Island Refuge EMP Box Set | Books 1-3

by Hamilton, Grace

  Keep your mind on what matters most, she reminded herself. Let Sniffy be happy. He’s been through enough.

  14

  “Jackpot,” Malin said, his heart pounding. The near brush with Rod Smith still had him freaked out, but now the anxiety was mingled with excitement. It was like stumbling upon a pirate’s treasure, but instead of piles of gold and jewels, he was looking at shelves of plastic and cardboard tubs containing medical supplies.

  He was on the ground, pressed flat against the dirt, with his face poking through the bottom of the heavy canvas that made the walls of the medical tent. Spence had slid a couple of barrels to one side of him to block him from the nearest intersection, and Archer was squatting on the other side, pretending to work on an old rusty piece of junk they’d picked up along the way, as Spence guarded them with the AK-47.

  The medical tent hadn’t been hard to spot once they’d gotten close. It had a prominent red cross painted on each side. But as he lay there with his head under the canvas, Malin could hear the camp waking up around them. Their risk of being recognized was increasing exponentially with every passing minute.

  Fortunately, the medical tent was empty. A row of cots occupied the middle of the tent, with shelves against the outer walls. Though there were no patients on the cots at the moment, Malin saw what appeared to be drying blood splashed all over the side of the end cot, speckling the rug floor. Someone had died in here recently, from the look of it.

  “Both of you, get in there and get it done,” Spence said, speaking softly. Their immediate vicinity was surrounded mostly by the backs of tents, so there was no traffic. However, people were moving nearby. “Load up and get out. You have seconds. Seconds. Go.”

  Malin pulled himself into the tent, yanked the backpack off his shoulders, and rose. As he rushed toward the nearest shelf, he heard Archer working her way under the tent behind him. If someone had died recently, it meant someone had been in the tent recently. Maybe the absence of medical personnel was related to the death of the patient. If that was the case, then they could return at any moment.

  Malin moved to the nearest shelf and began picking through the items, taking a few from each category and placing them in his pack: bandages, gauze, medical tape, cotton balls, surgical implements of various kinds, medical gloves, pill bottles, and so on. As he did that, he heard a much more chaotic sound behind him.

  He glanced back and saw Archer clearing the shelf with a sweep of her arm, dragging the entire row into the pack. She was done within three seconds, just barely able to zip the pack shut, as Malin went back to work, picking his way along.

  “We’re not picking over produce at the grocery store,” she said. “Just swipe it all into the pack and let’s go.”

  “I don’t want to leave the camp with nothing,” he said. “There are civilians here.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Archer said. “You’re going to get us killed trying to be altruistic. It’s us or them, stupid. Get it done.”

  “Everyone in the camp is not the enemy,” he replied. It wasn’t as if he were wasting an inordinate amount of time. It might have taken him ten extra seconds to be a little more selective. The islanders and Marines didn’t need to take absolutely everything. It was unnecessarily cruel, especially with so many civilians forced to live and work in the camp.

  Giving him a withering look of disgust, Archer moved up beside him and began picking up whole cases of supplies, jamming them into his pack. He briefly considered resisting her, but the deed was done before he could do anything about it. Archer had managed to clear one entire shelf, jamming everything into his pack.

  “Now, zip it up, and let’s get out of here,” she said. “We’re trying to leave this camp alive, remember?”

  “Yes, got it,” he replied. He could have zipped up the pack as it was, but out of sheer orneriness, he pretended like it was overfull, removed one box of bandages, and set them back on the shelf. Archer didn’t seem to notice or care.

  “See how easy that was?” Archer said, slinging the pack over her shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  Malin put the pack over his shoulder and started toward the back of the tent. It was a single, short gasp that drew him up short. Spinning around, he saw a man standing in the open tent flap. He was short and soft, a pudgy gentleman with his black hair carefully parted and combed to one side. He wore a long-sleeved dress shirt, filthy with dust, that had a small red cross created in electrical tape over the breast pocket. In his right hand, he was holding a clipboard, and it looked like he had frozen in the middle of writing something with a stub of a pencil.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Just getting some stuff for the commander,” Archer said. The lie came quick to her lips. “Can’t tell you about it. Sorry.”

