We did it. We’re alive. Somehow.
“It’s over,” Diego mutters between coughs.
I spin around to see him, to check if he’s really alive, if he’s hurt, or bitten. I can barely make out his face in the dark, so I touch his shoulders, his arms, and then his cheeks.
He places his hand over mine, as it lingers on his cheek. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
Suddenly, he hugs me. He actually hugs me. His strong arms closing around me, pulling me in against his heaving chest. Long gone is the musky smell of his cologne, buried by the salty sweat and coppery blood he’s covered in, but I still feel protected, welcomed in a way I haven’t in a long time. We’re drenched, cold, and exhausted, but he warms me anyway, my heart throbbing at his touch.
All my life, I had to fight tooth and nail for every scrap I ever got. I fought for money, for food, for the right to be alive, but also for my mother’s affection. For Liam’s affection. Even if he didn’t demand it outright, Liam wanted me to give my all to his cause.
Not Diego. His affection comes easily, no strings attached. And I want his affection so badly. I want to give in. And I do.
I wrap my arms around him too. For as long as this moment lasts, I’m somewhere safe, away from every worry I ever had.
As we let go of each other, there’s a moment of quiet between us. He pushes wet strands of hair from my face, and I wait.
I don’t know for what exactly. A question. A confession. A promise. A teasing joke. Nothing comes. With his silence, Diego is giving me time and space. If I want, I could back out of … whatever this thing between us is.
And I appreciate that.
We move on, slower and more tired than ever. Flooded tunnels await us, with the water sometimes reaching my chest. I keep close to Diego, occasionally checking his temperature, other times helping him stay steady while we jump over blocking rocks or broken wooden panels.
He rarely accepts my help, always whispering that he’s fine, but I worry all the same. We’re covered in dirt, and his bandages are soaked by this filthy water, full of bacteria. If he didn’t have an infection before, he certainly has one now.
The water finally starts to recede, and I can almost feel my feet again. There’s no way to dry ourselves, and we don’t have the time to start a fire, but I’m hopeful we’ll reach the surface soon, since the path becomes steep, taking us up again.
Noises sometimes reach us. Groans, moans, and heavy breathing, but no infected appears. And then, another sound echoes around the passageways—the howling of the wind.
The elevator shaft is, miraculously, still there and intact. More importantly, its generator still blinks green.
We get on the metallic cage, and I press the ‘up’ button. The clanks of the engine and steel cords are loud and clumsy, but, after a few seconds, the elevator slowly starts moving.
Diego steadies himself on the railing, blinking furiously to stay awake. I stand close to him, ready to hold him if needed.
Finally, I feel the gentle caress of a breeze on my cheek, then the air gets lighter, the smells of earth and moss less prominent. Rain bounces off rocks followed by thunder and the sound of waves in the distance. The night air is fresh but salty.
While helping Diego walk, I step out of the elevator, rain pouring down over my weary limbs.
The air in my lungs disappears, my chest tight with anxiety. I taste salt as I bite my lip, trying to keep it together and avoid a panic attack.
I’m back. Will the clinic still be there, a small beacon of hope fighting to exist in the middle of the chaos?
To treat Diego’s injury and to find the whereabouts of Alex, the very person I would, in any other circumstance, try my damnedest to avoid at all costs, is the one I need to find.
Liam.
It’s time to face the man I betrayed and beg for his help.
As we step out in the open, I close my eyes for a second or two, take a deep breath, and then gaze upon our surroundings. The area remains covered by overgrown vegetation. Dusty boxes and rusted equipment are scattered all around us, sunken into the mud.
The moon hides behind storm clouds as spotlights on top of Ortiz’s wall do the job of piercing the rainy mist. The concrete wall, tall as a five-story building, is still as intimidating as ever. Thick enough to allow constant patrols and watchtowers, it’s fenced by barbed wire and sharp pieces of broken bottles. The type of barrier one would see in a prison, not a health facility built to help its citizens.
