The Isle

  Again, my comm buzzes, this time with a second message. It’s from Callum. I swallow and read the message.

  5 liters. You won’t make it . . . Ren, we can find another way—don’t do it.

  The Omni starts to feel like a death trap. “Derek,” I say, dizzy in my seat. “How much blood is in the human body?”

  He knows why I’m asking, and reaches for my comm. “About five liters,” he whispers, reading Callum’s message for himself.

  “I don’t believe it,” he says, squeezing my hand. He moves out of his seat and crouches next to me. “Don’t do this,” he asks. Pleads. He lays his forehead against my thigh. “You don’t have to. . . .”

  I don’t have to, he’s right.

  Am I willing to die so that humanity can die also?

  I’d be leaving Aven on purpose.

  Every day of her life that I wouldn’t be around for—I imagine them. . . .

  Her first real kiss. The first time she gets behind the wheel of an Omni. Her first date. Sometimes, she talked about wanting to work the rooftop gardens if she ever got better. . . . I imagine her face the first day she plants a seedling, and I laugh out loud with her, here in this Omni, the first day it sprouts up green.

  The imaginings don’t stop. They come to me like memories, like moments that have already happened, they’re so precise. She’s in white now—I knew she’d get married before me, had no doubts there. I’d be the happiest person just to get to hold her train.

  A baby . . .

  Could she forgive me for this? Would she understand?

  The Omni shrinks, or I grow in size, suddenly too large for this measly body I was born into. The air in my lungs dies, collapses; there’s still so much for us to do together. How can this be the right decision when it means I have to leave her?

  I’ll never be ready to leave Aven.

  And then, something else occurs to me. . . .

  Every moment I want to spend with her, every milestone—you only hit them because life moves forward, because death is out there, waiting.

  Without death, without risk, where is failure?

  And if you always have another chance . . . how do you make the most of each moment?

  The spring is a threat to humanity at its very core.

  “Derek,” I say, running my fingers through his hair. “I’m doing it. I’m doing it now.” He looks up at me with eyes so bloodshot they’re red, not rust.

  Braced against my knee, he lifts himself and moves to the backseat. He searches for the safety belt and locks himself in. “All right,” he says, because that’s all he can manage.

  Five seconds’ worth of fear, I tell myself. The Omni hovers in the child’s waterlogged bedroom, about fifteen feet from the window, giving us a total of twenty feet to hit the right speed. I can see the airlock, and underneath, those few feet of brick we’ve gotta hit to make it into the drainage tank.

  I wish Benny were here—his voice in my ear, all confidence. He’d have calculated the exact distance and speed necessary. With his old maps, he’d have been able to figure out how thick the wall was. But he’s not here. It’s like racing with a blindfold.

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes. No more than five seconds.

  Five . . . What if I miss the airlock?

  Four . . . What if the crash kills me first?

  Three . . . What if I can’t escape the mobile?

  Two . . . What if I drown?

  One . . . What if—what if I actually do it?

  Zero . . . Enough.

  51

  AVEN

  10:45 P.M., FRIDAY

  “Looks like we’re here,” Benny says as the river forks. Brassy music and rowdy laughter floats over our heads, carried downriver. He leans on the engine and we boat uphill, steering right past a brack waterfall. Then the shallow waterway dies out, spilling over smooth, flat rocks.

  A tall stone wall stops us from going any farther. Twinkling gold ropes of light dangle from end to end. It reminds me of the pearl-like necklace Mama used to wear.

  Pitched atop the wall, red and white tents fatten with a gust of wind. We’re thrown the scent of food like tossing table scraps to a pet. It’s real food too, farm-grown, probably cultivated in the very same towers we just passed.

  My mouth waters on cue—Ren and I went for so long with too little. I don’t even care that I’ve turned stray again, begging for a place at a table, any table.

  This is the dam, I realize—the stony barrier that cuts off their reservoir, plugging up our aqueducts so we’re always thirsty. It’s how they keep the water to themselves.

  We’re in its very shadow.

