The sweet scent of freshly baked bread makes my stomach rumble before the market even comes into view. I never imagined something that used to be widely available and inexpensive would become an unattainable luxury.
Same with soap. I know how to make it from things I can find in nature, but it’s a lot of work and I’m just too tired after findingfood to put in the extra work. So yeah, I’m sure I do smell really bad.
One of the first vendors I see at the market is selling nuts. There are wood crates filled with walnuts, pistachios, pecans, almonds, and peanuts. I approach because nuts are small and nutrient dense—just what I need.
Someone grabs my upper arm, the hand big and the hold tight.
“Need to see your ID, miss.”
Time slows as I turn to look at him, my stomach dropping with terror. This is worst-case scenario. I want to run, but he has an iron grip on my arm.
“It’s in my bag,” I lie. “Can I ...?”
He lets go of me, but now there are three other guards, and they’re forming a half circle around me, the vendor’s cart at my back.
I can’t even dig through my bag because I’ll risk exposing the weapons inside.
“Stand up,” a male voice says from nearby. “Let me see your face.”
I look up and see the man the voice belongs to, my skin prickling.
He’s tall, and he looks around forty, his light-blond hair thinning. But it’s what he’s wearing that makes my mouth dry.
The olive-green uniform is showier than the fatigues the other guards are wearing. The shoulders of his jacket are wide and squared, and colorful medals adorn his chest.
“Take out whatever’s in your hair,” he orders.
I lower my brows, scared but not wanting to show it. “Why? I just forgot my ID. I can go get it.”
One of the soldiers forcefully spins me around; another one grabs the tie securing my hair and tears it free, ripping out some of my hair with it. I scowl and shove his arm away.
The other soldier takes my upper arm and turns me back around to face the man with the medals.
“She’s a feisty one.” He grins and sticks a toothpick in his mouth. “I’ll take her.”
29
“You love me the most when I’m at my worst. How did I get so lucky?” – excerpt from a letter written to Donovan Shore by Amira Khalil
Marcus
This can’t be right. I’ve been crammed into the Prius of submarines for the past eight hours, and it looks like the boat drove itself to an abandoned island.
It’s an overgrown jungle, the small beach strewn with branches and rocks. There’s a neglected dock with weeds growing up through the wood slats.
A sign, the words so bleached by the sun I can hardly read them, hangs from a crooked post.
Island contaminated
Maintain safe zone of four miles from shore
Great. Either Tyrone fucked me, or this robo sub did. I need to figure out how to program my way out of here and hope thesub is enough to protect me from whatever contamination is on this island.
Movement on the dock grabs my attention. A man wearing a maroon T-shirt and gray sweatpants stands there, a canvas bucket hat on his head.
Waving his arm, he gestures for me to come closer. I furrow my brow and point to the sign.
Smiling, he shakes his head and points to the dock.