  “But…” He lowered the clipboard and tucked the pencil behind his ear. “He wouldn’t send civilians. Where’s you guard? This isn’t appropriate at all. We have protocols.” The longer he spoke, the louder he got. And now, his gaze went to the shelves on his right, the ones Archer had cleared. “What…what the hell is going on here?” Confusion became sudden fear, his face seeming to melt as the situation became clear to him. “Who are you people?” He opened his mouth wide as if to yell.

  Run and gun, Malin thought. That’s what the staff sergeant had said. Was this the moment?

  But Archer hadn’t moved yet, and Malin saw why. Somehow, Spence had slipped through the tent flap behind him, and he rose up behind the man now. Malin found his sudden appearance disturbing, a real horror movie moment. As Spence clapped a hand over the man’s mouth and drove the long black blade of his KA-BAR knife into the side of his neck, he was loudly, hungrily chewing one of his damn Mentos.

  The blade went into the side of the man’s neck like it was sliding through warm cake, the tip poking out the other side. Then Spence dragged it forward, cutting carotid and jugular as he’d done before. Blood gushed out onto the ground, and the doctor slumped in his arms with gurgle. As Malin’s stomach turned upside-down, Spence dragged the man into the tent and laid him on the nearest cot.

  “Was that necessary?” Malin asked.

  “You people need to move faster,” Spence said, wiping his hands on the man’s shirt. “You should’ve been in and out in, like, three seconds. Come on. We’re leaving before someone raises the alarm.”

  And with that, Spence turned, pushed back through the tent flap, and disappeared. Archer followed him, but Malin hesitated a second, looking at the giant puddle of blood on the rug. He grabbed a blanket off a cot and tossed it onto the puddle, hoping it might hide the evidence for a second or two, then rushed after Archer. As he moved, the heavy pack flopped back and forth, making far too much noise, so he tightened the straps against his shoulders as much as he could.

  Stepping outside, he saw another man walking toward them. Dressed similarly, in a button-up shirt with a red cross on the pocket, he also held a clipboard. He gave Malin a strange look.

  Well, we’re about out of time here, he thought. Hell is going to break loose any second now.

  15

  Elna let Prig take the lead as they moved through camp, giving him occasional directions while trying to make herself as small as possible behind him. She thought it fit the costume. Most of the civilians in the camp went about like whipped dogs, tails tucked between their legs. Prig did a pretty good of job of acting casual as he passed others, not really looking around, not really trying to hide, just strolling along with gun in hand and a civilian slinking along behind him.

  Still, she felt terribly exposed. All it would take was for one guard to notice something out of the ordinary or for someone who had been present during her last trip to the camp to recognize her.

  Oh God, what if we run into Garret? she thought. There’s a face I never want to see again. He would raise holy hell the second we crossed paths.

  The camp was starting to wake up, civilians gathering here and there to begin their various daily tasks, guards marc
hing about. Prig seemed to be attempting to avoid direct, face-to-face interactions with guards, which meant they were weaving a zigzag pattern through the camp.

  Finally, they stepped between two tents, and she spotted a larger tent to one side that she recognized. No guards were posted in front this time. Off to one side, in a large open area, a group of civilians seemed to be preparing a large meal. They had a fire going, and a large wire framework had been balanced over it. Multiple pots hung from the framework. A few feet away, a stack of open crates contained vegetables, grains, and what appeared to be dried meat. A group of three women and two men were moving back and forth between the crates and the fire, throwing ingredients into murky, bubbling water.

  The smell that reached Elna wasn’t entirely pleasant. As they approached the large tent, she caught up to Prig and tried to speak just loud enough for him to hear.

