The Hunted

by Matt De La Peña

  But no matter how far Shy slipped into schizo territory, Carmen was always there to reel him back in. And he’d done the same for her.

  Now that they’d made it back to California, though, it was time to face facts.

  Carmen was engaged.

  Carmen would be searching for her man.

  “It was Venice Beach,” Shoeshine said, steering the sailboat toward a clearing between two flagless poles. He glanced at the distant helicopter. “We don’t know what it is now.”

  Shy scanned the stretch of beach again. His old man had taken him to Venice a handful of times during their year together in LA. But he didn’t recognize anything.

  “Whatever it is,” Marcus said, “I guarantee it’s better than floating our asses around for a damn month.”

  “That’s the truth,” Shy added.

  Shoeshine shrugged, his wild gray hair blowing nappy in the wind. His braided chin beard still perfectly intact. “Time will be the judge,” he told them.

  2

  Pack of Masked Bicycle Riders

  When they got closer to shore, Shoeshine hopped over the side of the boat and splashed into water up to his chest. “We need to keep our eyes and ears open,” he said, taking hold of the rope that hung from the bow. He began pulling them between the two flagpoles.

  “No shit,” Marcus said. “Look at this place.”

  Shy saw the way the tide washed over what was left of the pier and several fallen buildings, then sucked back out, carrying with it unidentifiable chunks of debris. Up and down the coast, it was the same. Crumbled beachfront houses and scorched earth. No sign of life aside from the distant helicopter.

  “It’s not the disasters themselves we need to worry about,” Shoeshine warned. “It’s the way folks may have adapted.”

  As if on cue, Shy sensed movement to the right of the boat. He turned and saw a pack of bicyclists emerge from behind a charred storefront, pedaling in the direction of the sailboat. He counted five of them. Just kids. Oversized medical masks covering their noses and mouths.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Marcus said, backing away from the edge of the boat. “What’s the story here?”

  “It’s fine,” Carmen said. “They’re young, look.”

  The bikers stopped about ten yards from shore and watched as Shoeshine tied the sailboat to a thick metal stake extending out of the water near what looked to have been a lifeguard tower.

  Shy stared at the kids, trying to get a beat on things. They were dressed in ragged jeans and sweatshirts, even though it was warm out. Their heads were shaved. One of them made some type of hand signal and they all lined up in a neat formation with their bikes. The way they were just staring at the sailboat creeped Shy out.

  Marcus returned to the edge of the boat, calling out to them: “Hey!”

  No answer from the kids.

  “Yo, is this Venice Beach?” Marcus tried again.

  Nothing.

  They weren’t even talking to each other.

  Shy went from creeped out to pissed off. He was incredibly weak from spending over a month on a cramped sailboat, with barely any food or water. And these punk kids couldn’t answer a simple question?

  “Watch when I fire a damn flare at ’em,” Shy mumbled. “That’ll wake their asses up.”

  “Easy,” Shoeshine said, securing the knot he’d just tied. He looked up at Shy. “Think of it from their side, young fella. Tattered boat like ours, coming in from the sea.”

  “What’s up with the masks, though?” Marcus asked.

  “And the shaved heads?” Shy added.

  Carmen smoothed a section of her thick, tangled hair behind her left ear. “They’re probably scared of the disease, right?”

  That was it, Shy realized.

  The disease.

  He remembered watching his grandma die in the hospital back home. And he remembered Rodney’s motionless body on the island. Their eyes red. Skin cold and flaking. Hearts no longer beating. He’d been on the sailboat so long he’d almost forgotten how bad it was.

  “I’ll speak to them once we get to shore.” Shoeshine held his hand out for Carmen, helped her step down from the boat, into the waist-high water. “But not a word about what’s in the duffel bag, understand?”

  “You told us like fifty times already,” Marcus said.

  “And I’m telling you again.”

  Shy pointed to the sky. “Why can’t we just hand it over to whoever’s in that emergency helicopter?”

