The Isle (12 page)

“
H
er!” 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.

S
and 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.

Voss, you've done it again
, I think, scowling. I'd like to throw rocks at his house. Just when I thought he couldn't get worse, he goes and does this—illegally buys freshwater when the UMI can't cough it up at the aqueduct auctions.

I spit in his moat.

Behind the Elite Isle truck, a group of girls my age stand in a long line. One by one, they approach a heavyset woman with square glasses and wrinkled lips. She rifles through a trunk, handing out black-and-white uniforms.

My cuffcomm buzzes. It's Derek:

           
Not through yet. Can you hide safely? May need assistance later.

I could hide. . . .

I could also hide in plain sight
, I realize, watching the girls take their uniforms to the back of the truck. When they come out, they're wearing cream-colored aprons over black dresses and funny little doily crowns on their heads.

My own wet, grimy catsuit sticks to my body.

If I'm going to stand in line with a bunch of West Isle girls, I'll need to not look like a wild forest beast.

Using the truck for cover, I wade through the moat and swing right into the changing room. Inside, four girls pause to give me the up-down . . . just like the racers' girlfriends back home. One throws her old sweater into a clothing cubby:
bingo
.

I make a mad dash for the bathroom and wait for them to leave.

The girls snicker. Maybe they think I have to blow it up, 'cause soon the changing room is silent.

I take this golden opportunity to rummage through their cubbies.

A moment later . . .
presto
! No longer a forest monster. Wearing someone else's cleanish button-down shirt and oversized jeans, I return to the servant line.

The girls here are exactly as I'd pictured: round pink cheeks from having enough food. Clean, well-brushed hair. I must look like a bona fide rat in comparison.

I step up to the lady.

“Name?”

Of course there's a list
. I don't have an answer for her, and she examines me like maybe I'm mute. “You don't have any no-shows?” I eventually ask.

The lady laughs heartily at my joke. “No-shows? For a gala held at the governor's mansion?” She pats her belly, still laughing, because I'm just so damn funny.

“But . . . I really need the money,” I say seriously. The girl behind me puts her hands on my shoulders to move me out of the way. I spin around.
Who the hell does she think—?

“Don't turn her away, Imelda,” the girl pleads. Cradling the woman's palm, she sways side to side, like a sweet, excitable puppy. “Lorelai never shows. Just use her uniform.”

Imelda eyes me like I'm pond scum.

“You gave me that exact same look, once upon a time.” The girl throws her glossy peach hair over one shoulder like she's famous. “But just look at me now!” Behind us, a group of her friends giggle and hide their faces. It's faux embarrassment, though; they obviously adore her.

I, however, continue to exist as pond scum.

“I'll make sure she cleans her face.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I turn away, rubbing at my skin. My fingers come back brown.

Imelda watches. She furrows her brow in a motherly sort of way. Sighing, she begins to search the trunk full of uniforms. “Name?” she asks, but it's just for show at this point.

The girl kisses Imelda's cheek. “Lorelai Gates,” she answers.

Imelda side-eyes her and hands me a black dress with a
funny paper crown pinned to the collar. “Here you go, Lorelai,” she says, totally monotone. To the girl, she adds, “You were never that filthy.”

Dumbfounded, I ignore the insult and stare at my uniform.

A few moments later, my West Isle savior pulls me aside. “Lorelai's dad
totally
made her take this job because they're rich, and she's a teensy bit spoiled. Don't tell her I said that. I love the girl to death. I'm just saying: She. Never. Shows. It's rude, you know? This is a really good gig, and you obviously need it way more than
Lorelai
does.” Her face drops and she covers her mouth. “
Brack
. I didn't mean it that way.”

I'm so busy trying to follow—she talks so fast—it takes me a moment to catch up to the offense. When I do, turns out I'm too grateful to care.

“Look,” the girl adds quickly, blushing. “It's tough out there, that's all I meant. My parents? They
both
work two jobs and we still end up short. I was even stealing fresh from shipping boats and selling it for a while. That's how I met Imelda. . . . Don't tell her I told you that.”

This girl
? A
thief
for the black market?

That's when it hits me . . . how little I know about the West Isle. They have their rich folks, like Callum, and they have their not-so-rich folks. I doubt this girl's had it as bad as me or Aven, but poor don't always need to be a competition. Tough is tough.

“Now, not to be mean, but . . .” The girl clasps her hands together, begging as she walks me to the changing room. “Please, please,
please
don't screw up? Imelda will kill me.
Okay?” Smiling, she holds open the door.

“Spigot's in the back. Hand towels right beside it.”

I forget to smile, say thank you, anything—it all happened so fast.

I stare at the girl too long, and she nudges me into the changing room.

I'm in.