Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel

by Priscila Santa Rosa

  “Yeah, I understand. I’ll talk to her.”

  The first chance I get, I make my way to Isabel’s bed. She’s staring at the ceiling, sighing every now and then.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine. Did the other doctor tell you what I asked about?”

  I blink, surprised at her straight-to-the-point approach. After clearing my throat, I say, “She mentioned you were mistaken about a few patients of ours.”

  Isabel glares at me, obviously not convinced by my weak attempt at lying. “Look, I won’t tell anyone else, but I need to know. Do you have infected patients here or not?”

  “Why? Is someone you know infected? Do you want us to treat them?”

  She sits up on the bed, one hand resting on her stomach. I need to check her bandages, see if they need changing. “No. But plenty of people have loved ones who are infected, and if you know a way to cure them—”

  “Not cure. There’s no cure. Yet. Maybe in the future.”

  “Then what?” She narrows her eyes, and I must confess it’s a pretty intimidating look. I feel like she’s accusing me of being a cannibal or a mad scientist, doing experiments on those poor souls.

  Not realizing she’s baiting me to confess at first, I jump to defend my honor. “We just keep them safe, sedated. Takes a whole lot of pills, but they stay calm and sleep most of the time. For now, that’s all we can do for them.”

  “Why not do this for everyone else? There are so many of them out there.”

  I’m surprised she didn’t call me crazy this time too. The whole island thinks the only solution for the infection is to kill anyone who gets bitten.

  “Because we don’t have enough supplies for all of them. And we don’t have the people to capture them safely. It’s too risky. We can only watch over the ones we already had. The Army doesn’t care. There’s no choice.”

  Her frown disappears, and she glances at the floor. “I guess I hoped you had a solution. But nothing has been easy, so this wouldn’t be either.”

  “We’re trying. I promise you, we are.”

  She nods. “I believe you.”

  As a doctor, you get used to the implicit trust a patient has in you, enough to allow you to poke around their insides. It’s nothing personal, and it comes with the title and the profession. It also comes with a heavy burden. You get all the responsibility and none of the personal satisfaction of having someone trust you because of your awesome personality.

  But Isabel’s words ring differently. She’s trusting me to tell the truth, to have the best intentions despite being a stranger. It isn’t just about my title—it’s about me. She believes in me.

  Okay, that sounded like an After-School Special, but after living this long in Bonita, where my survival was only possible because I’m a doctor, this means a lot.

  “How did you find out about this? About the infected?” I ask her.

  “That tall, blond doctor? He keeps disappearing every thirty minutes, and then coming back looking guilty as sin, as if he’s hiding something. When he talks with you or that other doctor, it’s all in hushed whispers and in English. I thought it was strange. Then I overheard them talking about special cases.”

  “And I thought we were careful …”

  “You were … I’m …” She trails off, but then adds, “I’m just very bored. And can speak English.”

  “Fair enough. But please don’t tell this to anyone. We can’t risk someone deciding to take matters into their own hands.”

  “I won’t. I don’t think we should be killing infected if they aren’t attacking us. It doesn’t seem right.”

  It’s a leap of faith, but, somehow, I’m sure she will keep her word. If she wanted to hurt them, she wouldn’t have bothered asking me anything. Reactions to the infected are usually visceral and final.

  Isabel stays for one more night, and then disappears. I’m disappointed, of course, but not surprised. She isn’t the first patient who slipped away after getting treatment—although it’s usually because they’re afraid they need to pay me.

  The real surprise happens when she shows up five days later with blankets and clothing to donate.

  The whole staff gathers around the pile she brought. In a matter of seconds, she becomes everyone’s favorite person ever. And who can blame them? A pair of clean socks is truly a rare luxury in Bonita.

  “Where did you get all of this?” I ask her as we both watch people pick the clothes that fit them best.

  “I found a supply crate on a rooftop. I told you I was a good climber.”

  “Thank you. Truly. We needed this.”