  And everyone is dancing on it? Laughing? Eating and drinking? They must have forgotten us. It was decades ago that we fought them for water, and then the Blight hit—other nations wouldn’t come near us with a ten-foot pole. They ignored us; we disappeared from memory. There’s no other explanation.

  Bolted to the massive gray stones, a sign reads: Ye Old Dam Faire.

  Benny chuckles. “‘Dam Faire.’ Ha. Clever bunch.” He brings the Cloud to a full stop and pulls a wheel of rope from its center hatch.

  “Tie her tight, Aven. We still need to get home,” he says, throwing me the line.

  The others might be glad he didn’t ask them, but I’m not. This is new—getting to be useful. For so long, Ren did so much for me.

  I like it this way.

  Hopping over the side, I find a metal handle drilled between the rocks, exactly for this purpose. The others join me as I easily tie off the knot with two near-complete hands.

  Then we turn our eyes to the dam—it doesn’t cut the river in a straight line. Instead, it curves backward, morphing into a rounded stone staircase. As I get closer, I realize the first few stairs are as tall as I am, and it’s not actually a staircase at all.

  A man-made waterfall must have flowed over this, once.

  I begin climbing the bottom tier. The others tell me to wait, but the stairs shorten as they rise, and it only becomes easier. I let them yell—they’ll catch up.

  Soon the stairs end, and I’m face-to-face with a flat wall. To my right, I spot an actual staircase. It spirals all the way to the top. I crawl over the rail, one leg at a time, and climb, feeling every one of my muscles flex and burn.

  I’m breathing harder, and my head feels light—but even as my body hurts, I love it. Before, my world used to be so small. A room, a bed, pain. My brain is still catching up, growing.

  More quickly than I expect, I reach the top.

  Everywhere it smells of cooked food. A dense crowd walks up and down the narrow stone pathway. Weaving through, I cross over to the other side of the dam, wanting a better view of the reservoir. There, I look out over the edge.

  The freshwater goes on for miles.

  As I take a step back from the wall, I notice something unusual—the top row of boulders isn’t the same color as the rest. It’s a darker shade of gray, like it hasn’t been bleached by the sun yet. When the others join me, I point. “Look at the color.”

  Ter, Callum, and Benny—still breathing deeply from the climb—squint until they see what I mean.

  “Do you think . . . ?” Benny asks, grazing the stonework with one finger.

  “The dam was raised, wasn’t it?” I say, already knowing the answer. “They do have extra water.”

  “Could be they’ve opted to sell less.” Callum inspects the dark, heavy boulders against the lighter ones. “Agriculture might have proven more lucrative, and with drought season coming, it’d make sense to stock up.”

  “Perhaps,” Benny says, his voice still ragged from the haul up. He bends down and looks closer at the stonework. “Perhaps not.”

  Leaning back against the dam, Callum crosses his arms. “You have a different hypothesis?”

  “No,” Benny says, shaking his head. “But this raise wasn’t added in a day. Take a look.” He points from one boulder to the next, until he taps the stones from the original dam. �
�Even more gradations in the color of the rock, see?”

  We all bend down—he’s right. The lower the boulders, the more bleached they get . . . by just a hair.

  “An unaccounted surplus . . . ,” Ter says, scratching the dark fuzz at the nape of his neck. Benny nods his head vigorously.

  “From where, do you think?” I ask.

  “Let’s find out.” Benny steps away from the wall, and we follow him into the throngs of the fair.

  Under smoke-filled tents, striped red and white like Christmas candy canes, I bump into a woman—she’s wearing a white apron, selling some type of food. It’s long, yellow, and white, wrapped in open, stringy green leaves.

  Regretfully, I show her my empty pockets and keep walking, even though my mouth is hurting from hunger. A moment later, Ter runs up to me, only to hurry us away from her stall. When we’re out of her sight, he opens my palm. In it, he places the same yellow food.

  Now, Ter’s dad is wealthy, but last I checked we didn’t exactly bring spending money in our DI uniforms. “How’d you—” I start, but stop when Ter casts me a sneaky smile.

