment, I think he’s about to approach me, but instead, he calls Ana Cruz, stepping away from the sick Carlos. “Ana, go check the river for their boats. We might still be able to use them.”
She nods and heads off. Like me, she had no visible reaction to the old man’s death. But for some reason, I doubt she’s struggling to keep her emotions in check as I am.
Too focused on watching her disappear between the trees, I flinch when Diego touches my arm.
“I need your help with something. I want to check the huts, but can I do that safely?”
Relieved he doesn’t want to talk about Moacir, I relax a little, allowing some tension to leave my shoulders.
“Just don’t touch anything that might have human saliva on it. Things they used. Bedsheets, towels, clothing.”
“So… Keep my hands off everything, then,” he says with a smile.
I clear my throat, still feeling the effects of Moacir’s chokehold. “Better safe than sorry, yes.”
“Come help me. Another set of eyes will be useful.”
“What are we looking for?”
He narrows his eyes, closing the distance between us to whisper, “I want to know more about the man who came here sick, the one saying my name. There might be some clue around, somewhere.”
And he waited until Ana Cruz was gone to do it… I nod.
Most of the huts have been ransacked, the few belongings of its residents broken and spread everywhere. We find pots, old beds, tables, fishing nets, and clothing that could belong to anyone. Nothing that would help us identify the sick man.
Until Diego finds a pair of combat boots. We crouch near them, inspecting the material and searching for any other descriptive marker.
“These are Army standard,” Diego says. “Not the type of boots a fisherman would wear or have enough money to buy. Look inside. He could’ve hidden something there.”
Carefully, I turn the boot upside down, shaking it. Nothing. I take a peek inside. Nothing there either. I put the boot back on the ground.
“Do you know anyone in the Army?” I ask Diego.
“Yes, but nobody who would need to talk to me personally. Or who would try to reach me by foot, through the jungle. We have drop points scattered for any messages.”
“Unless those drops are compromised, and he knew it.”
He narrows his eyes, nostrils flaring, but a second later, he shakes his head. “Yes. But this isn’t proof of anything. We had Army deserters showing up to seek protection in Punta Franca before. Wouldn’t be the first time they were desperate enough to risk the journey. And that’s if these boots are even his in the first place.”
I bite my lip. Deserter or not, he was infected. And that points to Bonita.
Could it be that the disease has begun spreading outside of the island once again? It’s not as if General Ortiz is going to advertise that his infamous plan to stop the epidemic has failed.
Not wanting to speculate without proof, I keep quiet. For all I know, he might have been infected somewhere else.
We stand.
Diego reaches for a plastic bottle in his backpack and says, “Let me help you clean your hand. Better safe than sorry, right?”
I extend the hand I used to touch the boot, so he can hold my wrist. While he pours water over it, his gaze travels to my neck, eyebrows furrowed. He’s so deep in thought that I’m forced to gently reach for the bottle before he wastes all the water in it.
“That’s enough. Thanks.”
“Right.” He vaguely nods, closes the bottle, and puts it back into his backpack. Then he meets my eyes. “Isabel… Are you okay?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“Your neck looks pretty bad.”
He rea
ches ever so slightly for my injured neck. Self-conscious, I quickly cover the still-sensitive area with a hand.
“This is nothing.” Just to make things even more embarrassing, my voice breaks a little, vocal chords sensitive because of the choke. “This wasn’t the first time someone tried to hurt me. And it won’t be the last.”
Diego lowers his hand and nods. “Fair enough. You certainly know how to take care of yourself. But with your mother’s condition, I thought maybe that… it was hard to see all of this. So if you want to talk about it—”
I panic and blurt out, “I don’t.”
“Are you sure? I saw the way you were looking at the pyre …”
He’s really doing this, isn’t he? He’s trying to comfort me. Why? What does he gain by making me feel better? I don’t understand. He can’t truly be worried about me, right? The flirting was all just a game—nothing else.
