The guard narrows his eyes, risking opening the gap a little more, just enough to get a better view of me. His gaze rests on my backpack.
“What you have?”
“Clean water. Dry socks. Food.”
“Yeah? And I’m General Ortiz himself. Where did you get all of that?”
Instead of answering his question, I swing the backpack forward and open it so he can see its contents.
Satisfied, he nods and closes the gate with a loud thud. A few seconds later, he drags the metal open again.
“Raise your arms. I need to check if you have any weapons.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure. Raise your arms.”
I knew this was a possibility. Luckily, I placed the gun in the backpack, bundled by Diego’s dirty clothes and under everything else. My hope was once I showed him inside the backpack he would assume I had nothing of importance there.
I was right. He pats me slowly, enjoying himself and oblivious to my disgust at his touch, but ignores the backpack.
Five armed men glare as I cross the small patio in front of the building. They keep their hands on their rifles, and one discreetly follows me inside.
The base remains as filthy as ever, with people wasting their miserable time with gambling, sex, and any luxury their leader decides to throw at them once in a while. I saw people kill for a bar of soap once, with Ezequiel laughing as they beat each other in front of him.
Today, at the main hall, a large crowd hoots and applauds a fighting match in a corner while Ezequiel’s top soldiers collect bets. No money is exchanged, only goods. Canned food, cigarettes, cigars, beer, and cards await a winner. Some of it was brought by the survivors, but most of the items were probably recovered from the Army’s supply drops or smuggled in by Ortiz’s soldiers for sex.
I move away from the commotion, ignoring as best as I can the cracking of bones and the cheers for blood. Bumping into a familiar face will turn out badly for me. I’m not sure six months is enough to be forgotten by Ezequiel’s most-trusted men. Their drugged-out minds might not recognize me from a distance, but a closer inspection would probably spark the memory of us working together.
With that in mind, I keep my head down and look for someone new. It doesn’t take long to spot a trader inside one of the dingy apartments on the first floor. There’s a slow-moving line of gaunt-looking people in front of it. As I wait for my turn, I look at the ground, avoiding anyone who walks by the hallway. Carefully, I rummage inside the backpack, pretending to be checking my loot. As gracefully as I can, I slip the gun into my back and billow my shirt out to hide it.
The apartment’s living area has been turned into storage with a desk in the middle. The “shopkeeper” himself is a bald man with a nose ring, flanked by two guards.
“Come in. What do you want, girl?” he asks while waving at me to get closer.
“I want information. I’m looking for someone.”
The guy raises his chin and crosses his arms. “That’s not one I hear often. People usually want to lose others, not find them. What’s your deal?”
“That’s my business. Are you the guy to ask or should I take my loot elsewhere?”
He smirks. “I’m the guy. Describe this person.”
“He’s a eleven-year-old boy who just lost his mother. Sent a letter to the mainland.”
The description sparks the man’s interest. He straightens up on his chair and narrows his eyes. “I know the kid.”
“Where is he?”
“Let’s see what you got first.”
I throw the backpack on his desk, and then keep both hands at my back just in case I need to reach for the gun. He shakes the bag and let its contents fall out. His eyes sparkle at the items.
“Okay. This will do. I want the backpack as well. Do we have a deal?”
I nod. One less thing to carry and I still have mine back at the clinic.
“The boy is doing errands for Zeke all over this building. The boss’ girl, Julia, lets him sleep in her room. Third floor, apartment thirty-three.”
And that’s it. I swallow. Alex is upstairs. Close. I can hardly believe it.
“What kind of errands?”
The guy shrugs. “No idea. Are we done?”
I turn and head to the exit, but he calls me back.
“It’s strange that I’ve never seen you around. I know everybody. What’s your name?”
Without missing a beat, I face him again and answer, “Ana. First time here.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the info.”
I leave the room with a racing heart. The person next in line quickly blocks me from view, and I slip between the crowds to disappear. It won’t take long until he talks to someone else, describes me, and they realize my real identity. I’d better find Alex quick.
