Page 6 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

The helicopter lifts off, the downdraft slamming into me like a physical blow. I stumble back, my eyes stinging with tears of fury and desperation. The storm surges around me, the wind tearing at my clothes, the sleet pounding against my skin as I watch the helicopter sway and dip in the wind with the heavy load on board, then disappear into the storm.

Sea spray arches fifteen feet into the air. Nearby trees are nearly bent in two and sleet slashes at my exposed skin as the temperature plummets. I’m alone, stranded on this forsaken tiny island with nothing but a frozen block of ice for company. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, a wave of hopelessness threatening to drag me under.

Even as despair claws at my heart, a flicker of determination sparks to life within me. I won’t let Garrison win, won’t let him take everything I’ve worked for.

I turn my face to the raging sky, the lightning illuminating my features in stark relief.I’ll survive this, I vow silently. I’ll find a way off this island, and I’ll make Garrison pay for his betrayal.

But first, I have to endure the storm, to weather the fury of the elements and the rocky isolation that stretches before me. Garrison isn’t as big of an ass as I think.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light that made me think he was abandoning me here forever. It’s only September. The weather is bound to let up and perhaps in a day or two the sound of helicopter rotors will wake me and I’ll feel as though this was just a bad dream.

With a deep breath, I square my shoulders and then head for the shelter of the camp, my mind already racing with plans and possibilities. I’ll survive this, claim my fair share of the money, and boast of the biggest archaeological discovery since the Tomb of Tutankhamun.

Chapter Five

Laura

I rummage through the supplies, my fingers still numb from the biting cold. The generator hums in the background, a lifeline of warmth and power in this rocky wasteland.

Rather than lose myself down a rabbit hole of anger and betrayal, I choose to stay busy. I’m in the large unheated all-purpose tent in the middle of the compound. It serves as the common room and is filled with a table, a few camp chairs, and our food and water stores. In the corner is the makeshift potty/shower area and in front is all the equipment, including the little UTV that pulled the skid. Her name is Jenny.

I busy myself counting the cans of food and the packets of freeze-dried meals, my mind whirring with calculations. I lose count twice when the howling wind whips the tent so vigorously I can barely think straight. Although there was plenty of food for the five of us, we were planning to leave in a few weeks. If this harsh, early storm is a forecast of a cruel winter, there won’t be nearly enough provisions to get me through to spring.

I close my eyes and order my tears not to fall. The fact that I’m worrying about my food stores getting me through to spring means that deep inside me, even though the crew flew away only a few hours ago, I’ve already given up hope of rescue.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Garrison will return in a day or two, his rotors whirling, the helicopter filled with food. But I’vealways been a hope for the best, prepare for the worst kind of person. I’ll have to ration.

Clothing won’t be an issue. Layers are the way to survive in the deep cold. Deep cold. I don’t really know how cold it’s going to get, but I do know I don’t have cold weather gear—thermal underwear, fleece-lined pants, or a parka. I’ll just have to make do with what I have.

The crew left everything behind. I’ll never run out of clothes—even if they are baggy and currently filthy. I’ll figure out a way to wash them when it’s warmer and I explore the island more thoroughly than Rick, who went out on our first day here and declared, “There’s nothing on this island but bugs, rocks, and sand.”

It’s not the temperature that has me feeling a bone-deep chill that no amount of clothing can chase away; it’s the reality of this dire situation.

As I check the fuel gauge on the generator, a knot of worry tightens in my chest. Half a tank, maybe less. Enough to keep me warm for a little while longer, but not nearly enough to last until help arrives. To preserve fuel, I ensure that the thermostat is turned off in both the all-purpose and the men’s tent and lower it as much as I can tolerate in my small tent.

When the storm is over, I’ll rummage in what’s left of theEndurance. It’s crashed against the rocks but hasn’t sunk. Maybe I can figure out a way to siphon the fuel until help arrives.

If help arrives at all.

The thought of Garrison’s betrayal sends a surge of fury through me, hot and bitter. I pace the confines of the common room, my boots thudding against the nylon-covered floor and onto the rock below.

“You bastard,” I mutter, my breath clouding in the frigid air. “You lying, greedy bastard.”

I wonder if he had this planned all along, if he ever intended to honor his promise of my nine percent share. The measlypercentage seems laughable now, a pittance compared to the fortune in gold he flew away with.

And what did that nine percent cost me? My safety, my trust, maybe even my life.

I think of the man in the ice, the silent, frozen figure that lies in the men’s tent. I checked on him once, shortly after the helicopter disappeared into the leaden sky. The sight of his still, lifeless form sent a shudder through me, a primal revulsion that I couldn’t quite shake.

Is he a gladiator, a slave, someone completely unrelated to theFortuna? I have no way of knowing, and frankly, academic pursuits are the last thing on my mind right now. The dead hold no answers to my biggest question—survival.

Chapter Six

Marcus Fabius Varro

The chains dig into my wrists, rubbing the skin raw and bloody. Each step is agony, my feet blistered and bruised from the endless march. The sun beats down mercilessly, baking the earth beneath our feet, and the dust from the road coats my throat, making each breath a struggle.

The soldiers laugh and jeer, their eyes cold and cruel as they prod us forward with the butts of their spears. They see us as nothing more than beasts of burden to be driven until we drop.

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