The Isle

by Jordana Frankel

  Catching up to her at the fence, I groan. She knows I don’t ask questions like this. “Aven . . . sometimes things just happen, and there are no bigger answers. I did my part.”

  “Yes, you did,” she says, palms on her hips, sweat beading down her neck. “And I’ll find a way to do mine.”

  I try to think of something snarky, but you know what? I’m glad she’s mad. It means she wants something bad enough that she’d risk going back to that place. If she needs to believe in fate too, fine.

  “I’m sure you will, Aven,” I answer, losing the sarcasm for once in my life. “I’m sure you will.”

  21

  AVEN

  4:00 P.M., FRIDAY

  “All aboard!”

  A blue-and-white-striped double-decker paddleboat grumbles up to the dock. “Hurry!” I yell to Ren, irritated even though she’s only a few feet behind. I just can’t understand her.

  First, I toss the bag of water over the fence. Then I throw myself over as best I can without fingers. Ren, however, jumps it so fast, it’s like she’s not even human. We lower our masks together.

  “All aboard!” a red-haired girl behind the wheel calls a second time.

  The dock bucks underneath us as we run, the way I imagine a horse would. One that didn’t want to give you a ride. Reaching the ferry, our young captain holds out her palm. “Twenty greens, please.”

  I glance at Ren, anxious. She digs around in her bag and pulls out a bottle of water, unopened . . . not even refilled: a gift from Callum, for the road. It’s pure black-market fresh from the Falls, probably worth six times what the girl is asking.

  “Can we afford that?” I whisper.

  “Can we afford not to?”

  The girl looks at us like we’re crazy. She grabs the bottle, stowing our payment in a lockbox under the wheel. When we head for the empty lower level, she wags a finger. “Upstairs only.” Ren and I pass each other looks—we would have rather avoided people, if possible.

  As we make our way through the upper deck, half the boat stares at us from under long, beaked masks. A teacher and her group of students; an old man in a red bow tie and loafers. They must’ve seen us pay with the water, and now they’re wondering how we got so much and how we could give it away so easily.

  Two teenagers, masks up, kiss like they’re each other’s oxygen tanks. As we pass, they make slurping noises. They’re the only ones who don’t stare.

  At the front of the boat, we take two red connected plastic seats.

  “Thanks for joining us on the one, the only, Historic Star tour boat, where I, Cap’n Mirabel, will be your time-traveling guide into the West Isle’s past! Ladies and gentlemen, children on field trips and children playing hooky . . .” Here, she looks pointedly at me and Ren, and at the teens still kissing.

  “We’ll start by waving good-bye to Troy Towers, one of the few remaining pre–Wash Out buildings still in habitable condition.”

  The paddleboat takes the scenic route south, passing through the nicest blocks. We make a few other stops: a flooded church, the remains of a pre–Wash Out school. Ren checks her comm three times in as many minutes. I check mine too.

  “It’s only fifteen after, Ren. We’ll make it there before five.”

  She squeezes my knee, and we ride in silence.

  Captain Mirabel takes a sharp left. “Before we reach Sybil’s Cave, I’d like to draw your attention to the right. There you’ll see the home of our very own Governor Voss. First called Stevens Mansion, it was so named for the university that once stood in its place, built in 1890. The mansion remains one of the few historic sites left untouched by the Wash Out.”

  The girl continues her speech, but Ren and I have stopped listening.

  There they are—the Blues. They surround the governor’s mansion like flies in dark uniforms.

  “They’re early,” Ren whispers, and the Historic Star slows. On the sandy wooded coast, a small painted sign reads: Sybil’s Cave. It points left, south. As we near, we see the Blues boarding docked boats, checking passengers’ IDs.

  “What do we do, Ren?” I ask, gripping her arm. What if they find us?

  I feel the knife again. It slices over both my wrists and draws its blade against the front of my mind. The hands I don’t have still shake.

  Water churns under the paddleboat as the girl at the helm steers toward Castle Islet. People crane their necks to get a closer look at the mansion, but trees block the view.