  “This is the place where we were held captive,” she said. “I recognize the tent.”

  Prig paused for a moment, gazing toward the tent. The flap was shut and staked in place. “It doesn’t look like a prison cell,” he replied. “Looks like every other tent in this camp. How’d they keep you here?”

  “Posted guards,” she said. “They wanted us to think we were guests being watched over for our own good.”

  “That old trick?” Prig replied.

  Elna heard the workers at the firepit talking to each other. She couldn’t make out the words, but she resisted the urge to glance back at them. Prodding Prig in the back, she pointed off to her right.

  “There’s a row of iron cages not far in that direction,” she said. “That’s the most likely location of your captive friend.”

  Prig nodded, turned, and started in the direction she’d indicated, heading for a narrow gap between two small tents. As Elna moved to follow him, however, she heard one of the voices behind her getting closer, then she heard the scuff of shoes on dirt. She intended to ignore it, but then someone grabbed a fold of her loose shirt from behind and tugged at it.

  Elna spun around, ready to either lash out or run away. However, rather than a guard standing behind her, she saw a small, weary woman, her hair in cornrows, her dark brown eyes full of either pain or sadness.

  “Oh, hey,” the woman said. “I kinda thought that was you from the back, but I wasn’t sure. Didn’t we work together on a cleaning crew or something?” The woman started to reach for a hug, then seemed to reconsider and extended her hand instead. She wore an apron that looked about twenty years old, covered in layers of food stains, and Elna noticed that the woman had what appeared to be numerous small burn scars on her palms and fingers.

  “Oh, yeah, I think I remember you,” Elna lied. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Prig standing between the tents, waiting for her while trying to look like he wasn’t waiting for her. She then glanced toward the fire and saw the other workers. They continued to go about their business, but they kept looking in her direction. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? I’ll be honest, I’m not good at remembering names.”

  “Natasha,” the woman said, reaching back to retie her apron, as if anxious to get back to work. “Well, anyway, you just looked familiar, and I wanted to say hello.”

  Elna looked at Prig again. He was staring off at nothing in particular, but he made a small beckoning gesture with one finger. “Okay, well, it was good to see you again. We’ll have to catch up some time.”

  She raised her hand in an awkward gesture of farewell. However, in the span of about two seconds, she saw the woman’s face utterly transform before her eyes, that slightly shy positivity peeling away as recognition entered her eyes. Her mouth dropped open, and both of her hands went to her apron again, grabbing and twisting the stained cloth.

  “No, wait, it wasn’t the cleaning crew,” she said in a little whisper. “That’s not where I know you from. I remember now.”

  Elna had heard enough. Without another word, she turned, motioned Prig to get going, and walked away. Prig passed between the tents and quickly moved out of sight, and Elna followed him. She slid between the tents, her shoulders brushing dusty canvas on either side. She popped out the other side into an area that was full of barrels and boxes.

  “Now, why’re you rushing away like that?” said the voice behind her.

  Natasha had followed her. Elna turned to confront her. How was she going to get rid of this pest?

  “I’ve got work to do,” Elna said. “I think you do too, Natasha. Weren’t you helping those other people cook?”

  She’d lost sight of Prig, and before she could look for him, Natasha grabbed her shirt with both hands and dragged her close. “I knew I recognized you,” she said, in a low, increasingly sharp voice. “I didn’t work on any crew with you. You were in that group of prisoners from the island that they dragged into camp a few months ago. That’s when they brought all of that cheap wine here. You passed in front of me coming and going. Am I right?”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Elna said. “I’ve never been a prisoner here.”

  But Natasha pulled her closer and wrapped an arm around her neck, pulling her head down. She was strong. Elna felt the muscles in her forearms bulging against the side of her neck.

  “I know who you are,” Natasha said, “and you’re coming with me. They’ll reward me good for handing you over to the commander.”

