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Boris rounded on her and raised his club. She bent her hands over her head to protect herself and waited for a blow.
“Nyet! Nyet—” The female guard ran back—the pudgy one with the brown hair. Natasha. “D’vai.”
Whatever that meant, but the woman pulled her up and away from Boris.
She shot a look at Judah, who lay on the ground, bleeding, his eyes closed.
What had just happened?
“Help him—someone needs to help him!”
Natasha shoved her into one of the passenger trucks. “Stay,” she said, and Shae stilled, the woman’s eyes hard in hers. “Don’t move.”
She nodded, but the moment she left, covered her face with her hands, hiccupping sobs. Then, scrambling to the back, she watched as a couple prisoners picked up Judah and half carried, half dragged him to another truck.
The infirmary truck.
A few minutes later, it drove away.
Judah.
She sat back. And never before had such a swell of darkness swept over her. It settled in her soul, gripped it and turned it to fire.
So, this was what hatred felt like.
She sat in the truck until lunch, when Natasha came to get her. Then they moved her to the lunch serving line. When Vikka came through, she met her eyes with a steel verve that she’d never felt before.
Vikka blinked at her, frowned.
Moved away, glancing back over her shoulder. And Shae wanted to say, that’s right. You’d better watch your back.
But really, what was she going to do?
Something. Because Vikka wasn’t going to terrorize her—or her friends—the rest of her life in gulag.
And the thought simply caught her up.
The. Rest of. Herlife?
No. She was not staying here.
She was getting off this island, off that ship, and going home. Whatever it took.
She cleaned the dishes with the rest of the crew, then joined the line back to the boat, took the tug out to the ship, and climbed the stairs.
Judah was not at dinner. But neither did Vikka come by to harass her.
She ate her beet soup without incident and didn’t care about wire worms in her potatoes. Or whatever that fat was floating on the surface.
She opted out of a shower and stayed in her container, on her bed. And when the doors closed, she got up, took out the blasting powder, and shoved it into her mattress.
Lay on her back and let tears drip into her ears.
The prisoners who’d showered returned to their cells, then the doors closed with a massive click, and all went dark.
She lay there, listening to her breathing. In. Out. Her heartbeat, pumping. Beat. Beat.
The rest. Of her. Life.