  “Sybil’s Cave, everyone,” our chipper captain announces as she docks. “I’m sorry about the commotion, folks. I was told we could disembark until five. Let’s see if they’ll let us, so you can get a closer look.”

  A man waves us over. He’s huge. He wears a darker blue uniform than the other officers. His mustache and eyebrows are black. I recognize him immediately, even though I’ve only seen him once.

  He killed Mr. Bedrosian.

  Ren freezes. She grips the rail at her side. “Dunn.”

  The DI chief stands on the shore, hands at his hips like a statue of a Roman warrior. I try not to panic—it’s gala security protocol, Derek warned us.

  The tour boat sidles up to a docking ramp, and its engine cuts out. Chief Dunn boards the Historic Star—we watch his every movement from under our masks.

  Ren doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even flinch. Kicking her bag under my feet, she says under her breath, “I’m jumping. Keep your mask on. Don’t disembark until he’s actually following me and I’ve got good distance. Then run, swim for it—do whatever you need. Just get to the cave.”

  She gestures toward the sign. “Left, and you’ll hit it. It’s not far. I love you. More than anything else, I love you.”

  That’s the last thing she says before hurtling herself over my seat. She dives into the water, north off the opposite side of the boat. Away from the cave. She never looks back. She’s a black arrow in a catsuit. The water doesn’t even splash.

  I’m alone.

  22

  REN

  4:30 P.M., FRIDAY

  Chill brack curls up around me, all too familiar.

  Did I just do the worst possible thing?

  I don’t know, and I won’t until the choice has played out.

  A low rumble travels underwater, but I can’t tell where it’s coming from—the sound’s too muffled. There’s more than one Omni purring out there, that I know.

  A white spear—a dart—cleaves though the brack, headed straight for me.

  I imagine getting skewered and my heart about stops. I paddle backward—the dart crosses in front of my nose. Its net billows past, narrowly grazing my knee. I gasp.

  Water pours into my mouth and I swallow accidentally, gagging as it rushes up my nose. I have to get air—I kick myself to the surface, spitting, breathing hard through my nose, and when my vision clears, I see the giant, steaming heap of brack I’ve landed myself in.

  Dammit.

  They’re everywhere—in Omnis and in regular ole boating mobiles. A pack of silver-blue metal hulls peel toward me, forming a circle. I’m surrounded. I gasp again, spinning. Nearest land is Castle Islet, about a hundred and fifty feet off.

  I duck, ballooning my lungs so I can make the swim—but underwater, the sloping, sandy floor changes color. It lightens as I close in on the coast.

  In an all-black catsuit, I may as well be wearing a target.

  First, I need to lose them—I need to swim impossibly far.

  Pulling back, I cut right and frog-swim up the coastline. I set my goal. Five hundred feet—that’s impossibly far.

  I keep going and going, so fast my legs are hot, powered up with adrenaline fuel. Don’t stop.

  The first air-hunger pang strikes, so I swallow it down. I could get gold medals for holding my breath. Still, it’s harder when you’re being chased. Plus . . . Aven.

  With all the worry and the chasing, my heart blows up in my chest, making me want even more air than normal. I find a rhythm to my movement, something to distract me.


  Push, glide, push, glide . . . I make the seconds pass like they don’t add up to distance and safety. Swimming around one coastal bend and back again, the second air-hunger pang hits—

  I clench my fists and grit my teeth, all the while keeping my lips tight, but my body’s exhausted. Just imagining air does me in—I need it. Now.

  I don’t know if I made it the impossible five hundred feet.

  Floating upward, I flip onto my back, allowing only my nose and lips to break the surface. I swallow mouthfuls of air and get my bearings—I’ve managed to swim as far as the northern tip of the islet. The helis’ rumbling grows louder and fainter in turns. From the sound, they’re maybe four hundred feet southeast past the bend, searching for me in circles.

  This is my shot.

  Keeping low to the strait’s muddy bed, I hold my breath and wait.

  The growling dulls—they’ve turned away.

  I don’t broach the surface as I frog-swim for Castle Islet. When I’m nose-to-nose with the sandy floor, I launch like a rocket for the wooded area.

  Propellors change directions tearing up air—they grow louder as I run.

