Page 43 of Blue Arrow Island
I scavenged through trash for food sometimes. Ate bugs. And I wasn’t as bothered by it as I am by the slippery, briny algae I swallow with my eyes closed.
When I was twelve, my dad took our family on a weeklong camping trip in northern Minnesota. He had weapons but told us he’d only use them in an emergency. We foraged for food, my mom showing us how to figure out what plants are safe to eat. We ate grasshoppers, grubs, even worms.
The meals served by Lochlan’s chef were always lavish. Having more food on the table than the two of us could possibly eat was expected. I ate robotically, my skin crawling over being just a few feet from the man I hated with my entire being.
But I still ate. Tender steaks, fresh vegetables, fluffy dinner rolls, fruit tarts. I got used to that kind of food—came to expect it, even. And I hate myself a little for it.
Other people starved and dug through garbage, while I ate like royalty. Lochlan probably has a new wife locked up and guarded in his home, eating those meals and enduring her life.
I should’ve fought harder to escape. I tried sneaking out and bribing guards, and the punishment every time was severe. I would have taken the worst of beatings over Lochlan’s sexual punishments, but it was never an option.
I hate it here, but it’s still a better life than that was. For me, anyway. But not for the Rising Tide children. How many lives will they take one day, in the name of a power-hungry maniac who wants to rule every inch of the planet?
“Good morning.”
I jump at the sound of Pax’s voice beside me, the memory of his rabid expression and blood-smeared face in the circle making my spine straighten.
“Sorry.” I force myself to smile. “I was off in my own world.”
He grins, his face clean and freshly shaven. “I’ve got plans for us today, and they involve getting you wet.”
An awkward laugh bubbles out of my mouth, my stomach dropping to the ground.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. Stop fighting it. Do it now. Get on your knees for him.
No,I roar the word in my own head, pushing away the unwanted thoughts. They’re getting stronger every day.
His smile slides into a smirk. “From the look on your face, I’m thinking I may have an adorably nervous virgin on my hands. The things I’m going to teach you...” His gaze roves up and down my body. “But I was talking about sparring on a log over a spring to work on balance. Everyone falls into the water a few dozen times when they start.”
My jaw unclenches with relief. Now I only have to worry about making myself slip and fall a few times during training today. It’s something I’ve practiced often, but I have to keep holding back so I don’t get promoted to two.
He runs a hand over his face and looks away, chuckling. “It’s hard for me to focus on anything else when you blush like that.”
I groan inwardly. I just escaped this line of conversation and I don’t want to go back to it.
“Did you eat already?” I ask. “I’m ready to get started if you are.”
“Yeah, I ate my grilled crickets and algae earlier.”
He nods at a group of fours walking past in a line, a thick tree trunk resting on their right shoulders.
They don’t even look winded, and that trunk should be too heavy for them to carry. I lie awake at night worrying about getting called into the circle by a four. In less than two weeks, I’ll probably end up there with Marcelle, and that’s bad enough.
I’m hoping raw rage will get me through that. But the fours are another level entirely. There are two men and two pregnant women shouldering that tree trunk. They’re starving, their arms and legs too thin, but they look well rested and strong.
Way too strong. I don’t let myself think too much about Whitman having an army of fours and robot kids at his disposal. Regular people would be defenseless against them.
“Commander Marsden wants us to stop by the office before we start training,” Pax says. “Is your canteen filled?”
I pat the stainless jug resting against my hip. “Yeah, I’m good.”
Cleanup crews worked almost around the clock for two days, and storm cleanup is done. Rebuilding is underway, slowed by the muddiness of camp. Everyone’s boots are caked in it, and it’s common to slip and fall. None of us has had truly clean clothes since before the storm. Laundry isn’t a priority. Pax takes me to the ocean a couple of times a day to cool down and rinse off, and we go in fully clothed to get the worst of the mud off our clothes.
The heat here is thick and oppressive, but it’s dryness I crave the most. My inner thighs are so chafed they’re close to bleeding. If I could choose between a real meal and a night of sleep in a dry bed with dry clothes on, I’d have to think hard about it.
We pass Rona, who’s standing with some twos, and I nod in greeting. Her expression hardens and she looks away. I wonder what that’s about.
“So was last night kind of overwhelming for you?” Pax asks me.