I take a deep breath and stare right into his eyes, ready to dismiss him again, but what I find is … genuine worry. Or at least, what looks like real concern. I bite my lip, still unable to speak. Part of me desperately wants to just open up to this charming, powerful man and let him comfort me, but I don’t trust him. Not yet. Maybe I shouldn’t ever trust him.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“All right.” He sounds disappointed. “Let’s go. We’re done here.”
Outside, Ana Cruz chats with the rest of the group, throwing a quick glance at us when we emerge from the hut.
Diego marches toward her. For a second, I think he’ll accuse her of something, but he merely asks, “The boats?”
“Just a small one. Not enough for all of us.”
“Too bad.” He doesn’t sound convinced, yet he doesn’t question her, instead waving at the three men. “Boys, burn the huts. We can’t take the chance of this spreading to our home.”
We leave the burning huts and the pyre of bodies behind, but even as the village disappears between the smoke and trees, a heavy silence follows the group. The ashes of its tragedy stick to our clothes for a long time.
At nightfall, we raise camp as thunder rumbles in the distance. I quickly set up my tent away from the rest to have some privacy. After nursing my sore throat with a damp cloth, I eat my modest dinner of soup and an apple while stealing glances at Diego.
A deep frown marks his handsome face as he reads what is probably the letter from his son. He rubs his still clean-shaven jaw, thankfully too involved with the words to notice me.
He’s different from what I expected. He has power, but not pride. The cartel’s actions were always described as dangerous and ruthless by the media and government. The body count was high. How can its leader be… this soft? He offered Moacir a way out—a new start. He chose to be kind to my mother. He opens up about his son and tries to comfort me.
It can’t just be for show, can it? He could threaten my mother or me to get what he wants, so why bother with the nice act? Unless…
Maybe Diego is as alone as he says he is. Maybe we have that in common too.
Or maybe he’s just flirting with me, and I’m letting myself fall for it.
Lowering my head, I fiddle with my hands. I should stop thinking about this. It doesn’t matter what kind of person Diego Vargas is; I only care that he keeps his word and gives me the cure after this is over.
While I try my best to look anywhere but at Diego, I notice Ana Cruz slipping away from the camp, disappearing between the thick vegetation. Bathroom break?
Ten minutes later, she reappears, glancing around with narrow eyes before stashing a handheld radio quickly inside her backpack. I raise an eyebrow.
I’m considering confronting her about it, but Diego is faster.
He points at her backpack, and then extends a hand to her. “I was looking for that. I don’t remember giving it to you.”
His tone is neutral, but neither Ana Cruz nor I miss the accusation behind it.
“I thought we moved past the whole cure incident. Was I wrong?” Ana asks, voice tight.
“Why did you leave camp to make a call, Ana?”
“I didn’t make any calls. I was trying to check how things are going in Punta, but there’s no signal anywhere.” She yanks the radio from the bag and shoves it against his chest. “But feel free to call me a liar and a traitor.”
“Don’t act like I’m the villain here. I want to trust you, Ana, but you went behind my back twice. It’ll take time for me to forget that.”
Ana Cruz keeps her head up, arms crossed over her chest. “I explained to you why I did that. The cure was too good of a bargaining chip. I couldn’t let someone else buy it.”
“Yes, you said that already. I don’t disagree, but you still arranged the meeting without telling me. And then, when I took over negotiations and told you to stay out of it, you went behind my back and talked to Carlos. I forgave you, but I don’t trust you. Not yet.”
She points at me “But you trust her? Stop listening to that thing between your legs, Diego, and wake up. You need to get over this paranoia, or you’ll regret it later.”
“Is that a threat?”
Her mouth opens, and then closes. She shakes her head. “Think whatever you want. I’m done with this ridiculous conversation.”
She stomps away, joining the others.
After a sigh, Diego glances in my direction. Our eyes meet. I clear my throat, rattled by Ana’s lewd suggestion. No doubt amused by my embarrassment, he goes from a frown to an inviting grin in a split second before walking toward me.
