I would’ve won a gold medal for that back in the day. But my victory is momentary.
The smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh hits my nose with full force.
My whole body freezes, the very air in my lungs gone as Diego clutches his right side, blood spurting out of a gunshot wound.
Breathless, I crawl toward him, heart in my throat and chest tight with fear. His shocked expression meets mine as I hastily rip a piece of my sleeve and press the fabric against his wound to slow down the bleeding.
I glance in the direction of the tunnel, my mind already in Bonita. Would Liam help us? Is he even alive?
“Bel …”
I turn to Diego. “It’s okay.” My voice is breaking, but I have to keep his attention on me. He needs to stay awake. “It’s going to be all right.”
He nods faintly, recovering from the initial shock enough to say, “Rico—”
The world around us—which until now had disappeared completely to me—comes into focus. Rico lays down in the mud, still out cold. His gun discarded near me.
I reach for it, but Diego holds my wrist. “No. Don’t kill him.”
“Diego, when he wakes up—”
“Don’t. He’s still my brother. Family.”
Reluctantly, I nod. My hands are already red with blood, the ripped piece of clothing soaked as well. I swallow hard, dread rising from the pit of my stomach.
We’re wasting time here. Diego needs medical attention. And there’s only one place where he can get it fast—Bonita.
“We have to get up, Diego. Can you do that?”
He blinks slowly before answering. “Yeah. Yeah. I can do it.”
“Keep pressure on your wound. Don’t take your hands off it.”
Holding his arm over my shoulder, I help him stand. As our bodies clash together, he winces but manages to steady himself.
Together, we run toward the tunnel, its dark entrance looming over us.
The damp tunnel carries the stench of moss, oil, and grease, making every breath I take harder than it needs to be. Vines and weeds cover the wet, rotten wooden planks on the ground, and the electrical wiring on the rocky ceiling has deteriorated badly. Shards of broken lamps and fallen cords litter our way inside.
I glance back to the camp, afraid of seeing Rico’s form chasing us or the glint of his sniper rifle, but there’s nothing but rain and the buildings, getting farther and farther away as we haul ourselves deeper into the tunnel.
Diego’s breathing is shallow, uneven. He doesn’t complain of pain and manages to keep up with my speed somehow, but I can feel his arm around my shoulder tremble. His grimace deepens at each step.
Once I feel we’re far enough from the entrance, I help Diego sit, his body giving in to gravity as he slides down against a wall. Carefully, I take his backpack off and place it nearby. Kneeling beside him, I check his vitals. Something I learned from Liam.
His heartbeat is just as fast as mine. I don’t know what that means except that we’re both exhausted and drenched.
Squeezing my eyes shut for an instant to calm down, I prepare myself to see the damage the shot did to him. The tunnel is far too dark for an examination, so first I find a mini-flashlight inside his backpack.
“I have to see the wound,” I whisper. Rico didn’t follow us in, but there are other dangers to be wary of in here. “Take off your shirt.”
“Okay, but just so you know, next time you want me naked, there’s no need to have me shot. Just ask.” He laughs weakly at his own words.
I’m too worried to be amused by his flirting. “Raise your arms. I’ll help you.”
He takes his hands off the wound. The soaked piece of clothing falls, and blood starts flowing again. I wince and he flinches, but I need a clear view of the damage. With gritted teeth, Diego keeps his arms raised as I pull the shirt off. There was mud, foliage, and blood on it. I throw it away.
Between rasped breaths, he finds strength to give me a strained smile. “I paid three hundred bucks for that shirt. Another perfectly good thing Rico ruined.”
I aim the flashlight at his lower right side, just above the hip bone. There’s discoloration around the wound, but no sign of the bullet on the surface. I look at Diego’s back, relieved to find an exit wound—the bullet went through. If it had remained inside his body, he would’ve needed extensive surgery. Another piece of knowledge I have Liam to thank for.
But he’s not out of danger yet.
