The 52nd (The 52nd Saga Book 1)

by Dela

  I pulled the uncrushed leaves from my pocket and laid them over her wound, quieting the sucking sound, and kneaded the sap and the ground herbs from my other pocket together between my fingers a few times before working it over the leaves’ edges to bond them to her skin. Scent rose off the sap as it warmed—Mayans had burned copal as incense for centuries, to worship, to heal, to mourn the dead . . . I adhered the leaf all the way around and left a small hole on the bottom for the air to pass and the blood to leak out. I couldn’t be sure if she needed a tube until I got home and had clean hands, and could really see how bad the bleeding was. I cradled Zara in my arms again, careful with her collarbone, and turned toward home.

  My feet sank deep as I stood, and each step in the swampy mud took extra strength. Eventually I stopped treading on ground and leaped from root to root. It was easier to avoid the crocodiles that way, and for Zara, less rough. The jungle path was slower but more direct. Thirty minutes later, I reached a small gas station in Campeche with bathrooms at the back of the building.

  Perfect, no one will see us.

  My arms were slick with blood and clammy sweat. I propped Zara underneath the shade of a tree and rushed to the bathroom. I rinsed off only what I needed to have a better grip on her, dried my hands on my legs since there was no paper, and pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed Nicolás.

  “Nico,” I commanded when he picked up. “I’m coming with Zara in twenty-five minutes. Move her family to the living room. They can’t see her how she is . . . and probably not me, either . . . and she needs spare clothes . . . and I need my medical bag at her bedside.” I was about to hang up, but added, “Wait, I need blood. I don’t know what her blood type is. Tell the Aluxes to get it and have it waiting in the room.”

  I hung up and walked back to Zara. She looked like a paper doll: pale, ripped, fragile. I fought back tears, picked up her limp body, and resumed our journey. When I reached the beach, I picked up speed on the packed sand, racing until I saw Nicolás and Marifer waiting right outside the house. I stopped and fell to my knees. Zara’s breath was weaker, and I had to lean my ear to her heart to hear it. Marifer rushed over and peeled the tangled, crusted hair off her chest. I could see again the leaf moving gently up and down as she breathed. The flow was much less now. It shocked me—I didn’t expect the bleeding to stop at all, not if the wound was deep beyond repair. He didn’t sever an artery; there’s a chance. I shot back up and whisked her to the back door.

  Nicolás abruptly raised his hand. “No! Otra puerto, señor.”

  I rushed to the garage door instead, turning to Nicolás as he followed me. “Is her family not in the living room?”

  “They are playing cards with Raul and Eugenio. But it is not them, it is Señor Max. He won’t stop watching the back door.”

  I stopped briefly and glanced up to the doors that opened onto the balcony. Max was there, watching me through the glass. I froze and squeezed Zara a little more tightly into me. When Max didn’t look down at her, I took another step, but he flashed away and the doors suddenly bounced as he tried to tug them open. The curse wouldn’t lift until Tita got back; we’d have to deal with him inside.

  My jaw tensed with irritation as I continued to move. “Keep him away from Zara’s room for as long as possible. Marifer, come with me.”

  Marifer and I shot through the garage, up the stairs, and into Zara’s bedroom before the garage door quietly shut. The room had everything we needed. A small cooler I assumed held the blood was sitting on the floor by the bed, next to my black leather medical bag. And there was a fresh nightgown on the nightstand.

  “Marifer,” I called, laying Zara across the sheets. Her head rolled to the side and her arms fell off her chest, unnaturally relaxed. I froze, and then the faintest beat of her heart echoed in my ears and I broke. “Watch her.”

  I rushed to the bathroom, scrubbed my arms and hands until the water ran clean, and ran back to the room. “Get a warm, damp towel and clean off the blood and paint around the wound,” I ordered, grabbing my leather bag. I pulled out a pair of gloves and threw it to her and then put on a pair myself. As Marifer left for the bathroom, I used forceps to pick off the hardened clumps of sap across her breast. I imagined it would be painful for Zara, so I lifted it slowly, but she was unresponsive and I moved faster. I shut out all outside noise and listened only for her weak heartbeat. When the leaves were mostly loose, I held them in place with one hand while the other removed the smaller, stickier parts that I had missed.