  Elna tried to wrestle out of the woman’s grip, pushing at her and twisting, but she was caught fast. The pressure on her neck was also making the edges of her vision turn red as she was dragged back toward the tents.

  A sudden sound seemed to freeze the moment. It was a low thud, like a melon slamming onto a hard countertop. Natasha’s grip instantly released, and Elna stumbled backward. She lost her balance and fell onto her butt. Natasha crumpled at her feet in a heap, blood running down her forehead.

  Prig loomed over her, a large, rusty wrench in his right hand. He didn’t wait. As soon as Natasha was down, he tossed the wrench onto the ground, grabbed her wrist, and dragged the body into the nearest open tent. Then he closed the flap, tied it shut, and kicked dirt over the small puddle of blood.

  “Don’t interact with anyone,” he said, extending a hand to Elna. “That’ll get you in trouble every time. Just keep walking.”

  Elna grabbed his hand, and he yanked her to her feet. “Thanks,” she said. “I thought I could weasel my way out of it. Guess I was wrong.”

  “We’re running out of time,” he said, pointing at the sunlight shining on the eastern horizon. “Show me where we need to go.”

  Elna brushed off the seat of her pants and hurried across the path, slipping between another row of tents. As she approached the far end, she knew she recognized the area. There were more barrels on the far side, and she was pretty sure she’d had a confrontation with Garret in this area. She stopped and peeked around the far corner of the nearest tent. The tents were wide open on the south side, and each of them contained a heavy iron cage. The cage right beside her was empty, but she spotted a lone guard standing in front of a cage a few tents down. He was turned slightly away from her, holding an AK-47 in his arms.

  “That’s it,” she said, ducking back behind the tent.

  Prig was right there. “Okay, count to twenty, then get the guard’s attention. I’ll take it from there.”

  Before she had a chance to ask any questions, he rushed back the way they’d come. Elna started counting, but she felt the anxiety of the moment building in her. What was he about to do? Her whole body felt like it was vibrating, as if from a low electrical current. She almost lost count a couple of times.

  “Twenty,” she said at last. She’d lost sight of Prig, but she trusted him now. He’d proved his ability to take care of business.

  Elna stepped out from behind the tent and approached the guard openly, trying to concoct an easy lie. As soon as she cleared her throat, he swung around and pointed the rifle at her, so she ducked down in a submissive gesture.

  “Sorry, sir,” she sai
d. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but they told me to come and get you.”

  “Get me?” he replied. He was short and fat, with a mouth like a sideways capital C.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she said. Indeed, she could smell the slight foulness of whatever the people were cooking.

  How soon until they notice a member of their breakfast crew just vanished? she wondered.

  The guard started to say something, but Prig rose up behind him, silent as a shadow. He’d retrieved the wrench, and he brought it down on the back of the guard’s skull with a swift, well-aimed strike. The guard made a single expulsion of breath, which harmonized with the crack of his skull. Then he dropped face-forward, pivoting at the heels, and smashed onto the ground. Moving fast, Prig retrieved the man’s rifle, grabbed him by the ankles, and dragged him into one of the tents. He stuffed the body into the narrow space between the cage and canvas.

  As he did that, Elna rushed toward the cage the man had been guarding. A young man was sitting at the back of the cage, his head between his knees. He was young, Latino, with a Marine’s haircut and a well-built physique, but when he raised his head to look at her, she saw he’d been beaten to a pulp. One eye was swollen shut, both cheeks swollen, his lips bisected by a scab, small cuts and abrasions all over his face. Instead of a Marine uniform, he was dressed in a black-and-white striped prisoner’s uniform.

  “Golf?” she asked. “Is that you?”

  He stared at her for a second with his one eye, and it slowly seemed to focus on her face.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, his voice rough. With the injury to his lips, he had some trouble speaking. “And who the heck are you? You don’t look like an executioner. You look like a high school science teacher.”