Painfully aware of each person I find on my way to the stairs, I keep a steady pace so as not to attract even more attention. It’s only when I arrive at the third floor that my muscles relax a little.
The hallway is quiet for the most part. As I pass by the apartment doors, I hear the moaning and old furniture squeaking. A couple stumbles out of a room, almost bumping into me. Fortunately, they are too busy sucking each other’s necks to notice anyone else.
This entire floor smells like sweat, sex, and bleach. For an instant, I freeze on the spot as a dreadful thought invades my mind. What if … these errands …
I shake my head. Whatever happened to Alex, Diego will be there to support him. If I can, I’ll be there too. I was close to being in one of these rooms myself. Ezequiel likes to brag about giving an opportunity for anyone to earn a living. He claims he never forces anyone, man or woman, to sell themselves. The reality, of course, is that without any other option, this is the only way they can survive.
After taking a deep breath, I continue toward Julia’s room. We only met once because Ezequiel thought it would be funny to give me a mission while she gave him a blowjob. I suppose he hoped I would join in.
While it had been embarrassing and humiliating, I’m glad she was focused on something else back then and probably won’t recognize me now.
Before I knock on the door, I make sure there’s no moaning or laughs coming from inside. The last thing I need is to interrupt Ezequiel mid-coitus.
It takes a minute but the door opens. A woman with disheveled hair sleeps on a couch in the middle of the tiny living room, one of her arms dangling, fingertips touching the dirty floor. The smell of marijuana and sweat hits my nose immediately.
Finally, I lower my gaze, searching for the person who opened the door. My breath is caught in my throat as I find a boy with curly black hair and dark eyes glaring at me. From his nose to his jaw, I can see Diego clearly on this boy’s face. Alex.
“Hi,” I say after an awkward pause.
“Wrong door, lady. She only sees Zeke.”
He pushes the door with the weight of his body, but I hold it with a hand before he can shut in my face. “Wait. I’m not here for… that. Alex, right? Your name is Alessandro.”
Narrowing his eyes, and after glancing back at the passed-out woman, he nods. “Who are you?”
I place a hand on his shoulder, leaning toward him to speak in a lower voice. “I’m a friend of your father’s. I’m here to take you away from this place.”
All the weariness disappears from his youthful face. His eyes are wide with relief. “Really?”
“Really.” I smile. “But we need to do it fast before anyone sees us.”
He takes a step forward, but then narrows his eyes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? Zeke told me he would take me to my dad, but he lied. You could be lying too.”
“I’m not. I know it’s hard to trust anyone right now, but…” I pause. How can I convince him I’m telling the truth? “Your father told me you had trouble sleeping when you were little, that he would place ice on the back of your neck to help you sleep. Do you remember that? He told me that because
he trusts me, okay? Please, we need to go.”
Reluctantly, he nods. I grab him by the hand, and we run toward the staircase. We go down one floor but slow down once I hear voices coming from below. I stop and put an arm in front of Alex, keeping us next to the wall until the noises die down.
We cross the ground floor at a slower pace. Running would only draw attention. Every step is nerve wracking. This time, it seems all eyes are on us. Some people even move out of our way as if we were infected.
I hold Alex’s hand tight and stare forward, picturing the exit just ahead. It’s not that far. We can do it.
But when we pass by the still-going fighting match, Zeke’s men nod at each other, moving away from the betting crowd. With my head down, I hurry our pace until we’re out of the building and outside. Three men follow us out.
I look at Alex, and he looks at me with unabashed fear. I swallow and race toward the makeshift gate.
The gatekeeper sits on a crate, sharping a knife against a strip of leather. His head shoots up as I approach him. He smirks. There’s no need for words. He’s not going to let us pass. I consider using the gun, but it would draw too much attention from the other guards.
He jumps off the crate, throws the leather away, and flips the knife from one hand to the other. At the same time, I let go of Alex’s hand and rush toward him.
