Nyles jumped to his feet, ever the gentleman, and seemed about to offer his assistance, when she shook her head. “I’m good.” She slid the boxes onto the counter beside the ice-cream freezer, pushing aside a napkin dispenser and a framed sign that read HAVE YOU I SCREAM ED TODAY? “First rule of Alcatraz: Don’t offer to help anyone.”
Nyles sank back into his chair. “I’ve never been good with rules.”
“Then you’re lucky you have immunity,” the newcomer replied curtly. She thrust her hand over the counter. “I’m Blair, your boss.”
Dee started, realizing the introduction was meant for her. She stood up and took tentative steps toward Blair’s outstretched hand. Was this a test? A rule she had yet to learn? Was she supposed to take the offer of a handshake, or stay away?
“I’m not going to slit your throat,” Blair said, the bluntness in her tone matching the sharp angle of her bobbed hair.
“Sorry.” Dee clasped hands with Blair, who gave her a fierce squeeze before letting go. “Dee.”
“Short for Daphne? Dulcinea?” Nyles asked, still trying.
Dee grimaced. “No.” Her name wasn’t short for anything. Not anymore.
Blair hoisted herself up on the counter, knocking the HAVE YOU I SCREAM ED TODAY? sign flat. “Well, Dee-not-short-for-Daphne-or-Dulcinea, welcome to Alcatraz two-point-oh.”
“Thanks?”
“Princess needs to learn about sarcasm,” Griselda said, rolling her eyes.
And you need to learn about manners.
“You’ll get used to Gris,” Blair said. “Her bark is worse than her bite.”
Dee seriously doubted that.
Blair straddled the counter, one leg on each side. She wore black leggings that hugged her stout calves and disappeared into a pair of gray Uggs, and a heather zip-front tunic with a drawstring waist. “I’ll give you the same lecture I give everyone when they arrive.”
Griselda pulled out the chair opposite Nyles and sank into it, crossing one long leg over the other. “I need a drink.”
“There are two sets of rules,” Blair began. “Theirs…and ours. Theirs are simple: work, get paid, eat.”
“So I’ve heard,” Dee muttered.
“You have to show up to your job every day, and funds are added to your island debit card accordingly.”
Nyles fished a key ring out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her. It contained a single shiny silver house key and a plastic card, branded with Postman Enterprises, Inc.’s signature logo. She flipped it over and saw her name and photo printed on the back. It was her mug shot from when she was arrested. Wonderful.
“It works at all the businesses on Main Street,” Nyles explained, “and you can use it as a library card.”
So I can catch up on some light reading while running for my life. Classy.
“Do not lose it,” Blair said emphatically. “You won’t get another one.”
Good to know.
“And you have to stay alone in your own house each night,” Blair continued, “or they’ll zero out your account.”
That rule was pretty much unnecessary for Dee. No way in hell would she be inviting a convicted killer over for a late-night coffee.
“Oh, and you can’t kill other inmates,” Nyles added, chuckling to himself. “No matter how much you want to.”
“Why not?” Not that Dee was contemplating murder, but who cared how they died? They were all condemned anyway.
“The Postman doesn’t want any carnage he can’t control,” Blair said with a shrug.
Griselda pulled out a tube of lip gloss and reapplied. “Bad for ratings.”
Dee had a hard time buying that. “I’ve seen those prison documentaries on TV. Inmates try to kill each other all the freaking time.”
“Not on Alcatraz two-point-oh,” Nyles said grimly.
Blair laughed. “You sound like you’ve never watched the app or something.”
“Oh, I totally watch it all the time,” Dee lied. People who didn’t enjoy The Postman were considered anti-American or plain crazy, so it was easier to play along.
“Hold up.” Blair slid off the counter, her eyes locked on Dee’s. “You’ve never seen it.”
“No, I have.” It wasn’t a lie—she’d been forced to watch it in her prison cell after her arrest. They didn’t need to know that she’d avoided the app like her life depended on it before that. How could she explain it? I spent six days trapped with a psychopath; I don’t need to relive that through an app on my phone, thanks?