  Shoeshine paused to stare at Shy. “Who was operating the last one you saw?”

  Shy looked away. It had been Addie’s dad, Mr. Miller. The man who’d created Romero Disease in the first place. The man who’d planted it in Mexican villages along the border to try to scare Americans into coughing up money for his meds.

  Shoeshine had a point.

  Shy handed the waterproof duffel over the side of the boat, and Shoeshine pointed at him and Marcus. “Wrong person finds out what we’re carrying and soon everyone knows. And then it’s gone.”

  Shy turned back to the masked kids.

  Still just sitting on their bikes, staring.

  They had no way of knowing that he, Carmen, Marcus and Shoeshine had already been vaccinated. That they had seven more shots tucked safely inside the duffel, shots that could save seven lives—or the lives of everyone, if they were able to get the syringes into the right hands.

  Shy and Marcus hopped out next, and the four of them waded through the tide until they were safely on dry land, where they collapsed on a patch of sandy concrete.

  Shy lay on his back, staring up at the helicopter, which was framed by a perfect sunset. He held the ground around him to try to stop the world from spinning, but it wasn’t working. His legs felt like Jell-O. His stomach was twisted with nausea and hunger and thirst. He’d lost his shoes before they set sail from the island, and his bare feet were blistered and raw.

  But they’d made it.

  They were back in California. On land.

  He allowed a relieved euphoria to settle over him as he slowly closed his eyes and breathed in the crisp coastal air. Forty-four days ago he’d set off on what he believed to be his final voyage as a Paradise Cruise Lines employee. He was only supposed to be at sea for eight days. Eight! Then he’d be back home with some cash in his pocket and two full weeks of doing nothing before his senior year.

  So much for that plan.

  He pictured his mom and sis and nephew again. He’d give anything to know they were somewhere safe right now, waiting for him.

  But what if they weren’t?

  “Yo!” Shy heard Marcus shout. “Where the hell you going?”

  Shy sat up quickly, his brain still floating on the water. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Marcus was standing. Then he turned toward the kids on bikes.

  They were riding away.

  3

  Home Versus Arizona

  “I’m not asking for no welcoming party,” Marcus said, “but damn.” He waved the kids off and sat back down.

  Shy saw that they were sitting on a long patch of sandy cement, like a wide sidewalk or a basketball court. A fallen stretch of chain-link fence was visible in the tide to the right of them. Beyond the fence sat a wrecked Honda Civic, water rushing in and out of the busted windshield. Behind them, all the seller stalls were scorched and a bunch of chained-up food carts were tipped on their sides and already showing rust. The only thing Shy halfway recognized was the blackened remains of Muscle Beach to their left, where he’d once stopped with his old man to watch a group of ’roid heads tossing around free weights.

  He turned to Carmen. “So how we supposed to get down to San Diego from here?”

  She shrugged. “There’s gotta be buses still running. Or trains.”

  Marcus frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “What?” Carmen said. “There could be limited service or whatever. Like, just on freeways.”

  “Look at this place,” Marcus told her. “Ain’t limite
d nothin’.”

  Were there still buses? Shy wondered. What about food stores and hospitals and gas stations? And then another question occurred to him: was Addie out here somewhere?

  She’d left the island on that helicopter with her dad, but where had they gone? And what would he do or say if their paths crossed again?

  Shoeshine lifted their last jug of water out of the duffel. He uncapped it and held it out to Carmen. When she was done drinking, she passed the jug to Shy, who took a few desperate gulps of his own. He could feel the cool liquid settling in his stomach as he moved the jug along to Marcus.

  Once they’d killed the water, Shoeshine capped the empty jug and looked around. “I plan to track down a few supplies tonight and get my bearings,” he said. “First thing in the morning I’ll start east.”

  “How?” Marcus said.