  Marifer returned and worked around my hands, slowly wiping the mixed layers of dried blood and white paint from Zara’s chest. When she stepped away for a clean cloth, I carefully lifted the leaves off. Marifer grabbed them from me and put them in the trash. With both hands, I placed my first two fingers on either side of the gash and spread her skin apart slightly. I leaned in closer for a better look. The cut had gone through cartilage, but it didn’t puncture her lung, and the bleeding was minimal now. She’ll need the bandage until the cartilage can heal and block the air from entering.

  Marifer returned and started cleaning another layer of blood. Moments later it was gone, and there was only a long slash across her left breast. I handed Marifer a sterile sponge and bottle of Betadine from my kit.

  “Use this to clean around the wound,” I said. “We’ll stitch her when you’re done.”

  As Marifer wiped gently around the wound, I reached for Zara’s wrist. Then a loud shout erupted downstairs. Marifer looked at me.

  “Quick, don’t stop,” I urged.

  I looked back to Zara’s wrist. It worried me again that I could feel the coolness of her skin underneath my fingers. I gulped. Her skin was ghostly white, enough to see her blue veins underneath. My stomach pulsed at the sight of Xavier’s fingerprints bruised around the slit flesh. I wiped the area clean, rubbing around it with Betadine, wondering how she didn’t die from this alone. The cut was not across, it was lengthwise, straight through half her artery. I pulled out a needle and thread and sewed the wound shut.

  “Do not lie to me,” Max yelled. He was still downstairs, but it was getting heated down there, and I knew he’d come looking for Zara soon.

  “Marifer!” I yelled. She was staring at the door. “Look at me.”

  She glared back with wide eyes.

  “We . . .”

  The next sound jolted me. The low beat I was always listening for had stopped. Terrified, I looked back to Zara. Her face was slack. I panicked for half a second before I screamed, “Her heart stopped! Marifer, prep the blood IV!”

  Careful of her clavicle, I crossed one hand over the other and started compressions on Zara’s sternum. Her collarbone jutted at odd angles, her body jerked unnaturally, and blood sprayed out of her wound with each push. It caught me in the mouth as I counted in my head.

  Marifer moved in and stabbed the syringe into Zara’s inner elbow as I pumped her chest, harder—more consistently—expelling the air trapped in her pleural space all at once. There was a crack deep within her bones that made me cringe, but I didn’t stop. “Prime the saline port!” One, two, three. “Then flush it and connect it to the IV, and crank it up to one hundred milliliters.” Come on, Zara. Come on! I plugged Zara’s nose and pushed air into her mouth.

  Marifer carried out my orders as I thrust my hands down again. Somewhere between pumps her heart moved.

  “Did you hear that!?” I gasped. “Come back to me, Zara.”

  Another soft beat graced my ears as Marifer connected the blood. Zara’s torso flinched. Marifer and I froze, wondering if it was either of us.

  “Wasn’t me,” I said. Zara’s eyelids were closed, but her body convulsed again, and a shrieking scream erupted from her lips.

  She wasn’t awake, let alone able to feel the pain, but her body flopped on the bed like a fish out of water, clutching her right side below her sternum. And then I saw it: her rib. It
was broken. A light swelling formed over it. I shuddered. I did this. It was only CPR, but I did this. I broke her. I had to—she was dead.

  “Give me another IV,” I demanded. Wetness glazed my eyes as she screamed again.

  Marifer handed me a needle. “Hold her arm down,” I said, directing the needle into a vein on Zara’s free wrist.

  “Morphine,” I ordered next, holding my hand out. “Hurry, before she knocks out the blood line.” Marifer handed me a small vial. I injected it into Zara’s thrashing body, and we both stood back and waited. Her body went limp for half a second before the convulsions restarted.

  “Ah!” I cried, frustrated.