The risk of an infection—the normal kind—is huge in this damp darkness. And I don’t know what the bullet did to his organs. He might be bleeding internally. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Without the proper tools—like a needle and a thread for starters—and without the resources Liam had or his skills, my only option is to clean the wound, slow the bleeding, and keep him warm so he doesn’t go into shock.
If he loses consciousness, then he might not survive until we get to Bonita. That can’t happen.
I blink away the sweat running down my face, then reach for his backpack again, rummaging inside desperately until I find his canteen and a small bottle of alcohol.
Holding the flashlight between my teeth, I clean the area with fresh water from the canteen, but struggle to open the bottle. My hands are shaking too much. I swallow, my throat dry, and take a deep breath to calm down. Once the bottle is finally open, I use the alcohol to disinfect the wounds. Diego swears as the stinging liquid comes in contact with his damaged skin.
“Sorry,” I whisper in a trembling voice while I make sure to cover both his front and back wounds with bandages.
“I gotta be honest, when I imagined you being my nurse, lovingly taking care of my wounds, I pictured more kisses, less pain.”
Not amused, I clench my fists. He needs to take this seriously. “If your vision starts to get blurry or you feel dizzy, you need to tell me. Immediately.”
“Right now, it’s just pain. Lots of pain.”
I quickly find a bottle of painkillers in his backpack and give two pills to him. He swallows them dry.
“Okay. Now, I need to keep you warm.”
Diego laughs. “Finally. Help me take my pants off.”
He’s getting paler by the minute, dark circles are already under his eyes, but the playful smile hasn’t disappeared even under this much stress. How can he be so calm and joke around while I’m here, panicking?
It’s taking all that I’ve got left not to give into the fear of losing him.
Breath caught in my throat, I say, “Stop. Stop joking. Please. I’m … I’m trying to save you. This is serious, Diego.”
The smile on his chalked lips disappears. Blinking slowly, he mutters, “I know. My own brother just shot me in cold blood. So, I know. But jokes are all I got, Bel.”
Regretting my sharp tone, I bite my lip and nod. If that’s what he needs to keep going, then so be it. As long as he keeps himself awake. Finally, I help him dress into his last clean shirt.
I’m sure Liam would’ve done a better job, but for now, that’s all I can do for Diego. I pray it will be enough to keep him alive until a real doctor can see him.
“We need to keep going. This tunnel will lead us to the mines. And the elevator shaft to Bonita. I know a few doctors there. They’ll treat you.”
He flashes me a pained grin. “And then we find Alex, right?”
I return his smile with one of my own. It’s a weak, fake one, but I feel like he needs that comfort from me. Maybe I need it too.
“Yeah. Then we find your son.”
The air is stuffy, stilled as we go deeper and lower into the mines, my light providing only the certainty of what lies a few feet away. The ground crackles, the roll or fall of a loose rock nearby echoing along the constant hollow dripping of water in the distance, all of it reminding me of the maze we’re barely starting to traverse.
Diego’s breathing next to me is the only reminder I’m not alone in the dark.
Neither of us talks. Our steps ec
ho, disturbing the rocks around us and probably alerting every infected nearby. But that’s just one of our problems. Thousands of passages are ahead.
Many people from Bonita have disappeared into these mines, getting lost in this dark maze without any guidance.
But I know something they didn’t. I don’t remember much about my father—he died when I was five—but one particular memory stands out from the rest. After spending months away, he would come back from Bonita and bring presents. One time, he brought a bootleg videotape of an American movie. It was one of the Rocky movies, and my mother hated it. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that, back then, overseas products weren’t easy to get, but my father managed to buy it from smugglers.
They used the mines to avoid customs and the law, hiding and transporting their illegal goods via clandestine tunnels. Dad told me they carved a secret code on the walls of the mine so they would not get lost. Perhaps to amuse me, he made it sound like they were pirates and, together, we drew a treasure map filled with the symbols the smugglers created. I spent many nights staring at that map—my last connection to a father long gone. I know the code by heart.