  She shrugs. “I just wanted to pay you back for the help. It’s nothing.”

  Hiding my joy at her being so giving and humble is pretty hard. She’s quickly becoming my favorite person too. “Our services are free, but … I appreciate it. We’re always short on supplies, so this will really make a difference.”

  She nods a little shyly.

  After that, I go into doctor mode, my hands resting on her shoulders. “How are your injuries? Did any of the cuts open?”

  I place a hand under her chin, gently turning her head so I can check her eye better. The coloration has gone from green to shades of purple, and there isn’t any more swelling. The cut on her lip is still open, probably from speaking and eating. I might have an ointment that will speed her recovery.

  Her cheeks are incredibly red too, her skin warm under my touch … Maybe she has a fever? Or maybe …

  Is she embarrassed?

  Damn, that’s cute.

  Taken back by her reaction, I momentarily lose my train of thought and stand there like a dumbass, my hand still on her cheek.

  Finally, she has enough and moves back a little, slipping away from my grasp. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Right. Just making sure. Doctor, remember?” I sound so dumb. Damn it.

  “I do.” She looks from one side to the other, her cheeks still red. “I should go now.”

  “What? Why? No. You should stay. Stay,” I vomit the words out like a drunk who’s had one too many.

  Isabel stares at me as if I have three heads and a tail. “I can’t.”

  “Why not? Look, we could use another pair of hands.”

  She pouts. “You don’t want me here. Zeke might—”

  I cross my arms over my chest. Time for my doctor voice of reason. “Ezequiel has no clue where you are. And if he comes looking for you, I’ll hide you. Nobody is going to tell on you. Besides, what you did today, it means a lot to everyone. Look how happy people are. Where else on this damn island can you do this much good? Come on, Bel, give this a shot.”

  She ignores my plea, far more bothered by the nickname. “Bel?”

  I straighten up and give her a sheepish smile. “What? You prefer Isa? Bel rolls off my tongue better.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Stick with Isabel.”

  “Sorry, too late. It’s out there now. Can’t take it back, Bel. Now, let’s see if we can put your climbing skills to good use.”

  I wave for her to follow me. Incredibly, she does. I grin.

  Present Day

  Isabel

  Three days later, Diego and I hide our boat in the jungle and continue the last part of the journey on foot. As the hours pass, the anxiety grows inside my chest.

  The closer we get to the National Mining Company’s camp, the more signs of human activity appear around us—abandoned logging equipment, tires claimed by vegetation, and even rotten articles of clothing. We also find an old trail. It has almost disappeared under bushes and mud, but it’s enough to guide us there.

  When the jungle ends, I find that I miss its protection. Stepping onto the camp’s clearing is like being shoved to the center of a fighting pit, waiting for your opponent to step in as the bloodthirsty audience cheers.

  I stand by Diego’s side as he stares at the camp ahead. My throat closes, and the familiar piercing sensation rises in the center of my chest, choking m
e from the inside. This is it.

  No turning back now.

  A light drizzle falls as we explore our surroundings. Rust and vines have claimed the only two buildings left standing, and the wire fence that should’ve stopped intruders is bent and sunk into mud.

  It’s haunting to be back here. Nothing has changed from six months ago. Unlike in the jungle, silence hangs around us, the small raindrops bouncing against metal and accumulating on the nooks and crannies of the water-damaged buildings. The rags of a Guavina flag wave weakly from a vine-covered pole.

  Once this was the hope of fortune for an entire a country. The discovery of Bonita’s underground riches was lauded by politicians as the solution to the floundering economy and high unemployment rates, but as with most natural resources, the mines were exploited at an alarming rate without any care for the safety of its workers. After years of minor incidents being ignored, a major explosion took the life of my father and fifty other miners.

  Stocks fell as proof of mismanagement and corruption from the National Mining Company came to light. The dream of easy money and economic growth was dead. And so was any chance of a normal life for me.