The eerie quiet around us only serves as a reminder of the danger ahead. It’s a sign of fear, of repression, and exhaustion. The outside belongs to the infected and those desperate enough to wander in the dark. Everyone else hides inside buildings.
On the horizon, I can see the silhouettes of the mining facility—three large warehouses, and, further in, the housing apartments.
I thought the sight of this place would be enough for another panic attack, but it only takes one look at Diego and determination wins over. The tightness in my chest disappears. I have many ghosts to face here and many mistakes to pay for. Diego dying won’t be one of them.
He sits on a crate, a hand on his injury. His face is ashen, and his silence proof of the blood loss. I want him to rest, but we can’t stop now.
“How do you feel?” I ask as I help him up, already suspecting the news won’t be good.
He gives me a strained smile. “Depends on how close we are to your doctor friends.”
I bite my lip and squeeze his hand. “Not far.”
“Then I’m good.”
We keep a steady pace since I’m afraid Diego will collapse at any moment. The spotlights travel on the ground as we stick close to the wall to avoid being seen. I don’t think they would care about two people limping around, but drawing the attention of the Army never did any good for anybody.
I wonder if Bonita’s southeast wall is still under Captain Pereira’s responsibility. Six months is a long time, and things might’ve changed since I left.
That becomes clear when we reach the warehouses and find them scorched almost beyond recognition.
I gasp, letting go of Diego and running toward the structures, now mere melted husks of nothing.
The beds were burnt to a crisp; now there are pieces of black, charred wood in their place. There’s nothing left of the tents the doctors used or the medical equipment. Everything burned. Liam’s clinic is now littered with ash, debris, and scorched bodies.
Paralyzed by the destruction, tears form in my eyes. I never expected this would happen. Who did this? Who would destroy the only safe place left in Bonita?
Was it my fault? Is Liam dead because of me?
While I suspected they would suffer a grim fate as tragedy finds everyone on this island, I kept hope buried deep inside that he would be safe somehow.
I swallow back the tears and let out a trembling sigh.
Where can we go now? Who will help Diego?
“Bel? There’s someone here,” Diego’s voice sounds so far away, I almost think it’s a dream.
Once his words sink in, I raise my head from the destruction. Not far from where we stand, a short, starved man walks hunched over the wreckage, digging for something under the ash and burnt wood. His sunken eyes find mine, and he straightens himself, ready to bolt.
“Wait,” I yell, reaching for my backpack and taking out my last granola bar. “Here. I’ll give you food if you answer my questions. Okay?”
With narrowed eyes, the man approaches us. He looks from one side to the other, probably expecting an ambush of some sort, but we are out in the open with no hiding places. No doubt realizing that, he nods while rubbing his red nose.
The question on the tip of my tongue is ‘how did this happen?’ but, afraid of the answer, I ask him something else. “Did any of the doctors who worked here survive?”
“Yes.”
I gulp, heart racing. “Is … Doctor Brown …
Is Liam among them?”
“Who?”
“He’s a gringo. Blond hair … Blue eyes.”
I feel Diego’s eyes on my back.
The tired survivor shrugs. “They all look the same to me.”
It was a long shot anyway. I nod. “Where are they?”
He points toward the apartment buildings, constructed close together to make use of every space available. “Follow the Red Cross signs. Now, give me that.”
I toss him the bar, careful to keep some distance between us. My backpack might be tempting enough for him to risk getting killed. He rips the bar open and shoves it inside his mouth whole, cheeks protruding as he chews.
While he eats, I take a step back and offer Diego my shoulder.
“So, more walking, then?” Diego says to me, face ashen.
“I’m afraid so.”
He nods, and we leave the warehouses behind, approaching the little town where my father and other workers lived during the years Bonita was bustling with mining activity. Now, the activity is quite the different kind. Filled with debris after years of abandonment, the streets are also occupied by wandering infected.
