Page 12 of Blue Arrow Island
“Unfortunately, you’re bunking with me since I’m your mentor while you’re on probation. I’m in bunk twenty-eight. You aren’t getting a key. If I’m not there, wait outside the door.”
Great. I’d probably be better off sharing a room with the lizard I saw earlier.
We arrive at a shelter that seems to be where the Rising Tide members eat. Around twenty rustic wooden picnic tables are arranged on a floor made of large square concrete pavers, a metal roof covering the space, which is supported by thick pillars in each of its corners.
Raindrops have started falling, wind carrying them to mist my face and arms. Marcelle takes me through the door of a building connected to the dining area.
The smell of rotting fish hits me like a punch. It’s a wet, heavy, rancid odor. There are about a dozen people in the big space. One stretch of stainless countertop is about six feet long, and there’s another twenty-plus feet of makeshift countertop made from pieces of bamboo lashed together and supported on legs made of tree branches.
“What the fuck is this, Marcelle?” A man whose hairline has retreated a long way from his forehead glares at us over the rim of his glasses, which are held together in one corner with what looks like tape. “I don’t need more people prepping food; I need more people bringing me food to prep.”
She gives him a tight smile. “I’m just doing my job and delivering your new girl, Billy.”
With that, she leaves. Billy squints at the bundle in my arms.
“Why the hell are you bringing a bunch of dirty laundry in here?” he barks.
I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say, so I just close it again without answering.
“This fuckin’ place,” he mutters. “Put your laundry outside and then I’ll find you a job.”
Later that day, I’m sitting at a table with Rona and Olin, also kitchen staffers with bracelets bearing the number one, eating my first meal of the day in silence.
We got the same meal we’ve been feeding others all day: a big spoonful of mushy boiled grains with about half a cup of seaweed and a quarter of a coconut. We serve people in carved wooden bowls through a large window opening in the kitchen building. People actually line up to get this underwhelming meal, their expressions impassive as they receive it.
I thought Olin just didn’t like me because he wouldn’t respond to anything I said for the first couple of hours I was here. He’s young, maybe nineteen, with textured bright-red hair that refuses to be tamed and freckles all over. Rona, a wisp of a woman with a buzz cut and colorful tats up and down her arms, finally told me Olin is mute.
“It’s not so bad, working in the kitchen,” Rona says, making me glance up from staring at my empty bowl. “I worked in a restaurant before the virus, washing dishes. Eight hours a day, nothing but dishes. What were you doing when the virus hit?”
“College student,” I say. “I was helping a professor with a research project on a little island off the coast of Washington.”
Rona arches her brows. “Fancy.”
“Not really. I’m just a science nerd. I worked as a waitress too, at a pizza place.”
The friendly gleam returns to her eyes. “Fuck me. I’d kill for a giant slice of New York-style pepperoni, with grease pooled all over it.”
The corners of Olin’s lips quirk in a smile of agreement.
Two speakers mounted on posts on either side of the dining area crackle to life.
“This is Commander Marsden.” The female voice is crisp and authoritative. “Please join me in welcoming our newest addition, Baby One-Three-Six Tide. The baby is healthy. Peace, order and prosperity.”
The handful of people in the dining area clap and cheer over the announcement.
It must be Peyton’s baby. But why doesn’t it have a regular name?
“What’s with the one-three-six Tide thing?” I ask Rona quietly.
“It’s how we name babies here.” She stands up, her empty bowl in hand. “You guys ready to get back to work?”
“Actually, Briar’s needed elsewhere.”
All three of us turn toward the voice and find Pax approaching. Rona stiffens her spine.
“Yes, Commander.” She reaches for my bowl and takes it, she and Olin escaping quickly.
Pax is shirtless, sweat trailing down the carved muscles of his chest. His abs are defined; the waistband of his pants hanging low to reveal thatVshape that makes women do stupid things.
