Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
They’re all morbid versions of the watercooler talks people used to have before big sporting events. Who’s gonna win? Who has the edge? How long will it last?
People are betting their meager belongings and work assignments on the outcome of the match. I keep my head down, focused only on learning to weave the reed baskets used to move produce and small game into camp.
“Pull it tighter.” Keila, the three teaching me how to make the baskets, works circles around me, her fingers deftly working the wet reeds into sturdy baskets with arm loops for carrying.
The baskets were all blown away in the storm, and the sooner we get several done, the sooner we can get enough coconuts and papaya to feed everyone—hopefully. I haven’t eaten since before the storm, though I don’t feel as weak as I should from it.
“That’s nice craftsmanship,” a sweet female voice says from behind me. “For a dog.”
My skin prickles with awareness as Marcelle sits down on the ground beside me, two of her friends sitting down on her other side.
“Pax’s pet may be mangy and smelly, but she sure is a loyal little puppy, following him everywhere he goes. I bet you sit at his feet while he’s taking a shit.”
“Are you here to work?” Keila asks.
In answer, Marcelle reaches for the pile of supplies nearby, picking up some reeds.
“Do you suck him off while he’s taking a shit?” Marcelle sneers at me.
I don’t need to make waves. The clock is ticking on finding a way out of here before my mind completely turns on me. Arguing with Marcelle won’t help me reach that goal, and it could make it harder for me.
She’s a three, and I’m a one. There’s a stupid amount of respect for the hierarchy here.
“I just really think baby killers are the most evil people there are,” she says, her hands weaving reeds. “Wouldn’t you guys rather take out a baby killer than literally anyone else?”
“I would,” one of her friends immediately says.
I shouldn’t say anything. But the beating is still so fresh in my mind. The terror I felt when they were holding me down and I thought I was going to die. And the worst part is, in a world where men use and abuse women without a care, it was other women who did that to me.
“Did you know it’s my sixteenth day here?” I infuse enthusiasm into the question and smile at Marcelle.
“A better question is, do I give a shit?” She gives me a withering glare.
“Oh.” I feign disappointment. “Sorry. I thought you’d care because on day thirty-one, I can call people into the circle.”
Her jaw drops and her eyes dance with amusement. “I hope you do, bitch. I really do.”
I give her a confident, full-faced grin. “Oh, you can count on it. Because I think the most evil people out there are women who try to kill other women without even knowing why they’re doing it, especially when they’re too chickenshit to try it without a bunch of their friends holding their victim down.”
Keila chokes on a laugh beside me. Marcelle’s face reddens with anger, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” she says in a low voice. “It won’t be fast. I’m going to make it as slow and painful as I possibly can.”
“We’ll see.” I breeze over the words. “I’ve known people like you before, who talk big. But they’re almost always all dick and no balls.”
This time, it’s not just Keira who snickers, but also one of Marcelle’s friends. Marcelle shoots her a death glare and then gets up and walks away, her reeds still in hand.
Keira nudges me with her elbow. I look up and she gives me a nod of approval, whispering, “Good job.”
I shouldn’t have said anything. But there aren’t many pleasures here on Blue Arrow Island, and I enjoyed that. A lot.
The circle is made up of rocks, each of them a little larger than a coconut, stacked side by side to form a circle that’s about thirty feet in diameter.
That evening, as I walk into the clearing near the beach where the circle is, it’s the outer ring around the rocks that grabs my attention.
It’s dusk, so everything is cast in shadow. At first, I thought the larger ring was made from driftwood. But my breath catches in my throat when I see what it really is.
It’s made of human bones. Hundreds of them. I make out femurs, skulls, partial rib cages and shoulder blades, all packed into a tight outer ring.
A bonfire roars in the center of the circle, its dancing flames casting flickering light over the human remains. These must be the bodies of everyone who has died here. I’m shocked by how many there are.
If the point of this place is to build an army, soldiers killing each other seems counterproductive.