The Dead Run by Adam Mansbach Page A

growing even larger. “These hearts are my only sustenance, Messenger—they are the food of gods. Nothing else has passed my lips for hundreds of years.”
    He nodded toward the men. “Choose four. They will protect you. To the death.”
    â€œYou wanna protect me, give me a gun. And a car.”
    â€œYou must travel as men did in ancient times. Four, Messenger. One for each direction. The rest will die.”
    Galvan stared at the prisoners. They stared back, silent, bug-eyed.
    â€œI’ll take Gutierrez.” He nodded at the enforcer, still lying on the ground.
    â€œYou almost killed him.”
    â€œExactly. And him.” Galvan pointed at Payaso. “Other than that, I don’t care. Let the guards decide.”
    â€œVery well.” El Cucuy turned his head a fraction of an inch and addressed his head man.
    â€œPrepare them.”
    The hidden wheel began to grind, carrying the prisoners to the floor. Two guards lifted Gutierrez, his face a bloody pulp.
    El Cucuy turned to face Galvan.
    â€œDo not fail me, Messenger. Or you will learn the length of my reach and the depth of my rage.”
    And with that, he strode toward a door on the opposite side of the chamber—an exit Galvan had not even noticed—and the flickering light beyond.
    â€œHold on. The DMZ is a big place. How will I navigate? How will I find—”
    â€œHe will find you,” Cucuy answered without turning. “Travel north, Messenger. And keep your wits about you, lest your burdens increase a thousandfold. My enemies are legion.” He paused for the briefest of instants. “And their true strength hides itself.”
    Before Galvan could give voice to any of the hundred other questions swimming through his brain, Cucuy was gone.
    C LOTHES. S HOES. Awristwatch, a gallon of water, a couple of candy bars. A compass. Galvan was beginning to feel like he could do this—like just being out in all that open space, breathing that free air, would fill him with enough strength to reach the border, win his life back.
    Then came the baling wire.
    â€œHands over your head,” barked the head guard, one of six who’d dragged Galvan and the others down another tunnel, then isolated them in different alcoves and outfitted them with their meager supplies.
    Galvan obeyed, the heart still balanced in his palm.
    â€œPut it in here.” A black box, metal, size of a toaster oven. Corners sharp enough to poke out an eye.
    â€œArms up.”
    He did as he was told and felt the black box pressed against his back. The guard secured it there with wire—thick, serious stuff, the kind a chain-link fence was made from—and began to tighten it with pliers, twisting until each deep breath he took pressed the metal against Galvan’s skin with the force of a garrote.
    The box was a champagne cork, and Galvan was the bottle. Inside the container, and just barely, he could hear the heart.
    â€œHow the hell am I supposed to move like this?” he growled. “Come on, you’ve gotta loosen it.”
    No response.
    â€œHow many men has your boss sent before me?”
    Not much for conversation, this guy.
    A minute later they were in motion again, the guards pacing their charges through a curving, narrow tunnel, its walls moist and mold slicked, the only light the flashlight beam of the lead man.
    At every turn, Galvan expected it to end. Five minutes turned to ten, and ten to twenty. Even taking the twists and turns into account, they had to have walked a mile, maybe two.
    Finally, a set of stairs. A bulkhead made of steel. The guard swung open the double doors, and the sunlight poured in—sudden, blinding. The next thing Galvan knew, he was standing in it, sweating, struggling to breathe.
    He and his four new best friends.
    The prison was a tiny speck on the horizon.
    There was nothing else but dirt and scrub brush, low rolling hills and dust and cacti.
    â€œAdiós,