  I’m about to eat stolen goods.

  I grin, not caring in the least. I’m hungry, and the woman selling the yellow food looked okay. Peering closer at the pale little buttons, I recognize them: corn. We used to get it at Nale’s, but the buttons were all separated in a pile.

  Someone passes me, also holding the corn, I watch as they eat, hoping for instructions. They bring the whole thing to their mouth and take a bite.

  I do the same.

  The tiny pieces pop open in my mouth, sweet and buttery. This is food, I realize. Not the protein bars or rehydrated soup that Ren and I are used to. Real food.

  The feeling I had before returns. It’s ugly. . . . I’ve only had it a few times. It’s how I felt seeing Ren, healthy, sometimes.

  The envy leaves me bitter. I try to shake away the scorched feeling, but I can’t. These people—they have enough to share with us, and they choose not to.

  “How is it?” Ter asks, smiling and drooling a little.

  I want to smile back at him, but the anger in my stomach has infected all the other feelings too. Instead, I push him the corn.

  He tries it, and his green eyes roll back into his head. He raises one clawed hand into the air. “Heaven,” he moans, wiping butter from his chin.

  Then, his face drops. He knows what I’m thinking—I’m judging their happiness. Wondering if they deserve it more than me, or Ren, or him, or anyone else I care about.

  They don’t deserve it more.

  From the west end of the dam, an announcer beckons everyone to come close. His voice is staticky through the megaphone. Benny and Callum catch up, and together we follow the flocks.

  This is it—Harcourt’s here. He’ll hear me speak my piece, and I’ll make him understand. I have to.

  Swallowing, I step deeper into the crowd.

  “The auction is open!”

  52

  REN

  10:45 P.M., FRIDAY

  I force my fear into the backseat, focusing on the end goal. I’ve got the perfect view—a near straight shot to the airlock, and below, the drainage tank.

  “Here goes,” I say to Derek, nothing left holding me back.

  I lay my sole into the pedal.

  Inhaling, my head whips against the headrest. The Omni bucks forward. As it scrapes the window frame, the angle gets thrown; I readjust the wheel. We shoot through the water. Ahead, the bricks get closer and closer. My beamers shine on the airlock, the metal so bright it’s like driving into the sun.

  Any second now.

  We’re feet away. Three, then two, then—

  Like a fist, metal flies into brick.

  The Omni screams as the wall jigsaws apart. Somewhere between the bulding and the drainage tank, its nose crumples like balled-up paper. Stupid alloy metals mixed in, I realize too late. Damn swanky mobiles.

  The headlights flicker twice, then go out. Brack water sprays in from a hole under the nose. Then, like a ball being hit by a bat, I’m swung again—this time sideways.

  I slam into the opposite side of the pit, my head colliding with steel. Tiny bees swarm my vision, stinging the nerves behind my eyeballs.

  “It’s Lucas!” Derek yells over the screeching of metal on metal.

  It happens again—

  Over and over, my mobile gets clobbered, lodged between the building and the airlock’s empty drainage tank. More water needles itself into the pit, stabbing me in the shoulder blade. Somewhere, a crack widens—the needle becomes a jetstream, and the mobile fills. We’ve got to get out.

  “I’m opening the moonroof now!” I yell to Derek, pushing the button—the plastic lifts. I squeeze out of the Omni, only to bump my head against the airlock above and land in water up to my knees. I turn to check on Derek.

  He’s . . . leaving?

  He’s trying to wiggle back into the alley, his body fighting brack water as it shoots through the hole in the building. Why?

  My heart takes over. It beats like a propeller picking up speed, faster and faster, until I’m afraid it will explode. It’s not that I don’t want to do this alone . . . I can’t do this alone.

  The tank’s almost fully flooded—water wraps around my ribs. A long, high-pitched beep fills the airlock above. Again, my head bumps the grate. Treading in the brack, I turn . . .

  . . . to find Kitaneh standing over me, locking the steel door to the basement. This is why she disappeared—she wanted to cut me off from the inside. The blade at her belt glistens under the fluorescent bulb.

