The Hunted

by Matt De La Peña

  Shy stopped pacing long enough to look over the bearded man’s shoulder. He was now pushing a needle into a small vial. “What’s that?” Shy demanded. “I thought you were getting the bullet out.”

  An older Asian woman turned around. “He has to numb the leg first.”

  “Everything we’re using comes straight out of a package,” the pastor tried to reassure Shy. “There’s no threat of Romero Disease. It’s all perfectly sterile.”

  Carmen tugged at Shy’s arm. “Come on. There’s nothing you can do.”

  But Shy didn’t want to leave until he knew Shoeshine was going to be okay. The man looked so vulnerable lying there on the long wooden conference table. His wild hair partially burned. Eyes rolled back. Shoeshine had been their rock, the one they’d looked to since back on the island. What if he didn’t make it?

  Then a more selfish thought occurred to Shy.

  Who would take the vaccine to Arizona?

  The pastor held Shoeshine’s legs as the fake vet drove the long needle into the man’s dark skin, just above the knee. “Jesus,” Shy said, turning away.

  Carmen tugged on his arm harder now, guiding him away from the crowd. “I’m taking you out of here,” she told him.

  Shy looked back at Shoeshine one last time before allowing himself to be led out of the room.

  —

  In the small office kitchen Shy wolfed down pretzels and cookies out of huge Costco bags, washing each mouthful down with long gulps of bottled water. He felt guilty feeding his face while Shoeshine was laid up with some vet assistant digging around in his wound, but he couldn’t stop. It felt too good to eat and drink as much as he wanted.

  “They know the disease is spreading through water now,” Carmen said. “But here’s the freakiest part. According to what we just heard on Marcus’s radio, scientists think it could eventually go airborne. And if that happens…everyone could get it. Even people outside of California. We’d be the only ones left.”

  Shy pictured a strong wind blowing the disease across his street back home, into his building, into his mom’s lungs.

  “Marcus is in the tech room,” Carmen said. “He finally got batteries. They’re all sitting around his radio, listening to some DJ.”

  Shy nodded.

  “It all comes down to the vaccine, Shy.”

  Shy pushed away the pretzels. “We’re still going home, Carm.”

  “I know, but how?”

  Shy shook his head, thinking about the vaccine. And the letter. Shoeshine. “Those people working on Shoe,” he said. “They’re here to help, right?”

  Carmen nodded.

  “ ’Cause here’s what I’m thinking. If Shoe can’t go on—”

  “It doesn’t automatically have to fall on us,” Carmen interrupted. “Right?”

  “Exactly.” Shy took a last sip of water and re-capped the bottle. He didn’t want to acknowledge that Shoeshine might not be able to continue. But he’d also seen the man’s wound up close. And it’s not like he was being worked on by a real doctor. “If a group of them agrees to do it, we’re free to start heading for SD. No matter how long it takes.”

  Carmen nodded, but she looked concerned.

  “What?” Shy said.

  She shook her head. “When you went over the freeway, you saw the city, right?”

  Shy uncapped the water again but didn’t drink. “It’s bad, I know.”

  “What if it’s like that back home, too?” Carmen said, her eyes glassy. “What if everything’s gone?”

  Shy pictured a massive pile of rubble where his building used to be. He knew there was a possibility the whole trip was pointless. That there was nothing left. But he couldn’t think that way.

  Just then he heard shouting coming from down the hall. He slid off the table and pushed open the door to listen.

  “Get off me!” a man shouted.

  Shy spun back to Carmen. “That’s Shoe! Come on!”

  20

  No Return

  Shy cringed watching Shoeshine bite down on a thick leather strap and reach a pair of metal tongs into his own bloody thigh. The man growled in pain as he dug around for the bullet, the veins in his neck bulging, spit bubbling between his lips.

  “Why’s he doing it?” Carmen shouted.

  The bearded vet assistant spun around, pointing at the bloody gauze shoved up both his nostrils. “This is what I got for trying to help.”

  “He just slugged Bill,” someone else said.