He takes a swipe at me with the knife, but I’m far too quick and easily grab his wrist, twisting until he lets go of the weapon. Then, I shove his body against the metal gate, his head bouncing at the impact. He grunts, eyes rolling to the back of his skull. Quickly, I pat him for the key to the chains holding the gate together, but there’s nothing in his pockets.
With trembling fingers, I force the gate open just enough for Alex to fit through.
“Alex, come on. You have to leave.”
The boy looks behind, biting his lip hard. “Aren’t you coming with me?”
“I will, but you need to go first. Hurry.”
He raises his eyebrows, wide-eyed. “No. The infected. I’m… I can’t.”
With my free hand, I reach for the gun to give it to him. “Do you know how to use this?”
He nods. “My uncle Rico taught me.”
From the corner of my eye, I spot the guards circling us. We don’t have more time.
“Okay. Then you’ll be okay.”
“But you are coming—”
“I’ll try. You need to go to the clinic. Follow the signs. It’s not that far. That’s where your dad is. Okay?”
“All right. Okay.”
I nod, quickly looking at the guards. They’re running toward us now. Perhaps a little too forcefully, I shove Alex between the passage. Outside the walls, he hesitates.
“Go!” I yell. “Just go.”
Only after he starts running do I allow myself to breathe. I close my eyes for a second, and then turn around to face my enemies.
Five men surround me. They don’t move or say anything, just raise their weapons. While two are holding a bat and a machete, three have AK-47 rifles. I could take down one, and that’s it. Climbing the barricade would get me shot in the back.
I clench my jaw, haggard breathing loud in my ears. The only thing I can do now for Alex and Diego is to delay Ezequiel’s men. There’s no escape.
Of course, to make things even worse, Ezequiel himself steps onto the improvised courtyard.
In his mid-sixties, Zeke has tattoos on his neck and arms, and a face that has seen plenty of punching. His nose is bent from a fracture that didn’t mend right. A large scar stopped his right eyebrow from growing again. His smile is yellow, fake. Anyone who believes in it does so at a great risk.
The man stares at me with curiosity in his hard, wrinkled eyes. I swallow hard, heart pounding against my chest.
“Of course it had to be you. Even dead, you are a pain in the ass.” He chuckles, licking his lips. “Welcome back to the world of the living. You’re looking nice for a corpse.”
His eyes linger on my body. I hold my breath, but I don’t move an inch.
“Go get the boy back before he dies or something,” he sneers to one of his men.
The guy rushes toward me, holding a piece of wood. Without hesitating, I swipe at his feet, knocking him down swiftly. Ezequiel laughs.
Another man dares to approach me. I punch him in the face, and then in the stomach. He grunts but swings at me. I see stars as he hits me on the cheek. I spit blood.
With one wave of his hand, Ezequiel orders the rest of them to attack me. I try my best, dodging, kicking, and punching frantically, but I soon get overwhelmed.
Two men grab me by the arms, pulling me toward Zeke. I kick my legs, screaming until my throat is raw, but it’s useless. I’m outnumbered. I’m alone. No matter how much I fight, there’s no way out. I’ll die on this damn island without seeing my mother ever again. It’s over.
Defeat strips me of the little strength I had left. Hollow inside, I let Zeke and his men push and shove me around as they take me back to the building and deeper inside.
Finally, I’m tossed into a dark room with a single chair in the middle, and a lightbulb hanging low from a cord. Dark red stains litter the ground.
I remember this place. I know what will happen here.
They force me to sit, push my hands to the back of the chair, and then tie my wrists together. Everyone but Zeke leaves. He locks the door. Instinctively, I take a sharp intake of air, the sound of my heartbeat thrashing in my ears as I remember the last time he tortured me here. I test the knots around my wrists, but they don’t move an inch. I start breathing fast, too fast. My head becomes light. The old pains rush back, the panic spreading like fire.
Ezequiel lights a cigar, calmly blowing smoke while strolling from left to right and leering at me.