  Bonita has always been a symbol of misery for my family. The pain and anger of losing my father dulled over the years into resentment, but the island seems determined to open my scars all over again not once, but twice. If I could, I would blow the whole place up and let the sea swallow it whole.

  We march forward, further into the camp and between two buildings, a large warehouse that used to store coal for transport and an office with a radio antenna on its roof.

  Diego’s mood hasn’t improved. We haven’t spoken since I turned him down. He avoids meeting my gaze most of the time. I’m not sure if he’s hurt by my rejection, if his pride is hurt, or if he has simply lost interest in me.

  After spending so many months alone, I thought I would be used to it by now, but every time he passes by me without flashing a smile or starting a conversation, I feel empty. It’s like he’s stolen a piece of me that I only now realize is gone.

  But emptiness is nothing new. And it changes nothing. I still can’t trust him, I’m still going to Bonita, and my mother still needs me. And there’s still Liam between us.

  No matter how great that kiss tasted.

  We pass by a mining cart filled with rainwater and follow its rusty tracks beyond the warehouse. As I lay eyes on the corroded metal, fresh blood shimmers under the sun. I close my fingers around the handle of my knife and face forward.

  Waiting for us at the end of the tracks is not only the decayed entrance of the tunnel to Bonita, but also a group of infected, feasting on a carcass and blocking our path.

  They fight each other for better access to the food, growling and moaning. Pink pieces of meat and spotted yellow fur fly around in the middle of the chaos. Thankfully, they’re too busy to notice us, but that might not last.

  Quietly, we enter the warehouse, closing the heavy metallic door behind us with a loud clank. The place is empty. We’re safe, for now.

  “Didn’t you say they usually get lost in the mines? Why are there so many out there?” Diego asks me.

  Too busy staring at a broken window and the horde, I don’t answer him at first. “They probably smelled the carcass, and that led them here.”

  Diego’s face darkens. “What now? Can we slip past them and into the tunnel?”

  I glance back and forth between him and the window. I wasn’t expecting this. Not this soon and not with the shadow of Diego’s brother hanging over us. “I don’t know. It depends.”

  “Depends on what? Isabel? We need a plan.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “This is your part of the deal.”

  His tone is harsh, and it bothers me more than I want to admit, so my answer is equally curt. “I don’t know. Let me think, okay? Pressuring me won’t help.”

  He wrinkles his nose a little, but speaks in a softer voice after. “Can we wait it out? They might leave after finishing their meal.”

  I shake my head. “Unlikely, unless something tastier attracts them. Which will be us. Here’s what we’re going to do—we’ll pick one and attack it together, pulling it away from the rest of the group. We need to do it fast and without fuss, so as to attract minimal attention.”

  “No shooting allowed, right?”

  “Exactly. If we alert them, we won’t be able to fight them all at once. So knives only, buried in the skull.” I place a finger under the back of my head, showing him the most vulnerable spot he can hit. “Strike here or in the eye. So, are you ready to do this?”

  Diego nods, face set.

  I take out one of the more damaged t-shirts from my backpack, rip two pieces off it, and give one to him. “Cover your mouth with this. Avoid being too close to their mouths.”

  “Right.”

  Sensing some reluctance in his voice, I place a hand on his shoulder. “Things will get chaotic. Don’t try to make sense of it, just focus on staying alive. We’ll do it together, okay?”

  Diego gives me two quick nods, licking his dry lips. He adjusts the grip on the machete’s handle and clenches his jaw.

  I try to follow my own advice by ignoring my throbbing heart. We have to do this. I don’t like putting him at risk like this, but I can’t deal with them alone.

  After a second of hesitation, I place my hands on the door and drag it open on its rails. The noise is cringe worthy, but necessary. We move as quietly as possible while crouched. Diego stays a step behind me, his breathing uneven. I hope he doesn’t freeze when the time comes to finish the job. I saw plenty of tough guys hesitate when face to face with a deformed, bloated human being who won’t stop attacking.