  23

  AVEN

  4:30 P.M., FRIDAY

  “Her!” Chief Dunn barks, pointing at Ren’s shape as she glides through the water. He races off the Historic Star and follows Ren along the coast. “Get her!”

  The inside of my mask grows wet around the eyes, but I can’t cry—I won’t give myself away so easily. I glance around, panic building in my stomach. I’m torn between worrying about myself and worrying about Ren, but she’s the one who always makes it out alive. Scrape by, barely making it out at all.

  Everyone runs to the side of the boat.

  I’m left here, looking around stupidly.

  I have to do something—now’s my chance.

  Holding both bags of water, I stand and walk to the back of the boat. Here, the girl Mirabel is clipping her nails over the rail, somehow bored despite the commotion. I can barely swallow.

  Can I do this?

  I tried to escape from the lab and I failed. The water is heavy in my arms. I have the cure, I realize. I have no choice.

  When no one’s watching, I go for it—like I’m escaping the first gate of hell, I scurry down the stairs. I jump from the docking ramp onto the rocky shore. The sign for Sybil’s Cave points left, down a narrow path that circles the islet. I follow it, sand kicking up as I run.

  In the distance, I hear a mobile engine getting closer. Its propellers smash the water. Don’t look back.

  “Stop where you are!” a voice commands through a megaphone.

  Aven, you don’t even hear it. I pretend my feet are made of motors, big ones, like the ones the Blues have in their mobiles. They move so fast—I move so fast—I’m actually invisible.

  About fifty feet away, hidden in the brush, I spot a second sign—a white arrow pointing to an obstacle course of gray fanged rocks.

  They jut out at every angle, trying to stop me. Nothing can stop me. I skip over one, then two. I slip—their edges bite at my ankles, so I crab-slide the rest of the way. At the bottom, greenish-brown mud sticks to my calves; I’m knee-deep in a tidal pond.

  To my right is Sybil’s Cave, its mouth so black, it could be a gateway to outer space.

  “Ter?” I call, and wade out into the water.

  First, I see bubbles. Next, the shiny red paint of an underwater mobile breaks the surface. Its moonroof opens and out pops Ter’s head. “Get in!” he shouts, waving me over.

  Seeing him . . . I’m so happy I want to cry. “Ter!” I shout, clobbering through the water. I reach his mobile and throw both bags into the moonroof.

  Ter taps his comm. “Say hi to Benny,” he says. When he grins, I get to see his perfect, smiling teeth. “He’s listening on the DI channels, giving me alternate routes so I can avoid border patrol and islet security. Couldn’t have made it here otherwise.”

  As he looks out onto the strait, his smile drops, hiding his perfect teeth.

  “What is it, Ter?” I turn, following his gaze.

  Racing toward the cave, three metal sharks. Their engines groan as they splash through the waves. They’ve found me. I wasn’t invisible after all, and now I’ve put Ter in danger. I grip the moonroof, watching the world crack like glass. It takes just one tiny nick. Each fracture starts with me—it webs off in a dozen different directions, like everyone who’s risked their life to get me to here . . . Ren, Ter, Derek. Eventually it has to shatter.

  The third shark swims into the cove. It faces directly toward us.

  Is this how everything goes to pieces?

  The Omni surfaces. Its blue hull and its DI emblem—a white shield—reflect the sun. The roof slides open.

  “Benny, what do I do?” I hear Ter ask, half inside the pit.

  My other half is still outside the mobile. I can’t help but watch. Something feels off. . . . It’s just sitting there. This isn’t how “getting nabbed” is supposed to look. Not according to Ren, anyway. It was always, “Shoot the net, drag ’em off.”

  The DI Omni sways with the tide.

  “Are you guys stupid?” a voice yells, and a girl emerges from the Omni. She doesn’t sound like DI, and she doesn’t look like DI; she’s no older than I am.

  “You’ll never make it past them.” The girl shakes her head. Her dyed blond bob catches the sun, looking white like mine. Even whiter, because she isn’t so pale.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ter asks, his head now out of the moonroof.

  Comparing mobiles, the girl is probably right—hers looks exactly like DI property.