  I pulled out the line and started over. Another vial of morphine, and nothing. Her body was shaking uncontrollably, and her jaw was locking. I pulled the line and poked her two more times. Finally, after the last vial of a smaller dosage of morphine, her body steadied, though her legs remained restless. A small whimper hummed out of her mouth.

  Zara was definitely in pain—that much I knew. But any more morphine would kill her, again. What mattered was that her heartbeat was coming back, steady, stronger.

  “Fifteen minutes until I check vitals and any signs of a reaction,” I said, wiping blood off my face.

  I glanced at the silk sheets. It was like someone had poured a bucket of blood on Zara, and it splashed like spray paint around her. I looked back up to Zara’s purpled chest. How long have I wanted to see her naked, and this is what I get? Battered, bruised, a small trail of blood oozing out of the uncovered wound? It made my stomach turn. I reached for the needle again and began sewing the chest cut.

  At last I tied the knot at the end and looked to Marifer. “Get the others in here and take care of this mess. But watch her right clavicle when you clean her up, I’m afraid it’s broken, and her rib below—I just broke that too. I’m going to shower. I’ll be back to check her vitals.”

  I should have known better than to go out the door. I should have hopped over the balcony. I’d thought I had taken enough precautions. And yet Max was coming straight at me when I opened the door, Nicolás at his heels.

  “Lucas!” Max yelled.

  I froze, my eyes wide with guilt. I forced myself not to check the amount of blood on my clothes. Luckily it had drowned out most the white paint. Max had stopped cold seeing it, and then his vengeful eyes locked on me.

  “What have you done with my sister?!” he shouted.

  I angled my head enough to see Marifer and other Aluxes cleaning like busy little ants. Half of the bed was changed; the other half was waiting for Zara, who was sprawled on it with her drip while the ladies gave her a sponge bath worthy of the best hospital. Someone even had her hair swirling in a bucket while another shampooed her hair. I glanced back to Max.

  “Zara is fine, Max,” I said. “I called a doctor. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Whose blood is that on you?” he snarled.

  “A little of both.” Think, Lucas, think. “I went for a jog this morning, and on my way back, I saw Zara stuck in a rip tide. She must have decided to swim alone. I swam out and got her. It was rough out there. We both got scraped up pretty bad. Marifer is with her now, getting her cleaned up. She’s going to be okay, I promise.” He can’t go in; he’ll see the transfusion line. I stepped closer to Max, blocking his view, and judged his face. He didn’t flinch, so I started closing it slowly behind me. “They’re going to be undressing her now.” I looked down at myself. “And I need to get cleaned up too. Meet me here in fifteen minutes, and she’ll be ready for visitors.”

  “Visitors?” he spat. “I’m her brother. I ain’t no visitor. Zara! ZARA!” He stepped toward the door, but I blocked him.

  “She can’t hear you, Max.”

  “How come?”

  Lie, Lucas. “She’s a little out of it. She keeps repeating the same thing over and over.” My hand tightened on the knob, ready to slam it in his face should he move one more step, but maybe . . . I moved clear of the door and raised my hands, defenseless. “But help yourself then . . . if you’re the kind of person who likes to see his sister naked.”

  He sidestepped to me. “What did you just say?”

  I took a chance by stepping farther from him and closer to my door. “Fifteen minutes,” I bargained, and then I darted for my room.

  He stomped to the wall, leaned against it, and sat down. “You’re not wet,” he hollered at my back. I stopped midway through my door.

  “What?”

  “You said you saved her in the ocean. The only drop of wetness your clothes have is with blood. I know you’re lying.”

  I broke my shock with a laugh. I glared at him with months of suppressed revulsion. It was me, Max, who saved your sister from something so horrifying you’d piss your pants if you could only see. It was me, Max, who saved her from having her living heart ripped out of her chest. “Your sister is safer now than she has been the last three months.”

  He looked as if he didn’t care—or didn’t believe me. He kept bumping the back of his head against the wall as if he were bored. It was weird. Then he laughed cynically. I didn’t like it. “Zara will tell me the truth.”

  I shook my head. “I suppose she will.”

