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Besides a number of pages that I will read later, there is a picture of the girl.
Short light slick hair with bangs. Fine Easter European features. When you know the heritage, it almost jumps out at you. Mother Russia makes girls with pretty faces and guys who look like serial killers. I got the best of two worlds—my mom’s pretty face and my dad’s bronze skin and dark thick hair. Ukrainian and Puerto Rican—a rare mix.Fire, as my uncle often says with a smile.
This Milena Tsariuk is beautiful but has too much makeup on, which makes her look like a doll.
“She has an accent, though. How hard is it to track her?” I ask.
“She doesn’t. She moved to the states as a teen.”
I mull over it. This is exciting, and my heart already pounds in anticipation. But I have my doubts. “There are thousands of applicants wanting to go to the island. Well, considering the looks and skills, it narrows down to hundreds.”
“You have a portfolio that no one can beat, Kat. You are an asset. I’ll try to use some leverage. But honestly, if you can’t get in, fuck, who can? And you’ll fit right in.”
“I’m only nineteen.”
“They like young ones. You know the reason they do it every several months—they get bored with their own. They need help. Fresh blood. People die…”
I snort.
Uncle looks at me like I have a third eye. “Thirteen of them died since the Change. Seven during the fight that went down with the locals. That’s unofficial info.”
“No shit,” I mouth. The number is so minuscule compared to the Change. But in paradise, it seems horrifying. “Someone actually came back?”
“Yeah. Twenty or so. The ones who still had family—pretty much the ones from the most influential families, surprise-surprise—were shipped off to the mainland.”
“How did they know about their families?”
“Kat, come on. Public records. Database. Connections. There is a tower there and a data center, remember? The secretary’s kid does a thorough check of everyone who is there and who arrives. Plus, there is more to that island than it being a hideaway.”
“Tell me.”
“The Chancellor”—he snorts at the word—“that’s what they call Archer Crone. The spring-breakers, the Elites, are on the Westside. It’s the resort part. About two miles by one mile deep. It’s like Kardashian bootcamp there. Jersey Shore but with a lot more money. Not that you know either. You are too young. They had a falling out with a bunch of their own when the Change happened, and about twenty or so of them moved to the Eastside to the small self-sustaining resort. They are called the Outcasts.”
“Dramatic.”
“Right. The northern part of the island is the local town. Population about five thousand. Much less by now, probably, because of the diseases and fighting and lack of local law enforcement. It’s a shithole. Drugs, booze, crime, prostitution. All the good stuff. Nothing you haven’t seen in Bangkok but no one to regulate it. And they got blocked by the Chancellor. So they depend on him too. Nothing moves in or out of that island without his say-so. There are cameras everywhere. They use StingRay-type technology to create local cellphone network. The place is wired to a tee. The secretary sent contractors to work coastal security.”
I whistle in surprise.
Uncle nods. “The central part is tropical forests and mountains. There is a cabin there. Belongs to an expat.”
“Do I need to know about other parts besides the Westside?” I wonder.
Uncle stares at me for some time. Dad in the corner types away on the computer that is hooked up to the satellite dish outside the house and doesn’t look up. He is proud of me, I know. And he is worried. Though I’ve seen enough shit in my life to handle the rich brats who play Lords of the Flies.
Uncle finally exhales. “This sounds like a game, Kat, but you need to be prepared. Shit happens. They might not let you leave. You might get in all sorts of situations.”
I snort. “I can handle it. They are immatures with guns.”
Uncle’s gaze hardens, and he leans over. “Listen here.” There is no trace of patronizing or condescendence in him anymore. No joking either. “Archer Crone was a star quarterback. The secretary’s son. The entire campus at Deene was under his thumb.”
“Yawn.”
“He was the best,” Uncle continues. “But football was his hobby. Not his strongest side.”
“What was?”
“IQ over 170.”
