Page 26 of Blue Arrow Island
“I’m mentoring her,” Pax explains.
He keeps walking. The inside of the building is just as muggy as everywhere else is here, the air stagnant. There are no windows on the front of the building, but there are a few on the second story of the wall opposite the entrance, bright light shining through them onto the white marble flooring.
The lobby area is large and open, nothing adorning the walls. There are double doors ahead of us and a door on each of the side walls.
We go to the double doors. Pax opens them and nods to another guard on the other side.
After walking through the doorway, I find myself in a huge courtyard, at least fifty young children in different areas around it. Why didn’t I realize sooner that there are pregnant women in camp, but no children?
“I just need to have a quick conversation,” Pax says, gesturing toward a wooden bench beneath the shaded overhang of the building.
I sit, keeping my expression impassive as I take in my surroundings. The children range from barely able to walk to maybe eight years old. All of them wear miniature versions of the uniform Pax and I have on. Their skin color ranges from very light to very dark, as does their hair. They all have the sameclose-cropped style, maybe an eighth of an inch of hair on their scalps.
An alarm blares inside my head. This place isn’t right. None of the children are laughing or playing. Even the youngest of them is standing in line, watching and listening.
I babysat before the virus came. I’ve never seen such compliant children.
The man we saw at the training area is leading a group of older kids in a drill. They all run about eight feet before leaping into the air, my lips parting when I see more than twelve feet of air between some of them and the ground. After hanging in the air for longer than they should be able to, they drop back down one after the other, all of them landing in a predatory crouch.
Yelena is leading a younger group in a drill with short wooden staffs, all the kids moving in perfect unison. They can twist and pass the staff from one hand to the other easily, without even looking at it.
They look like they’re playing dress-up as soldiers, but it’s disgustingly real. I suddenly long for the blissful ignorance of meat prep with Rona. This is what the pregnant women at Rising Tide are creating—soldiers for the Whitman regime.
The youngest of the kids here, who should be toddling along and babbling, are instead sprinting down lanes outlined with rock, other stone-faced kids watching them.
I control my breathing, trying to quell the tears pooling in my eyes. Of all the things I’ve seen on this island that are outside the laws of science, this is the most disturbing and egregious. It makes me feel sick.
“Hey, I’m all set.” Pax looks down at me from beside the bench I’m sitting on. “You okay?”
I smile, knowing it’s going to take some world-class deception to eventually get myself out of here. “Yeah, I’m good. I just got emotional seeing all the kids. I love kids.”
His expression brightens. “Yeah? Me too.”
Fucking liar. No one who loves kids stands by and lets them be treated this way. Someone did something to these children, and it robbed them of what it means to be human.
Whitman. It all goes back to Whitman. My rage for him and every member of his regime burns white hot as I follow Pax out of the little soldier compound.
They’ll pay. Even if it takes my entire life to figure out how to make them pay for this and everything else they’ve done, I’ll find a way.
9
In law enforcement, we all face danger, provocation and disrespect. How we respond in these situations is a reflection of our character. Emotion is a part of our job. Our duty is to always maintain emotional control in high-stress situations.
- Excerpt from a police training manual written by Ben Hollis
The next morning, I wake up more rested and clear-headed than I’ve been since I got here. Before, I was like a kite on a still day. I knew I wanted to get off this island, but it was a huge, intangible goal that was overshadowed by just trying to survive.
Seeing the emotionless child soldiers being drilled yesterday was the powerful gust of wind I needed to fly.
It all makes sense now. Whitman is using the people of Rising Tide to breed soldiers. Those kids are probably being psychologically programmed along with all the physical training. I don’t know where their supernatural skills come from, but that’s beside the point.
It’s cruel to create children just so they can serve. No matter the cause. I can’t worry only about myself now that I know the truth.
“Hey, kid.” Billy passes me a wooden bowl of murky, watery broth.
My stomach roars in protest, but I smile at him and say, “Thanks, Billy. It looks good.”
A corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “It’s an old family recipe.”