  The man unlocked his journal with the key around his neck, flipped through several pages and used his teeth to uncap his pen. “Trust I’ll find a way,” he said.

  Shy watched Shoeshine start writing.

  Their monthlong journey in the sailboat had been filled with a whole lot of nothing. The sun rose and fell. The ocean whispered. Their tattered boat crept through the water, leaving a subtle wake that Shy would stare at for hours. They took turns fishing and steering and manning the sail. They spoke in quiet voices, and often didn’t speak at all. But there was one topic they kept coming back to: what would they do if they actually made it back to California?

  Shoeshine wanted to get the syringes into the hands of scientists as soon as possible. According to the report they’d heard, groups of them had gathered somewhere in Arizona to try and create a vaccine they had no idea already existed. Shy understood how important it was that the duffel get to Arizona—hundreds of thousands of lives were on the line—but he wanted to see about his family first. In case they needed him. It was the same for Carmen and Marcus.

  After some back-and-forth, Shoeshine settled it by agreeing to take the duffel to Arizona himself. “No one said we had to stay together forever,” he’d told them, looking directly at Shy.

  When Shoeshine was done writing, he slipped his journal back into the duffel and zipped up. “Not much daylight left,” he said, climbing to his feet.

  “Maybe we should go with him,” Carmen said to Shy and Marcus. “Just for the night.”

  “We need supplies, too,” Shy said, struggling to stand. He didn’t understand how he could feel more seasick on land than he’d ever felt on water.

  “We can split up in the morning,” Marcus added.

  This was what they were all saying, but Shy knew the truth: they wanted to stay with Shoeshine as long as possible. He was the only reason they were still alive.

  —

  The farther they moved into town, the more devastation Shy saw. He studied the battered fish restaurant they passed on a street named Windward Avenue. The roof was caved in, and all that was left of the windows were long, blackened shards. The place next to it was burned beyond recognition. The poles holding up street signs were all tilted at odd angles, and many were spray-painted fluorescent green. Everything smelled of burned plastic and charcoal and brine. A small battered boat was on its side in the middle of the street.

  Shy studied the fluorescent-green street signs, wondering who was going to fix all this. And how. What if they had to level the entire city and start from scratch?

  He tried to imagine his own neighborhood back home, then thought better of it and focused on his surroundings.

  They were halfway through the first cross street, Pacific Avenue, when Shy spotted the kids on bicycles riding back into view. Only this time they were followed by a handful of adults. Some on bikes. Others on foot.

  Shy stopped in his tracks when he noticed something else.

  Two of the men were carrying rifles.

  4

  Fair Trade

  The group spread out around Shy and his crew, forming a crude semicircle of masked faces. All of them had shaved heads or wore hats, and they were too far away for Shy to make out the look in their eyes, especially in the fading daylight.

  One of the men with a rifle lowered his medical mask slightly and called out: “Turn around slowly and head back where you started.” This man was naturally bald, it looked like. And thin. His voice raspy.

  Shy looked to Shoeshine, but he was already turning around and walking the other way.

  Carmen and Marcus were as wide-eyed as Shy.

  “Go on now,” the bald man said, motioning them forward with his rifle. “Walk.”

  Before Shy even understood what was happening, the four of them were retracing their footsteps, past the battered fish restaurant and all the other damaged buildings. He kept his eyes partially on the asphalt in front of him, stepping around sharp objects with his bare feet and trying to think. Who were these people? And why did they have rifles?

  As soon as they were back on the sand-covered boardwalk, the bald man called for them to stop.

  Marcus nudged Shy as the four of them turned around. “Shit, I woulda lost it if they tried to get me back on that boat.”

  “Still might,” Shy said, watching two of the masked men pointing out toward the sea.

  The bald man spoke again: “Who are you? And where’d you come from?”

  A guy dressed in overalls and a straw hat lowered his mask, too. “Everyone knows you’re supposed to stay put,” he said. “You’re lucky it was us who caught you and not the Suzuki Gang.”

