Page 10 of Blue Arrow Island
I nod, wary. Though I appreciate the food, water and rest, I’m still suspicious about this camp. About the entire island, actually.
“I’m Marcelle,” the blond says, stopping beside my bed and smiling brightly. “I’m your mentor, and this is my first time mentoring, so I’m excited.”
The green canvas pants and white T-shirt don’t match her lithe, slim figure. With bright-blue eyes and perfect skin, she belongs in a cosmetics ad campaign. Not that those exist anymore.
“Can I get some food and water?”
“I’ll check on that after you shower. Are you ready to get out of here?”
I push the sheet aside to get up, and Marcelle scoffs. Her gaze is locked onto the ink on the back of my hands, her frown disgusted.
“Yeah, they’re...prominent,” I mutter. “Guess that’s the point to Whitman, though. So people can see us nondoormats coming from a mile away.”
“Nondoormats?” She gapes at me. “You think women who bring children into the world instead of killing them aredoormats?”
Oh hell. I didn’t see that coming. I thought she was disgusted I’d been branded, but she’s...not. I should have been more guarded.
“No, that’s not what I mean. I don’t think we should be forced.”
We. As in,this could just as easily have happened to you. This is the worst part of the new world Whitman has shaped—or actually,oldworld, since we’ve regressed in every possible way. I’ll never understand how women buy into it. It’s only been six years since we didn’t have to register our DNA into a database for genetic testing to see if we’re “optimal breeding candidates.”
Shaking her head, she turns toward the door. “Unbelievable. Let’s go.”
I slide on my worn shoes, which someone must have taken off me while I was sleeping, and lace them up. As I walk, my hand instinctively twitches slightly, wanting to brush over the hilt of the knife I used to keep strapped at my waist. Lochlan took it away when he captured me, but I carried it for so long before then that I still remember the feeling of security it gave me.
Marcelle leads me in the opposite direction of the housing. We pass a group of people who are all wearing packs on their backs made from what looks like wide, woven reeds. One of them has a hat on that’s made of green grass, the brim protecting her eyes from the sun. They all eye me as they pass, my attention snagged on their bracelets.
They’re thick cuffs worn around the wrist, a large white number placed prominently on each one. Everyone in the group whose bracelets I can see has a “3” on theirs.
The buildings we pass are all plain and well kept, some made from concrete blocks and others built with wood. Marcelle stops at a door marked “Supplies” and raps on it twice.
A small square cutout in the door slides open, a man’s face appearing in the opening. Instead of greeting him, Marcelle holds up her own cuff, which also bears a “3.”
“I have one who just got here and needs supplies,” she says.
The man slides the opening closed and we wait, the thunking sound of a dead bolt indicating he’s unlocking the door.
“Come in.”
He steps aside as we enter a building that’s much deeper than it is wide. It has wood-plank flooring and its windows are open, though no breeze seems to be coming in. The windows here are different than the infirmary ones; there are only two in the whole building and they have thick wooden covers with metal locks. They’re held open with hooks that latch into eyelets in the wall.
Interesting.
“You look like a size medium,” the man says, walking over to a wall with wooden shelves lined with stacks of the pants, T-shirts and boots I’ve seen everyone wearing.
He pulls a pair of boots off a shelf and then gets two each of the other items, adding underwear and socks. Then he grabs a gray wool blanket and a square-ish block of oatmeal-colored soap. Its sweet jasmine scent reminds me I get to shower soon.
“Welcome to Rising Tide,” he says without enthusiasm as he holds out his arms to pass me everything.
“Thanks.”
Most of the shelves in the space sit empty. There are around fifty large wooden barrels around the perimeter of the room, all of them marked with the word “grain.” Around a dozen plastic barrels bear the label “sodium hydroxide.”
Lye. It’s an ingredient in soap. My mom taught my sister, Maven, and me about pH levels one summer by showing ushow to make hot-process soap. It was messy but fun. I layered lavender in mine for the scent.
The man asks Marcelle for my name and writes it down. Without another word, Marcelle leads me out of the building.
“I’m supposed to tell you the rules,” she says in a level tone, not looking at me. “Everyone starts out in group one and works their way up. You’re on probation for your first thirty days. Our days are scheduled in four-hour blocks. Your off blocks are ten p.m. to six a.m. Your work duty is in the kitchen, and you start at six a.m. You’ll work six to ten, train ten to two, work two to six, train six to ten.”