  Seeing a little boy climb someone’s body and rip their ears off, or an old woman foaming at the mouth while chewing a face, is not something even the toughest soldiers have seen in war. Your world is torn apart even before your flesh is. It doesn’t matter what kind of violent life you led up to that moment—nothing can compare.

  I can’t keep my eyes off Diego until we’re safe.

  The group remains knelt over what seems to be a large, dead jaguar, continuing to stuff their mouths with bloody organs. They surround the carcass, ripping its surprisingly fresh flesh. There’s no foul smell of rotten meat, only the metallic taste of blood in the air and mosquitoes flying, happy for the free buffet.

  Leaving the protection of the barrels we hid behind, we approach them. I signal Diego to stop as I sneak close to the nearest infected. He’s almost completely bald with some gray on the back of his head. Below the patch of hair, the familiar serial number greets me. I wonder if we ever crossed paths when both of us were in Bonita.

  When I put my arms around him and drag his kicking body away from the jaguar, he growls and hollers at the top of his lungs, but in this unstable condition, he couldn’t even free himself from my hold if he knew how to.

  Diego waits while I press the bald man on the ground, belly and feet buried in the dirt. I catch his flailing arms and lock them against his back with one hand while pressing his neck down to give Diego a better angle.

  “Do it,” I whisper, watching the rest of the infected out of the corner of my eye. “Now.”

  Diego plants his spread feet firmly, and then raises the machete. The sweat on his face glistens in the sunlight. It feels like an eternity, but he finally plunges the weapon down, and I hear a crack. No spasm. The bald man moans, still alive.

  His strike is faster the next time. The warm, sticky liquid hits my neck as blood spurts down, ruining Diego’s pants and fancy boots.

  There’s no time to lament the death of fashion. An infected raises her head at the commotion we made and lifts herself, arms hanging limply at her sides as blood drips from her grubby fingers. She’s wearing doctor’s scrubs.

  I know her. She’s… She came with Liam. She was one of the gringo doctors who volunteered to go to Bonita.

  Her name was… Her name is Melinda.

  Petrified,
I watch as she glares at me, eyes full of rage and accusations. She jumps at me, and we fall, her mouth biting, always biting. My survival instincts kick in.

  I can’t die here.

  I can’t help Melinda; I can’t pay for what I did to her without leaving my mother to suffer. The ex-doctor reaches for my neck, but I yank her hands away and kick her off me. Her yell calls the attention of another infected.

  I take out my knife and bury it into Melina’s eye, sinking it deep enough to reach the brain. Her other eye becomes wide as if silently begging for help.

  It feels like an eternity before I take the knife out, and her body goes limp. Was it kindness to do that? I don’t know. I just know I’m doomed to remember the desperation and fear in people’s faces as they die at my hand. In those last moments, it doesn’t matter who we were or if they’re infected … there’s only fear. My arm pulsates at the effort, unused muscles strained.

  Too shocked, I barely register a third infected lunging at me. I don’t even see the strike, only let out a gasp as blood spurts out of his skull and he falls, spasming on the ground.

  I turn to Diego, his machete still raised, and give him a nod. He smiles.

  The last infected, a large, plump man, hasn’t moved from his feast. His size guaranteed a prime seat to the carcass, and he’s far too occupied filling his mouth to care about us.

  Diego dispatches him with a swipe of his machete. The body falls, headless.

  We stand side by side, our chests heaving and sweat running off our faces. It takes a while for either of us to move. He dries off his forehead with the only clean sleeve left, and then drops the machete down, shoulders slumped.

  Diego’s tired, but I’m panicking.

  Once the adrenaline dies out, the invisible, but familiar force chokes me from the inside, and I start to hyperventilate, vision blurry and throat closing.

  It gets worse when I face the tunnel’s dark entrance. Since we arrived at the camp, I have made sure not to look too long into that darkness. But now it’s right in front of me. Inescapable. I know I’ll have to step into that nightmare. These are my last moments of fresh air. Melinda was just the first of my sins to surface.