Dee had only voluntarily shared her past with one other person, and that had ended badly. Besides, opening up to a bunch of convicted felons—coworkers or not—wasn’t high on her list of things to do her first day on Alcatraz 2.0. These were not people she should trust.
Blair and Nyles exchanged a glance, and for a moment Dee thought they were going to press her for more information. She thrust her chin forward in defiance, preparing for the onslaught of questions, but they never came.
“Oh,” Blair said, leaning back against the counter. “Okay. Well, killing another inmate will earn you a fate worse than death.”
Dee thought of the murders she’d seen from her holding cell, and tried hard to imagine how much worse it could be. “Worse than getting nuked in Hannah Ball’s microwave?” she asked. “Worse than a full-body straight-razor shave from Barbaric Barista?”
“If you care about the people you love,” Blair said, swallowing hard, “then yes.”
It took a moment for the full horror of this statement to take effect. She pictured her dad trapped in one of Gassy Al’s torture chambers, and had to bite her lip to keep the tears from welling up.
Blair took a deep breath. “Right. And remember: The cameras are always watching.”
“Always watching,” Dee repeated. This place got better by the minute.
Then Blair smiled and her entire demeanor changed. “Our rules,” she continued, “are more complicated, but they might just keep you alive, so pay attention.”
Staying alive was a good reason to pay attention.
“Rule number one,” Blair said, holding up her right index finger, “you already—”
“Wait…” Dee cast a sidelong glance at the nearest camera. Blair had literally just said that someone was always watching. Should she really be sharing vital survival tactics in full view of the cameras?
“Don’t worry about them,” Blair said, waving her hands at the red light. “Watch this.” She cleared her throat, then spoke up loud and clear. “I’m going to tell the new girl how to stay alive for as long as possible. Do you want to have that on a live channel?”
Dee stared at the camera in amazement. Before Blair had gotten the first few words out, the red light had blipped off. She spun around and found that all four of the surveillance devices in the shop had gone dark. What the hell?
“They don’t want to humanize us,” Nyles explained. “If the fans internalize our struggle to stay alive, the ratings might go down.”
“Seriously?”
Blair nodded in agreement. “Read the comments feed sometime. The fans love to justify their bloodlust by reminding themselves that we’re all heinous murderers and deserve what we get. Starting a conversation about day-to-day survival is a surefire way to get a channel feed shut down.”
“Wouldn’t The Postman want to know what we’re up to?”
“Trust me, he’s still watching,” Blair said with a grimace. “But it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before.”
“Oh.” Suddenly, Dee’s enthusiasm for survival tactics seemed foolish. What was the point if The Postman and his killers already knew?
“Back to rule number one,” Blair said, unperturbed by the seeming futility of it all. “Don’t offer to help anyone. Half the time it’s a trap, and the other half, it’s a trap.”
So staying alive means you have to be an asshole? Griselda made more sense.
“Rule number two: Don’t be out after sundown.”
“Alre
ady covered that one!” Nyles cried, excited like a child who got the correct answer on a pop quiz. “See? I can learn rules.”
“Good boy.” Blair reached over and pulled a red licorice rope from the jar, then tossed it to him. “This one’s on me.”
“Can you lie down and roll over, too?” Griselda sneered.
“Three: Don’t sleep at night. Viewership goes up between eight p.m. and two a.m., so that’s when most of the executions happen.” Blair held up her index finger again and wagged it back and forth. “And just because you’re locked in your house doesn’t mean you’re safe.”
Dee doubted anyplace was safe on the island.
“Four, five, and six.” Blair seemed to be enjoying herself, her voice buoyant as if she were reciting a nursery rhyme. “Make sure the seals on your food haven’t been tampered with. If you feel like someone’s watching you, they are. And this one’s important: When chased, run outside.”
“Outside?” Dee asked. It sounded counterintuitive. There was no place to hide outdoors, and didn’t the wide-open streets and storefronts leave more places for other executioners to pop out and grab her?