  Shy pushed through the crowd and went to Shoeshine. “What are you doing, man? They’re trying to help.” When Shoeshine didn’t acknowledge him, Shy turned to the pastor. “I thought you numbed his leg.”

  “All we had was Novocaine,” the pastor said. He squirmed, watching Shoeshine continue digging. “And that’s a bullet wound.”

  “Yo, he needs a real doctor!” Marcus was now in the conference room, too, holding his radio. He went and stood near Carmen.

  “They’re all at the Sony lots,” a blond woman said. “But they’re not letting anyone else in.”

  “Unless you have a lot of money,” someone called out.

  “What about the hospital?” Carmen asked.

  “The last doctor fled weeks ago,” the pastor answered.

  As people continued talking over each other, Shy turned back to Shoeshine, who was in so much pain sweat was pouring down his face. But Shy was also thinking about the Sony lots. If he was remembering right, that was where the biker had told him to go.

  “Someone do something!” Carmen shouted over Shoeshine’s growling.

  “He won’t let us near him,” the pastor said.

  And Shy remembered the biker slipping a manila envelope inside the duffel bag. He moved over to where he’d stashed it, kneeled down, unzipped the top and pulled out the envelope. He looked up, saw Carmen was watching him.

  Shy unfolded the top of the envelope and peered inside.

  His eyes widened.

  Thick stacks of twenty-dollar bills. The biker gave him money? Why?

  Shoeshine was shouting even louder now. Shy spun back in time to see the man lift a bloody bullet out of his thigh with the thin, pointy tongs, then drop it into a metal pan on the table beside him. Everyone cringed and turned away, including Carmen and Marcus.

  Shoeshine spit out the leather strap, panting, and grabbed a stack of gauze. He shoved it against his open wound, slid off the table and started pushing people out of his way.

  “Shoe, hold up!” Shy shouted, stuffing the envelope back into the duffel and hurrying toward the door. He positioned himself between Shoeshine and the exit. The guy looked awful. “What the hell you doing? You need rest.”

  Shoeshine shook his head. “No, I need to sew myself up.”

  Shy spun to the group. “Can someone at least help him do that?”

  They all looked at each other. “We don’t have sutures here,” the pastor said. “And the wound is too deep for the Dermabond we do have.”

  “Everything we’d need is across the street,” someone said.

  “Why isn’t it here?” Carmen demanded.

  Nobody answered.

  Shoeshine tried to push past Shy, saying: “I know what I’m looking for.” But he was weak from all the pain, and Shy easily blocked him.

  Marcus was there now, too, pushing back Shoeshine by his arms. “Tell us what you need and we’ll go.” He turned to the pastor, asked: “How do we get inside?”

  “It’s not locked,” the pastor answered. “But you don’t want to go in there.”

  “Why not?” Shy said.

  “The hospital’s out of the question!” the bearded man shouted. “It’s a breeding ground!”

  “You’ll be infected for sure,” someone said.

  “Nah, man,” Marcus said. “That shit can’t touch us.”

  The bearded man stepped forward. “Fine. Go, then. He needs a suture kit and more Betadine. And gauze. Your best bet is ER.”

  Someone tossed Marcus a hospital ma
sk.

  “But understand,” the bearded man added, “we can’t allow you to return.”

  Shy shrugged.

  Marcus grabbed him by the arm. “Let’s go.”

  Shy tossed the duffel to Carmen. “Look in there when we’re gone.” He pulled up his mask. “We’ll pound the door when we’re back. And you and Shoe can meet us outside.”

  Carmen set down the bag. “I’m going with you.”

  “We got this,” Marcus told her.

  “Why, pendejo? ’Cause I’m a girl?” She made a move for the door, but Shy cut her off.

  “We need someone to stay with Shoe,” he insisted.

  Carmen scowled but didn’t argue.

  “Look in the bag,” Shy told her again. Marcus pulled at his arm.

  Shy readjusted his hospital mask as the two of them raced through the hall. They cut through the reception area, kicked open the front doors, and Shy found himself moving back out onto the street.