  When I returned in fresh clothes, Max wasn’t there anymore; Zara’s door was wide open. I ran inside it. Max was standing by Zara, who was tucked underneath sparkling clean sheets with no sign of an IV. Max was still, though his eyes flicked incessantly back and forth from Marifer to Zara.

  Zara’s eyes were still closed and she looked peaceful, but there was a startling paleness about her. She needed to have more blood. Max had to leave.

  “See, Max,” I said as he turned to me. “Zara is okay.”

  “Why is she asleep? Did you knock her out with some drugs or something?”

  I ignored him momentarily, even when his nostrils flared. He was such an idiot. “Marifer, please go tell the Mosses that Zara got hurt and that she is up here . . . and safe.” I turned to Max to satisfy him for now. “Marifer must have given her painkillers. She’s a nurse; she always has that sort of stuff lying around.”

  “How come you’re not hurt?” Max asked suspiciously as Marifer left.

  “Because I know how to swim in a tide.”

  He looked out the windows down to the beach. The corners of his mouth drooped into a frown. “That is not anything like what you’re describing.”

  Zara’s stomach started convulsing as if she were going to cough. I was worried it’d be blood. “Despite how you feel about me, Zara knows I would never do anything to hurt her. What I am telling you is the truth.” I glanced at my clock. Vital time. I snagged Lupe, the Alux cleaning the bathroom, and asked her in our native tongue to perform the check. Me doing it would be too suspicious—as far as Max knew, I was only an undergrad. Max watched Lupe grab the clipboard on the nightstand and assess Zara’s blood pressure and heart rate.

  “What’s she doing?”

  “Checking her vitals.”

  “Is everyone a nurse around here?”

  “They went to school together.”

  “I don’t like—”

  “Look! If you’re going to be in here, could you please not talk? You’re not helping the situation.”

  Max ground his teeth and stormed out the door. I shot up and dragged the medical equipment from the closet back to Zara. I uncovered her arm underneath the sheet, plugged in the tubes, and started the drip. Afterwards I pictured what other things could have gone wrong as I watched her chest rise with its low pulse. You were dead, muñeca, and still you are here with me, still fighting.

  The fight in her made me realize that Zara was made for me, and I loved her more for not leaving me.

  I left the beautiful thought and tried calling Andrés.

  “Lupe, has anyone been in contact with my family?” I asked as my cell beepe
d out of service. I flipped the TV on and turned to the news. It was exploding with coverage of Tajin. Huitzilihuitl will definitely hear about this. Fear hollowed my core—Huitzilihuitl will pay us a visit soon.

  “They arrive in five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Lupe.” I sat next to Zara on the edge of the bed, lifted up the sheets and blankets, and peeked underneath. Her belly was covered again by a short satin nightgown. A gauzy bandage over the cut showed under the shoulder strap. It was turning pink in the center.

  “Todo bien,” Lupe said.

  I held Zara’s hand. “Gracias.”

  The images on the channel were disturbing to the locals but heart pleasing to me. I stared at the damage my family did until they returned home. The Pyramid of the Niches was collapsed and burning, the surrounding buildings were tattered, the stones we’d torn out of them littered throughout the park, but the Tlatchi courts where the executioners had swarmed us were deserted.

  Zara’s door swung open.

  “Lucas!” Valentina rushed over and threw her arms around me as I stood.

  “Mama.”

  “Zara?” Gabriella asked, walking in with Dylan and Andrés.

  My eyes swelled. I put my hand in my pocket and spun my citla. “She will be okay once the transfusion is done.”

  “Why isn’t she awake?”

  “Because she is in a coma. She will wake up when she is ready.”

  “How long can that be?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I spun around to Father. “Are we safe? Is Zara safe?”

  “Xavier went with his mother, and the portal is demolished,” he said. He turned to the television. “We should expect a visit from Huitzilihuitl.”

  Chairs scraped across the floor downstairs, and the muffled sounds loudened into clear sentences. Zara’s family moved toward us in a panic.

  “Esteban, we need you,” I called. The Alux appeared next to me in a second, wearing black slacks and a polo shirt.