“Outdoor murders get fewer spikes,” Nyles said. “If you manage to get outside, there’s a sixtyish-percent chance that the killer will give up and try again another time.”
Dee arched an eyebrow. “Sixtyish?” Not exactly foolproof.
“There’s a ninety-percent chance,” Griselda chimed in, “that Nyles makes up his statistics.”
He pursed his lips. “It’s not as if we have the scientific apparatus around here to make an actual controlled study of survival rates based on interior and exterior—”
“I was joking, Nyles,” Griselda said. Then she added, in an excellent fake British accent, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Well, at least her snark wasn’t solely focused on Dee.
“Ah yes,” he said, clearly not appreciating the joke. “Hilarious.”
“And last,” Blair said, redirecting the conversation back to the rules, “don’t draw attention to yourself in a negative light. The more the fans hate you, the more desperately The Postman’s killers will want to up their spikes by taking you out.”
“Too late,” Griselda said.
“Oh.” Blair’s eyes drifted up to the screen on the wall. “Right. Well, don’t worry too much about that.”
Dee exhaled slowly. Blair was trying to be nice, which Dee appreciated, but she could see the truth written all over her new boss’s face. Griselda was right: Dee wasn’t going to last a week on Alcatraz 2.0.
Suddenly, Dee was exhausted. Her arms and legs were heavy, and her eyes burned. She knew she wasn’t supposed to sleep at night, but there was no way she’d be able to keep her eyes open for much longer.
Whatever. At this point, who cared? Maybe it would be better if she was taken out quickly in her sleep. Life on Alcatraz 2.0 sounded like a nightmare, and with twenty million spikes and a Cinderella Survivor hashtag, she practically had a sign around her neck that said HEY! KILL ME NEXT! Why prolong the agony? It wasn’t as if she’d be able to escape, and she doubted her dad and stepmom were actively fighting for an appeal, even if it was possible to get one without diplomatic connections. Her parents thought she was guilty like everyone else did, and they were probably just trying to wipe her from their memories.
So much for Dee’s crazy idea that she could stay alive long enough to find Monica’s real killer. What had she been thinking? If former inmates like a trained martial artist, a mob assassin, and a professional bodyguard couldn’t survive on Alcatraz 2.0, how the hell could a seventeen-year-old whose greatest achievements in life thus far included publishing a poem in her local newspaper and managing to not get recognized as “that girl who got kidnapped” for the last six years?
Dee’s face must have reflected her growing sense of despair, because Blair’s carefully penciled eyebrows drew sharply together. “Look, it’s not that bad, okay?”
Griselda snorted. “Who doesn’t enjoy living in constant fear for your life?”
“Ignore her,” Blair said, waving her off.
Griselda rocketed to her feet. “Here’s my advice, Princess. Get used to the fact that you’re going to die soon. It’s going to be violent and painful and terrifying. No one is going to help you and no one is going to remember you when you’re gone.” Then she spun on her heel and marched into the back room.
“I’ll check on her,” Nyles said, hurrying after Griselda. “She shouldn’t be alone.” He looked anxious, and Dee wondered if they had a thing going on.
Stop it! Why was she even speculating about Nyles’s love life? That was a distraction she couldn’t afford. She needed to stay alive, and in order to do that, the only person she could give a shit about was herself.
“Follow the rules and you’ll be okay,” Blair said. Then she dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “There are people who’ve been surviving here longer than you realize.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME that day, Dee felt a glimmer of hope spark to life deep inside her. “Yeah?”
Blair opened her mouth to elaborate, but something in the corner of the shop caught her eye. Dee followed Blair’s gaze and saw that the red lights inside the cameras had come to life again.
“Keep your head down for a few days,” Blair said; her voice was no longer a whisper, but full and loud. “The fans have the attention span of a goldfish—by the time they’ve swum around the bowl, they’ve already forgotten the other side.”