  21

  Breeding Ground

  The smell inside the hospital stopped Shy in his tracks. It was a violent mix of cleaning chemicals and rot. Shy held his hand over his mask and tried breathing through his mouth for a few seconds, but that didn’t work either—the smell was so strong he could taste it.

  He knew there’d be bodies inside. The sloppy red circles spray-painted all over the front of the building told him as much. But this was different. The smell was a hundred times more intense than the motor home.

  How many people had died in here?

  How long had they been dead?

  It was pitch-black, too. Shy couldn’t see two inches in front of his face. He reached into his backpack for his flashlight, clicked it on and moved his thin beam of light around what looked to be a large admission area. Someone had covered all the windows with newspapers, which explained why it was so dark.

  Shy turned to Marcus, who was gagging behind his mask. “Ready?”

  Marcus nodded, pulling out his flashlight, too. “Get this shit over with,” he mumbled.

  They shined their beams of light along the walls and floor and ceiling as they slowly moved deeper into the hospital, past the main admissions desk, into a large open area where the smell grew even stronger. Shy suffered a coughing fit so violent he was afraid it might end with his lungs spilling out onto the floor. He was only able to calm his stomach by taking long, even breaths, in spite of the smell.

  There were four hallways to choose from, and he and Marcus shined their lights on all the signs until they found the ER. As they started in that direction, Shy began noticing large, random shapes. They were all around him, in the middle of the tile floor and half hidden under desks and crowding the entrance of the hall he and Marcus were moving toward.

  Bodies covered with sheets, he realized.

  The dead.

  They stepped over a blockade of them and continued down the hall, toward the ER, but curiosity got the better of Shy and he stopped near one of the bodies. He kicked off the sheet and shined his flashlight onto the bloated and rotting face of a young woman. A nurse, judging by the green scrubs she was wearing. Dark red eyes. Big chunks of her cheeks torn away. A pointless silver cross still hanging around her decaying neck.

  Shy thought he heard something back in the main lobby, a loud thumping sound, and he spun around, listening. When he didn’t hear it again he turned to the nurse and tried to kick the sheet back over her face with his foot. But he couldn’t do it. He had to reach down, trying not to gag, and use his hand.

  He stood up, wiping his palm on his jeans, and breathed slowly into his mask. “You heard that back there?” he asked Marcus.

  Marcus nodded. “Let’s grab what we need and get the fuck outta here.”

  They had to climb over a small pile of bodies near cardiology. Shy’s head was spinning. He kept thinking of what Shoeshine said about the loneliness of life. Maybe he was right. Every corpse here was wrapped in its own sheet. Completely alone. And in real life it wasn’t much better. They stuck you in a coffin and buried you in the ground. Or they cremated your ass and stored you in a jar.

  When they passed pediatrics, Shy couldn’t help himself. He stopped. Because this was different. He pushed open the door that led to the kids’ part of the hospital and peeked inside.

  “Bro, come on!” Marcus barked.

  Shy ignored him, shining his light around the room, illuminating smaller bodies, stacked on top of each other, in every corner of the large reception area. Each one covered by a single white sheet. The smell so intense he felt wobbly. He held on to the doorframe to keep his feet, his stomach dropping out completely, like the one time he’d ridden a roller coaster.

  All these little kids, dead.

  From Romero Disease.

  Which meant LasoTech.

  Shy saw a glass wall across the room, and he knew instantly what it was.

  The newborn room.

  Babies.

  A surge of energy bubbled inside of him. He threw open the heavy door and started slamming his shoulder into it, battering the thing against the cinder-block wall, again and again, until the door began to sag to one side because he’d busted the top hinge.

  He ripped off his mask and leaned over and vomited onto the black-and-white tile floor. He heaved and spit and heaved some more, then wiped his mouth with the mask and chucked it away and grabbed his aching shoulder.

  When he turned back to Marcus, blurry-eyed and still on his knees, he was surprised to see Carmen standing there, too, wearing a hospital mask and gripping the duffel bag. She must have made the sound he’d heard earlier.

  She hadn’t listened to him.