Usually, I would avoid them by climbing the buildings and jumping from one window to another, but Diego is far too injured for that.
So we risk the streets. At least I quickly spot the signs the man mentioned. Nothing more than pieces of cardboard with red paint splattered on them, and usually hanging from windows, they have arrows pointing toward the promise of aid.
But Diego’s condition worsens at each step. When my trained ears catch the sounds of shambling feet, I know there’s no way to outrun them. We hide behind a large dumpster as a group of infected pass by us. Diego slides down onto the ground, letting out a deep breath. I keep a hand on the machete, ready to act if needed, stealing glances at the street from the corner just as they drag their feet away from us.
A few stragglers linger around, eyes dull and empty, but a stray dog rushing between the debris draws their attention away from us. Once they are out of view, I help Diego up, and we move on.
After struggling to cross one more block, I finally find the Red Cross sign above the entrance of a beaten-down apartment building. If the arrow pointing down wasn’t clear enough, the wailing of the sick helps confirm this is the right place.
Using each other as support, we climb the pile of broken furniture used to stop the infected from wandering in.
Inside, I lead Diego around the tight hallways and help him avoid the people lying down on the floor, clutching their stomachs or staring at the walls with vacant eyes. The smell of sweat and waste infuses the damp air with a vomiting-inducing quality unique to Bonita. I hold my breath for as long as possible to avoid gagging.
At the end of the hallway, a blond man has his back to us while walking between the rows of patients, checking their conditions. My heart leaps, but I know it’s not Liam. He’s far too tall. I walk toward him anyway.
As I touch the doctor’s shoulder, Diego pulls away from me and seeks support from the wall instead, perhaps self-conscious or just plain delirious.
The doctor turns around.
“Please… He’s been shot and—” I stop talking at the sight of Dr. Isidor, Liam’s friend.
It takes a few seconds, but recognition dawns as the man’s eyebrows close together and his nostrils flare. “You.”
The German doctor never liked me much, and his opinion of me must be even lower now. I swallow and take a deep breath.
“I…” Focus, Isabel. This is about Diego. I point at him. “My friend has been shot. He has lost a lot of blood. Please.”
Isidor gives Diego a pointed look, eyes resting on his bloodied shirt. He nods. “Fine. Follow me.”
He turns around, but I grab his arm before he can leave. Isidor’s gaze is cold. I lick my lips, hesitant.
“Is … is Liam alive?”
“Yes.”
Before I can ask anything else, he disappears into the nearest apartment. Diego rests his half-open eyes on me. There’s much he doesn’t know, but in a few moments, it’ll be hard to hide anything.
After a brief second of hesitancy, I place Diego’s arm over my shoulder while he keeps a hand on the wall on the other side. Limping, we follow Dr. Isidor inside.
The news that Liam is alive brings joy to my heart, but it quickly mixes with guilt and the fear of meeting him again. What will he do once he sees me? Does he hate me?
The tiny living room has been cleared of all furniture but tables and mattresses. All of them occupied by more sick people. I barely notice them as Liam gets up from examining a sleeping man and walks in my direction.
He’s wearing a white coat, one as clean as I have ever seen him wear, but that’s the only positive thing about his appearance.
Tears sting my eyes at the sight of his injuries. He has a nasty burn scar on his cheek and neck. As he approaches us, I also notice a limp. He tries to walk straight, hiding the injury, but the facade crumbles with a slight wince and long pauses between steps.
I want to run to him, hug him, and promise to fix everything. I also want to hide and never show my face again to any human being.
But all I do is stare, knowing that no amount of apologies or tears will change what happened between us. I’ll let him decide what should happen next. I don’t deserve to approach him first.
As he stops in front of us, I see no recognition in his face. His dim blue eyes pass over me as if I’m invisible. Part of me cheers him on, glad he’ll punish me for what I did. But a small tinge of regret stubbornly rises in my chest too.