“You know, when they told me you ran away into the mines, I was pissed. Not only you ignored my orders; turned against me after I gave you protection and food, you also robbed me of my revenge. Made me look like a fool. You humiliated me in front of my men, in front of every piece of shit on this island. So, I spent an awful lot of time imagining what I would do if you were alive somehow. And I figured death was easy. I’m going to take my time with you, girl. Are you ready?”
I lift my chin, trying not to show him the fear that threatens to choke me from the inside.
I have no way out. It’s just Ezequiel, this chair, and me.
Earlier
Bonita Island
Liam
I blink to clear the sweat from my eyes. Today more than any day, the room seems to be a furnace. I can barely breathe. I have two patients with severe dehydration, one with a broken wrist, and another one brought in by his father, suspected of being bitten.
Yet, what is bothering me more, more than the moldy air and temperature, is knowing that Isabel is so close. Her presence threw me off completely. Not two days ago, I thought she was dead. I grieved for a girl I barely knew but fell hard for. Anger and sadness are mixed together, and I can’t make sense of anything anymore.
I feel like a teenager, unable to concentrate on my work as flashes of our conversation keep interrupting my more rational thoughts. Isidor, bless him, is doing twice the work today. Despite having little in common besides our profession, we had no choice but to become friends after the many shitty situations we faced.
Feeling guilty for not doing my best, I help him restrain a patient while he sets her finger back into place. Perhaps used to the pain, the woman doesn’t scream, merely grunts.
“Isabel left,” Isidor says without taking his eyes off the woman. He quickly places a tiny piece of wood between her fingers, tied up by a string, to keep the injured finger immobilized. “Did you see her leave?”
I shake my head. Dread rises from the pit of my stomach. “Was she alone?”
He nods. “Yes. The guy is still in his room.”
“Maybe she went out for air.” It’s pretty hard, but I try to keep my voice neutral. Isidor hates Isabel
for what she did to us, and my reluctance to share the sentiment—despite what I’ve told her—annoys him.
“She took a backpack and a gun.”
I swallow. I knew this would happen. I knew she would race to save that man’s son the second I told her where he was. I should be glad—maybe she’ll save his life and my guilt for letting Ezequiel take him in the first place will dull a little. But all I feel is fear that I have sent Isabel to die after being a complete jerk to her. I lost her all over again.
“I can’t do anything about that,” I finally say to Isidor.
He throws me a side-glance, not needing words to express disbelief at my casual response. He can see right through my act.
We go back to work. Or, at least, I try to. My mind keeps conjuring up scenarios where she comes back alive, where we talk again, I somehow forgive her, and we move on from this mess. Other times, I think the worst has happened. Needless to say, when the time comes to check on Diego Vargas, drug lord extraordinaire, I’m a mess.
Feeling edgy, I clench my jaw and put on my professional face. Obviously, I don’t like or trust the guy. Not only his reputation is as bad as Ezequiel’s, but also he and Isabel are together. And that just doesn’t … I can’t make sense of it. Not after what Isabel was subjected to in Bonita. Not after she dedicated so much time helping me at the clinic.
At the same time, she did lie and steal from us in the end. So perhaps her morals aren’t as black and white as I thought.
It seems everything I believed I knew about her was wrong. I don’t know why I thought we knew each other. She didn’t even tell me about her mother. And I blame myself for that. It’s my job to help people, but I was too busy with my feelings to truly find a way into her heart. To truly understand what she felt.
None of that means I’m going to accept that a drug lord is a better man than I am. Someone who profits from addicts is a terrible person in my book. Whatever my mistakes, Isabel is putting herself at risk by associating with someone like him.
His recovery is, thankfully, at full speed—the faster he gets better, the sooner he’s out of my clinic. I bring soup and old bread for him to eat, and, in silence, check his vitals. His fever is gone, and color is back in his cheeks. I suppose he was born lucky—not only has he recovered from extreme blood loss, but he also survived this long despite being a dangerous criminal.
Deadly Hearts: A Post Apocalyptic Romance Novel Page 16