  Because Carmen didn’t listen to anyone.

  “We can’t go home,” Shy told her.

  “I know,” she answered.

  He watched tears start coming down her cheeks. “No, I mean we have to go to Arizona,” he said.

  Carmen nodded and held out her hand to help him to his feet. He stood and turned to look at the glass wall once more. Where they kept sick babies.

  “Shy, let’s get out of here,” Marcus mumbled through his mask.

  “Shoe gave me five minutes to come get you,” Carmen said, pulling Shy toward the broken door by his wrist.

  They were right. The sooner they found Shoeshine’s suture kit, the sooner they’d be done with this place. And then they could start east. Get the vaccine to these supposed scientists in Arizona. Shoeshine had been right all along. It was what had to be done. It was the journey they’d found themselves on.

  Home would have to wait.

  Shy took the duffel from Carmen. But instead of leaving, like he wanted to, he found himself moving deeper into the room.

  Toward the glass wall.

  Toward the babies.

  Carmen was behind him, shouting his name. Grabbing for his arm. Marcus was shouting, too. But Shy couldn’t stop.

  He had to see behind this curtain, too.

  He had to know the worst of what LasoTech had done.

  22

  Reports from the Wreckage

  DJ DAN: …Ben Vasquez, a photojournalist joining us from Blythe, California, near Arizona. Ben, you crossed into California several weeks ago to do one story, but you soon became consumed by another, is that right?

  BEN: Two others, actually. And they overlap. [Pause.] A few days after the earthquakes, the New York Times asked me and a small crew to do a story on the damage and the early recovery efforts. We spent five days compiling video footage in places like Orange County and downtown LA and San Bernardino, but when my crew and I tried to arrange for a refuel, so we could helicopter out, we were told that was no longer an option. Anyone who’d set foot on California soil since the earthquakes had to stay put until a vaccine was distributed. And we were told about the border going up.

  We were furious, of course. And devastated. Our families were back home, waiting for us. Not knowing what else to do, we continued working. But our focus soon shifted, like you said. We kept meeting dif
ferent groups of people who’d crossed the border, into California, to try to help. The media has been referring to them as “crusaders.” And it’s these crusaders who’ve helped us track the other story we’re drawn to: the progress of scientists working on a treatment.

  DJ DAN: And what are you hearing?

  BEN: Nothing to report in terms of a vaccine, I’m afraid. But there’s been a lot of talk lately about a viable treatment drug. Multiple pharmaceutical companies claim to be experimenting with a pill that will not just mask the symptoms of Romero Disease but eliminate the disease altogether. Over the course of time.

  DJ DAN: This is very exciting news. And you believe they’re close?

  BEN: That’s what we keep hearing. Of course, even after the drug exists, it still has to be approved and distributed. And like I said, we’re talking about a treatment, not a vaccine.

  DJ DAN: It’s still very exciting. Now, why don’t you describe these crusaders for my audience?

  BEN: Sure. The initial wave arrived directly after the earthquakes. They mostly consisted of government groups like the Red Cross and FEMA and the National Guard, as well as a number of media groups, like my crew and me. We were responding to the earthquakes and were totally unprepared for the rapidly spreading disease. We’re estimating that nearly a third of my wave has died from the disease.

  The second wave was mostly organized, too, but they were no longer affiliated with the American government. Not directly, anyway. These crusaders snuck into California illegally, fully aware that they wouldn’t be allowed back. They’ve proven incredibly helpful, as you know, bringing in food and medical supplies and radio equipment—they’ve even smuggled in weapons for people to use as protection. We recently met with one group that’s started up a bus route in the middle of the desert. They assist anyone wanting to travel to and from the border. Another group helps organize self-sustaining communities just west of the border in Avondale.

  A third wave began emerging a couple weeks ago. These groups are much more politically motivated. They’re horrified by the government’s decision to cut off California and parts of Oregon from the rest of the country, and their sole focus is protest. The majority of their demonstrations take place east of the border, but a few have actually crossed over to protest from the California side. They’ve done an amazing job creating awareness.