“Right,” Dee said, pulling her eyes away from the camera. “Thanks.” She realized that Blair was just being kind, but had there been something else? Some other insight Blair had been about to share before she had seen that the cameras were back on? There are people who’ve been surviving here longer than you realize. Was there a trick to Alcatraz 2.0 that Blair had figured out? Dee made a mental note to bring it up again, maybe when she and Blair were alone. Maybe when they were away from the cameras.
Or was that even possible on Alcatraz 2.0?
“Shall we head home?” Nyles asked as he reemerged from the back room. He had a small backpack slung over his shoulder. “It’s getting rather dark outside.”
“Did you tell Princess that she’ll have to take the opening shift?” Griselda zipped up a brown suede jacket as she followed him. “I don’t wake up before noon.”
“You’ll be here at ten as usual,” Blair said. “Both of you.”
Griselda clicked her tongue. “You’re making me train her?”
It’s an ice-cream parlor. What is there to train? How to scoop a perfect ball of gelato while avoiding a maniac’s booby trap?
Before Blair could answer Griselda, the door to I Scream flew open and a buff black guy with a shaved head burst into the shop. He practically had to turn sideways to fit his bulked-up arms through the frame, and despite the chill in the air, he wore only knee-length athletic shorts and a sleeveless Lycra shirt that hugged the outline of his well-developed chest muscles.
“Dudes, let’s motor,” he said. “I bet the douche patrol’s gonna be out in full force tonight after Slycer got done by a—” He froze, eyes locked on Dee. “You killed the Slycer!”
“Ethan, meet Dee,” Blair said. “She’s your girlfriend’s new coworker.”
“I am not his girlfriend,” Griselda said through clenched teeth.
Ethan pulled back his chin. “You’re not?” He seemed 100 percent sure that he and Griselda were a couple.
Griselda brushed past him into the street. “No.”
But instead of appearing crestfallen, Ethan just smiled and stuck his hand out toward Dee. “Hasta la vista, baby.”
Dee awkwardly took it. “Um, that means ‘see you later.’”
Ethan’s smile grew while he pumped her hand. “I know.”
“Ethan likes to quote lines from action movies,” Nyles explained, eyeing Ethan’s lingering handshake. “I believe that one is from Predator.”
Ethan shook his head. “Don’t you have acti
on movies in Australia?”
“No,” Nyles said, totally deadpan as he ushered them toward the door. “Shall we?”
Dee waited outside as Blair cut the lights and locked up; then together they began the trek up Main Street. Ethan walked at Griselda’s side, occasionally attempting to slip a beefy arm around her waist, which Griselda discouraged by punching him in the chest.
“The Postman likes to arrange relationships,” Nyles explained. “He also controls our wardrobes, our jobs, where we live. Scripted. Which makes perfect sense, since we’re the ultimate reality show.”
“Except it’s not like Survivor,” Dee said. “There’s no way to win this game.”
Nyles pursed his lips as he pondered her words. “No, I suppose not.”
“Dude, you’re doing better than most,” Ethan said, bouncing around to face Dee. He walked backward, keeping step. “It’s been a while since someone got one for our team.”
“She is not on our team,” Griselda said.
We get it. You don’t like me.
“Anyone who takes out the Slycer is someone I want on my side,” Ethan said, undeterred by his fake girlfriend’s dissent. “That’s why I keep myself in peak physical condition.” He held up his fists and jabbed at the air while he danced around Griselda like a boxer in training. “Gotta be ready to kick some ass with extreme prejudice.”
“Ethan,” Blair explained, “was studying to be a personal trainer.”
“That’s something you study?” Nyles asked.
“Fuck yeah, dude!” Ethan smacked Nyles in the stomach with his flattened palm. “These are your abs. They support your spine and shit. See? Study.”
“Yes,” Nyles sputtered, bending slightly at the waist as he attempted to regain his breath. “You’re a veritable Hippocrates.”
They turned from Bizarro Main Street, USA, onto a tree-lined boulevard heading west toward the end of the island, hugging the dotted yellow line as they walked straight down the middle of the street. On either side, large open parks spanned the length of the block: one was set up with soccer goals at either end, the other with a softball diamond.
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