  “I’m a friend of Derek’s,” she says, waving us into her mobile. “Comm him if you don’t believe me. I’d suggest being fast, though.”

  Out over the strait, the white trails of two DI Omnis speed closer.

  Terrence looks at me. “Derek doesn’t have friends—he has family. And last I checked, his family had a hit list with our names on it. I don’t trust her.”

  I glance back at the girl. She’s anxious, rapping against the side of her mobile, watching the water. She seems genuinely worried about us being caught, but there’s something else—I can’t put my finger on it. I want to believe her.

  “We are trapped,” I say aloud, weighing both sides. “Could she be worse than the Blues?”

  Ter’s silence makes me wonder.

  “Let’s get a move on,” the girl says, and the conversation is over—Ter squeezes through the moonroof with me. Together, we hustle aboard her Omni.

  The roof slides closed over our heads. Inside, the mobile is aglow with as many buttons and screens as the space allows. Ter and I settle into the seat behind her, and she lowers the mobile underwater.

  “My name is Sipu.” She doesn’t shake our hands. She’s too busy flipping on that thermal visor thing. “You’re Aven, you’re Terrence,” she says, finishing the introductions for us.

  “Can you take us back to the Ward?” Ter asks.

  Sipu’s eyeball sockets go really wide. He must’ve asked something crazy. “Do you see what’s between us and the Ward? I’ll take you someplace else. Somewhere safe.”

  Where is it safe?

  Everywhere we go, Voss follows.

  24

  REN

  4:51 P.M., FRIDAY

  Sand flies behind me as I tear up the Castle Islet coastline. I slip between its trees, sopping, and weave deeper into the woods. Overhead, branches bend from wind or from props—I don’t know, but I don’t slow an iota.

  Thick brush whips against me as I go. It stings my arms, ripping my new catsuit. In here, everything’s a mess of ancient green and brown shadow. Only a few holes of evening sunlight break through.

  When I’m sure it’s the wind that’s blowing the treetops and not a heli, I crouch low to send Ter a comm—Aven couldn’t reply, even if she were safe. Balancing on my knees, I type:

  We got separated. Tell me you have her?

  I shiver,
remembering Aven’s face, the moment before I jumped. Under her mask, she was terrified.

  Again I left her alone. I grit my teeth and let my anger warm me. This time, I’m not blaming myself. I’m blaming him. Voss.

  I hit send, but a new noise stops me cold.

  More engines.

  I stay low and listen. They ain’t like any engines I’m used to . . . they’re different-sounding. I squint deeper into the forest. About a quarter mile off, I can make out the white stonework of Voss’s mansion. Nearby, anchored and bobbing in his moat, I locate that engine I wasn’t able to pin.

  It’s a truck—a shipping boat. That’s why it don’t sound familiar. Nothing ever gets shipped to the Ward. It ain’t gonna tackle me, that’s for sure.

  I keep on, twigs cracking beneath my shoes. The islet might be dense, but it ain’t wide. Less than two hundred feet farther, I land with an awkward splash in Voss’s man-made moat.

  The governor’s home sweet home is mammoth.

  My feet fumble in the mud and I duck back into the brush, leaving my gaping jaw behind.

  I’d seen images from DI training, surveying maps and the land and whatnot, but up close, it’s a different beast. You can tell the building is pre–Wash Out. Gray stones piled high between layers of orange brick, arched gothic windows, and the official UMI radio tower like a dunce cap atop the building’s head.

  Through the trees, I scan the island, looking for a way off. It immediately becomes clear that this ain’t an option. I have no mobile; I can’t take a ferry.

  I’m not sure I want a way off, either.

  Voss is here, a voice reminds, leaving me queasy with guilt.

  Derek too, a different voice adds. It also leaves me squeamish, but for very different reasons. I reach for my comm.

  Are you through the causeway? DI were early. Aven and I separated. On Voss’s property now.

  Three truck boats drift down the moat, docking between both banks. Repurposed tires surrounded their metal-box bodies on all sides, keeping them afloat. Elite Isle Servers + Catering, one truck reads, and another: Catskill Fresh.