  “You led them here?” She kneels down, grabs me by my necklace, and yanks. Both lucky pennies—Aven’s and Callum’s—stab against my windpipe.

  I gasp, but air can’t make it in.

  “You’re weak—just like I told Derek. I knew it—the moment someone you love was threatened, you folded.”

  Not true . . . I think, digging my nails under the chain. Blood rushes to my head and black squeezes at my periphery.

  Holding her apple-shaped face inches from mine, Kitaneh lifts me from the water. “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” she says, scowling. Dark and ready, she tips her chin.

  I don’t see Kitaneh reaching for her knife . . . or the blade’s tip gouging my stomach.

  I don’t even see my blood as it spits against her chest—a jolt of bright red.

  I feel only the hot blade slicing into me with liquid ease. It lodges deep inside as water slaps my back. I gag; both pennies continue to cut off air.

  My heart powers on like something electronic. It beats at a pace I can’t keep up with, like there’s one long razor blade being dragged around inside my chest. Dizziness makes my stomach twist, and the knife inside sets sunflares off in my veins—blinding bursts of crimson and canary.

  Then, the necklace loosens. . . .

  My leaden body drops into the brack, released without warning. I’m wrapped in liquid warmth, shivering. In the water my blood parachutes out of me—I watch it like I’ve watched my breath hang in the air on a cold day. A reminder of life. When the red stops, I’ll stop too . . . but I’m not ready yet.

  I’m not where I need to be.

  I won’t die here.

  53

  AVEN

  11:15 P.M., FRIDAY

  “Magistrate Harcourt, please read off the opening bids.”

  On cue, everyone cheers.

  A man, wide like a balloon, takes the megaphone from the announcer. His white shirt puckers, too tight at his waist, and hair pokes through the gaps between his buttons. He eats enough.

  Behind him stand two men and one woman—each in green, wearing dark ties and beige wide-brimmed hats. A small gold shield on their breast pockets reads: City of Falls, Ranger. They’re holding rifles, real rifles, across their chests, guarding a corridor. At its end, the sign on a plain, brown door reads: Distributary.

  Where they must control the ducts . . .

  Magi
strate Harcourt reads off numbers too fast; I can’t understand him. When he pauses, people make megaphone-hands and hoot—that’s how high the bids are. Their hollers echo over the reservoir.

  The magistrate names places I’ve never heard of and some that I have. He pauses. “This week’s winner is the township of Engle!” The round man laughs, bowing to the crowd.

  Everyone claps, smiling at the closing bid.

  Engle . . . I try to remember maps from school—Engle’s on the Mainland, only a few miles north of the UMI.

  “Engle hasn’t participated in our auction for quite a few months. We’re glad to see they’re back on their feet. Enjoy the fair, everyone!” Magistrate Harcourt says, winking. People disperse, some shaking his hand and thanking him.

  Benny lays both palms on my shoulders.

  Now.

  “Magistrate Harcourt!” I say firmly.

  Hands clasped behind his back, the magistrate strides over wearing a wide grin. “Yes? How can I help you?”

  He takes a moment to examine us. Ren used to tell me that the racers’ girlfriends would look at her this way. He steps back. “You’re not from around here.”

  I glance at the others. Callum’s still in his fancy suit, but Ter and I are in DI uniform, and Benny’s wearing jeans so old they’re brown.

  Compared to everyone else here, we look like paupers.

  Compared to everyone else here, we are paupers.

  Seeing the UMI insignia on our uniform’s arm patch, the magistrate takes many more steps back. “Get away,” he says, shuddering. “Leave. I won’t have you infecting my citizens with your virus. Guards!”

  Callum approaches him—“I’m Dr. Justin Cory,” he says, holding out his hand. In his nice black coat and pants, the magistrate pauses. When it’s clear Harcourt has no intention of shaking hands, Callum pulls an ID card from inside his jacket instead. “On my honor as a medical practitioner, I can personally attest to these people’s health. No one here is sick, I promise.”