“Mind if I sit?”
I shake my head. “You didn’t bother asking before.”
“Well, this time, I know the chances of getting a ‘yes’ are higher,” he throws his head back with a smile.
I raise an eyebrow, but I don’t correct him. Instead, I scoot over a little to give him room.
Loud laughter draws our attention as he sits next to me.
Pepe and Felix, yet another muscular and tanned block of walking bricks, throw rocks at a family of Capuchin monkeys near our camp. The small animals jump from branch to branch, hanging by their long tails and squealing at them. Pepe slaps one of his knees, laughing as Felix decides to climb the tree to catch one.
Still in a sour mood, Ana Cruz doesn’t find their antics funny. She calls Felix down and scolds them for drawing too much attention to the camp. By far the smallest person in the group, she more than compensates the height difference by shouting orders with a thunderous voice and a stern expression. The tough guys all scramble to obey her.
As much as I don’t trust her, I have to admit I’m impressed by Ana Cruz. Not many can command a group of grown men by the sheer strength of their personality alone.
Diego sighs, watching the scene. “I used to tease her about acting like the mother of my soldiers. She hated it. She said if she wanted to have kids, she would’ve stayed in Rio Alto, finished college, and married one of the wealthy senators-to-be her father wanted for her.”
“She was rich?”
“She was a Plaza Bolivar girl.” I recognize the name. It’s one of the richest neighborhoods of Rio Alto, where the famous and wealthy lived. “Born and raised with a silver spoon in her mouth, went to Guavina’s top college, and drove around in a Mercedes. We grew up in the same city, but we might as well have lived on different planets. Then President Alvarez was assassinated, and she decided to throw all of it away to fight the good fight. Hard to believe she went to live in the middle of the jungle of her own free will. But I guess rich young people get the luxury of doing dumb shit in the name of ideology.”
I was fourteen at the time and not really concerned about which old guy called himself president—I was more interested in sneaking off to hang with the cool kids and smoke cigarettes—but even I remember the news and the protests following accusations of a fascist coup. Students revolted. The military retaliated. And the People’s Army for Guavinian Unity guerrilla group was formed.
After ten years of skirmishes, kidnapping diplo
mats, bank robbing, and hiding in the jungle, they went into politics and won the elections fair and square as the People’s Unity Party. Four years later, they ran away and left us to rot along with the infected.
There are no good guys in politics. Especially not in Guavina. Our history is filled with corrupt, authoritarian governments. Whatever future Ana Cruz wanted for our country, it seems she failed in her mission.
I stare at the back of her head as she sets up her own tent. “Who did you think she wanted to call?”
“My brother maybe. To tell him where I am.”
“I still don’t understand. Why would she? Doesn’t she work for you?”
“She and Rico had something going on. Before. When things went south between us, she had to make a choice. And despite being with him, she chose me.” He rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “But even knowing that, I can’t bring myself to trust her like I did before. Once your own brother betrays you, everyone starts looking suspicious. So she resents me. And anyone I trust over her.”
I look at my hands, unsettled by the implication he trusts me. Back at the shack, I thought he was only trying to convince me to accept his deal. Now, I’m not so sure.
He takes the satellite phone Ana Cruz tried to hide and offers it to me with a smile. “It’s time I fulfilled another part of our deal, right? The eight hours are over. Here, you can call Juanita with this.”
I stare at the phone for a second, feeling like a bucket of cold water has just hit me. What if something is wrong? What if she’s gone and I wasn’t there to help her? After a deep sigh, I try to make the call, but the phone’s light blinks red, and nothing happens.
I try again. Nothing. I frown. “It’s not working.”
Diego takes the phone again, looks at it for a second or two, and then shakes his head, pointing at the trees above us. “Seems Ana was telling the truth. The trees are blocking the signal. It needs an open area to work.”
I look left and right until spotting a large tree with sturdy branches. “I can take care of that.”
Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel Page 6