I bounce the flashlight around the walls frantically, seeking any dent or scratch on the rocks. I’m debating admitting we’re lost when I spot a faded symbol to my left, half-covered by moss. I wipe it out to reveal three vertical lines and a sun. I remember their meaning—after three intersections, turn east. My shoulders relax, and I release a breath I wasn’t aware I was holding in.
More confident I’m not leading us to our deaths, I take a five-minute break so I can change Diego’s blood-soaked bandages. To aid me, Diego holds up a flashlight as I carefully peel away the previous dressing and apply another one. There’s already pus around the gunshot hole. A sign of an infection. Biting my lower lip, I give Diego another dose of painkillers.
“That bad, huh?” His voice is raspy, strained. The light shining on Diego’s abdomen shakes slightly. His hands are trembling. Not out of fear. He’s starting to enter shock.
“Not yet.”
“Meaning it will turn bad soon.” His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
I want to reassure him; I want to hold his hand tight and lend my strength so he can keep going. But I hesitate for too long, and haunting, echoing steps interrupt us. A guttural howl reverberates off the rocks, causing tiny pebbles on the ground to vibrate.
With so many shafts and side passageways, it’s hard to know from which direction the noise is coming from. Back or forward? We can only wait for the inevitable. And it is inevitable. There are too many infected roaming these narrow tunnels.
“We should move,” I whisper, my body casting shadows on the wall.
No point in sitting here, waiting for them to find us when I need to take us to Bonita as fast as I can.
I offer Diego my shoulder again.
Surrounded by pitch black, we keep going. The ceiling leaks, constantly dripping on the top of my head, and the occasional puddle rises to knee-deep levels of cold, dark water. I remember this. We’re below Bonita now.
Diego’s breathing becomes haggard, uneven, by the time I reach the point described by the marking. I stop in the middle of the intersection and light the walls next to the east passageway. Four vertical lines followed by a moon. West next then.
Splashes echo everywhere as we slog forward. A moan reaches my ear. We stand still, but the splashing only increases.
My free hand reaches for the knife at my back. I signal Diego to wait. He seeks support against a wall while I point my light forward. Just then, a shadow dashes from one side to the other, disappearing around the furthest corner. My fingers curl around my blade’s grip.
“What is it?” Diego whispers in my ear, his breath on my neck. “What did you see?”
“Nothing. Yet. But they’re coming. I want you to stay behind me. Only strike if needed. You can’t lose any more blood.”
“I can fight.”
“And you will have to, but let me stay ahead. I’m not hurt. More importantly, I need you to hold the flashlight so I can see them coming.”
I use the knife to rip my sleeves, wrapping the clothing around my neck. Once the attack starts, I’ll pull it over my face. I give the other piece to Diego.
He nods slightly before swallowing, his Adam’s apple rising and falling rapidly. “Look, if I don’t make it—”
I turn sharply to him, jaw set. “I know you need to make jokes right now, Diego, but that isn’t remotely funny. You’ll make it.”
He takes a shallow breath and insists. “This is about your mother. You should hear it. Isn’t she the reason why you’re saving me?”
I freeze, a knot forming in my stomach. “What?”
“In case I die, don’t you want to know where the cure is and how to get it?”
My eyes race over his face, brain refusing to comprehend his words. Here it is—the reason for this journey, the thing I wanted all this time, and I only need to let him say the words. If he tells me now, I won’t even need to set foot on Bonita. I can just turn around and leave.
I shake my head furiously. “I…”
“This doesn’t need to be the end for you.”
The truth is, I don’t want him to tell me. If I know the answer to curing my mother, and it doesn’t involve saving Diego, I’m afraid of what I’ll do. I don’t want to be in that position again—choosing to abandon the man I care about to save my mother.
Despite what I tried to tell myself, despite the lies used to convince him, I care. I care about him. The moment I saw him clutching his wound, kneeling in the mud, I realized all my walls have fallen already.