“Type of injury?” he asks in a monotone, pointing at Diego’s shirt.
“Bullet wound,” I answer. Diego is in no condition to do anything but blink.
“Exit wound?”
“The bullet went through.”
“Did he take any medication?”
“I cleaned his wound. He took a few painkillers.”
Liam waves at Isidor. “Help me carry him into the bedroom.”
All the dread I felt at seeing Liam dissipates as the doctors gently pry Diego away from me with no resistance from him. His lack of response scares me. I was so focused on getting us here that only now do I allow my heart to fear for his life. Was I too late? Was it a mistake to drag him through that tunnel? I close my eyes, which burn from too many unshed tears.
They place him on a bed, the only proper one in this apartment. Afraid of getting in the way, I keep to myself, staring at Diego’s now-unconscious form. Somehow, I’m sure he used up all his strength on our way here so I wouldn’t have to carry him on my own. The energy it must’ve taken him to just keep standing … I shiver. If I had any faith left in me, I would pray for him, but God and I had a falling out a long time ago, and no attempts were made from either side to find reconciliation.
The only thing I can do is wait and watch from the corner of the bedroom, heart pounding, as Liam checks Diego’s vitals and Isidor rips his shirt so they can check his wound.
Both work fast, Liam sending Isidor in and out of the room to bring needles, gauze, and tubes while he takes Diego’s temperature. He places his coat on Diego’s legs just as Isidor walks in with the supplies he asked for.
Finally, Liam spins around and faces me. He’s holding a large needle connected to a tube. His expression is blank. “He lost too much blood. So … you’re still O-negative, I gather?”
I ignore the bitterness in his voice and nod. I’m familiar with the process. I donated blood more than once back in the old clinic. I find a wooden chair next to the bed and sit on it, offering him my right arm.
There’s some hesitancy before he says, “I’ll need to access an artery this time to give him a better chance of survival. It’s dangerous, not ideal … and it will hurt.”
“Do it.”
After a nod, he quickly disinfects the inside of my wrist and painfully punctures my skin with the needle to draw blood. I close my hand into a fist then open it to help pum
p the liquid faster.
As the blood flows into the tube, Liam connects it to Diego’s arm. Despite the pain, I’m grateful I can still do something for him. This is better than standing around while Diego fights for his life.
I don’t know how long I keep still. My body weakens as the blood leaves my veins. Liam works in silence, back arched and hands swiftly cleaning and closing Diego’s wound. There are no beeps or blinking lights from machines to tell me Diego’s condition. The only assurance I have that he’s alive is his chest rising and falling.
Then, not even that reassures me. I begin to doubt my eyes, as sweat and exhaustion blur my vision.
I swallow dry and risk speaking my doubts out loud. “Is he … How is he doing?”
Keeping his back to me, Liam finally answers my question. “His blood pressure is stabilizing. I’ll stop the transfusion soon and you can rest. But he has a fever. Probably an infection. I gave him a dose of antibiotics, so we’ll see how he reacts to them. It will be a long night.”
I let silence fall between us again. I’m sure he has dozens of questions for me, and I have a few of my own, but I’m afraid of the answers. He needs to help Diego right now, and I can sense from the tension in his shoulders that one single wrong word would set him off. This is not the right moment.
Sometime later, he takes the needle from my wrist and then bends closer to apply pressure on the puncture wound with a swab. I can feel his breath brush my skin, and our close proximity pierces my chest with a pain I can only describe as regret. Where once there was a thrill, now there’s only guilt.
“Keep two fingers on it to stop the bleeding,” he tells me with a cold, professional tone I never heard before.
“Thank you. Not for the advice … but for helping us. For helping him.”
He ignores me, focusing on taking off his gloves and tossing them in a plastic bag under Diego’s bed. Then, he moves toward the door. I panic. I don’t want to fight but ignoring what I did feels wrong too. I want to apologize. I want to make amends if that’s even possible.
Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel Page 13