  “Our cruise ship wrecked,” Carmen blurted out. “We’re the only ones who made it back.”

  The men looked at each other, their masks making it impossible to read their reactions. One of the kids on bikes was staring directly at Shy. He wore a filthy-looking gray sweatshirt. Hood up. Baggy jeans tucked into combat boots. He held a large white jug by its handle.

  Shy was first to look away.

  “What’s happening here?” Marcus asked. “Is everyone really dying from that disease?”

  The leader ignored Marcus and pointed out toward the water instead. “Who owns that boat?”

  “We do,” Shy said. “We got it off an island way out there.”

  “What island?” someone asked. “Catalina?”

  “Jones Island,” Shy corrected him.

  Another man lowered his mask and said to the leader: “It doesn’t add up, Drew. They just told us they were on a cruise.”

  “They look sick,” one of the kids said. “They probably got kicked out of somewhere else before it spread.”

  “Make ’em go back where they came from,” another kid said.

  “No, we gotta shoot ’em,” the first kid said.

  Shy stared at the pack of kids in shock.

  A guy in a Dodgers cap cocked his rifle suddenly and raised it.

  “Yo, man!” Marcus called out, shielding his face with his hand. “Slow down! Damn!”

  Shy cowered along with Carmen and Marcus, spooked, but Shoeshine just stood there, unfazed.

  The guy in overalls dropped his bike, walked over to the man in the Dodgers cap and lowered the barrel of the rifle. “That’s not who you are, Tom.”

  “They can’t even answer a simple question!” the man shouted.

  “Who cares what they say,” someone else blurted out. “Leave the gun alone, Mason. You know what we have to do.”

  Shy’s heart pounded. These people were actually arguing about whether or not to shoot them.

  The guy named Mason made sure the barrel stayed aimed at the ground. “Explain how you got here,” he said. “We don’t allow outsiders to wander into our zone.”

  “What ‘zone’?” Carmen said. “We don’t even know what that means.”

  “We claimed this entire stretch of beach weeks ago.”

  “It’s marked on all the signposts,” someone else said. “There’s no way you could’ve missed it.”

  Shy remembered the fluorescent-green spray paint he’d seen on many of the street signs. Had the ent
ire state been marked off into zones? Had his neighborhood in Otay Mesa?

  Carmen was first to step up again. She told the masked group how the four of them had been working on a luxury cruise ship bound for Hawaii. How the earthquakes had created a massive tsunami that wrecked their ship. How they had to bail into a dark, stormy ocean on lifeboats and life rafts with no sense of where they were or what they were supposed to do.

  Shy listened to Carmen rattle off details about finding the half-flooded island, climbing the stone steps up to the hotel where they found food and water and shelter, where they survived for days.

  “Less than a hundred of us made it there alive.” Carmen was talking so fast she had to pause to catch her breath. “Us four…All we wanted to do was see about our families. So we fixed up that broken sailboat out there.”

  “And now here you are,” the leader said, glancing at the men beside him. He didn’t seem impressed.

  “We just wanna go home,” Carmen said.

  “Home,” someone scoffed. “Good one.”

  Shy was glad Carmen had left out the rest. If she’d told the men about the pharmaceutical company, LasoTech, razing the entire island to cover up its connection to the disease, it would only have led to more questions. And those questions might’ve led to the syringes stashed in Shoeshine’s duffel bag.

  The guy in the Dodgers cap turned his gun on Carmen. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “I think you came here from Santa Barbara. We’ve all heard about their recent outbreak.”

  Shy instinctively stepped in front of Carmen. “Everything she said is the truth.” He turned to the leader. “Come on, man. We were just struggling out there for thirty-six straight days. With barely anything to eat or drink. And now you wanna point a gun at us?”

  “It’s you who are pointing the gun at us!” the leader shouted at Shy. “Don’t you get that? If one person brings the disease into our zone, we all die.”