I don’t want to choose my mother over him. It hurt too much to do it the first time. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.
“Bel, I think you should know—”
Grabbing him by the collar, I shut him up with a kiss.
Our lips crash together, warmth running all over my body. He runs his fingers through my hair, his grip tightening as I spread his lips apart to taste his mouth. It tastes bitter and coppery from the pills he took, but I don’t care. Everything else feels sweet, especially as his tongue explores every inch of my mouth.
In that moment, I let go of my trust issues, of my fears of betrayal, of my excuses and justifications. All that remains is the certainty we’re together. Right here, right now.
I placed all my hopes on Diego. Not just for my mother’s future, but my own. I want to imagine happiness in my future. Even if it’s for a second. Even if I don’t deserve it.
Both seeking air, we break apart. My chest falls and rises fast, the adrenaline from the kiss burning my veins with unexpected fire.
Filled with determination I didn’t know I was still capable of, I say, “This isn’t the end for either of us. The only way I’m saving my mother is by keeping you alive, Vargas. So stay alive.”
Diego blinks, an astonished smile on the lips I just tasted. “Yes, ma’am. With pleasure.”
With renewed energy, we face the darkness ahead. Together.
Rocks tumble. The sound of heavy breathing bounces off the walls followed by rasped snarls. I point my flashlight toward the noises.
A group of infected blocks our way to the elevator shaft and the exit. Grimy rags hang loose and barely conceal their skeletal bodies as they lumber in our direction, bloated limbs covered in moss and muck. But their bulging eyes are vivid and seeking, always seeking nourishment.
We need to clear a path. There’s no retreating, no way but forward. And with Diego injured, it’s all up to me.
The infected quicken their pace, drawn by the flashlight. A little more and they’ll see me. And that’s when they will lunge.
I grip my knife tight and prepare to strike.
The first one is a man, hair covering half of his ashen face, brown shorts hanging from his bony hips, and nails overgrown and filled with dirt.
I don’t wait for him to attack first.
Instead, I grab him by the arm,
pulling it down and forward, so his open mouth meets the tip of my knife. The blade slices its way from the ceiling of his mouth to the brain matter. I push his chest away to pull out my knife faster.
As I turn, another infected leaps at my throat, sharp nails trying to yank away the piece of cloth covering my lower face. The man’s gaping mouth aims for my cheek, but Diego intervenes, burying his machete into the infected’s head.
Smelling the blood and adrenaline in the air, the rest of the crowd sprints toward us, their screams and howls ringing on every wall, engulfing all my other senses. I kick one of the bodies in front of me against the mass of people coming. The crash slows them down for a second. They push, climb, and bite each other to get away from the blocking body.
One woman trips. She’s crushed, her bones cracking loudly until the noise becomes meaty.
I whack and chop mercilessly at anything that dares to go near me, blood splattering on the walls, on my covered face, on the ceiling.
I’m soaked in blood, in sweat, in cold water. My arms cry at each swipe and hit. Hand sticky with fresh blood, the knife slips from my grip, falling down to the ground and disappearing between the bodies and the dark.
So I push and shove them away from me, kicking and punching their bodies with all my strength, wrestling to keep them back. I lose track of my own body, of my heartbeat, to the point that when Diego takes my hand and places a machete’s grip between my fingers, I only notice after I buried the weapon into someone’s skull.
The bodies start to pile up. The ones still alive try to climb the stack, shoving each other out of the way at a chance to kill us, but they get stuck between the motionless limbs. I take a moment to actually breathe, filling my burning lungs with the damp air surrounding us. Diego’s chest heaves, his blood-red face strained.
Groans, moans, screams, and yells mix together as I swing the weapon in every possible direction. It seems endless. It seems like we’ll never ever leave this narrow, freezing, hellish passage.
But then, it all stops. Silence falls, with our haggard breathing being the only sound left. I blink at the dark. In the middle of the confusion, I lost the flashlight, so I keep still, focusing on breathing, just breathing.
Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel Page 12
