The message ends, and we all stare at one another. The prize for the first leg was money to afford better doctors. The prize for the second was a five-year supply of the Cure. In comparison, the ocean prize sounds small.
It’s anything but.
After everything we’ve been through, it’s what we’re desperate for — a chance to hear Cody’s voice. A chance to ask how he’s feeling and to assure him (through lies the Brimstone Bleed men will surely feed me) that I am okay and will come home soon. And, no, Cody, I won’t tell you where I am. Just take care of yourself. And know that I miss you. And I love you.
Mr. Larson grabs the paddle from where he sits and dunks it into the water. Guy does the same from one of the Pandora rafts, where I remain seated. Together, they begin maneuvering us toward the next buoy and, we hope, away from the sharks. We don’t say what we’re all thinking. That we’re leaving behind a Contender who died in the worst of ways, and that if our raft forms a spontaneous leak, we may endure the same fate. Or that we want that phone call so badly, we can taste it.
We move silently through the water until at some point, Cotton gazes directly at me and says, “My dad knows about sharks. He told me about them.”
I shrug, like, What does it matter?
“They shouldn’t have been circling us,” he says. “Not in a shiver like that. Not without blood in the water.”
That night, as stars drill holes into the sky, Harper curls up in the spot where Jaxon slept the night before, and she cries. I don’t know whether it’s him she’s mourning, or if the tears are for her daughter. I only know they come from a place no one can touch. Her eagle lands near her shaking body, and dips her head in solace. And later, once Harper has quieted, Braun slips his pig’s limp body into the black tide, whispering words I can’t make out.
The rest of us cling tight to our Pandoras and await the nightmares sleep will bring.
The next morning, Braun nudges me awake. Apparently, I’m the last one still asleep, and the rest of them have been watching me toss and turn, including my drooling fox. The iguana is curled up on my left side and has her tail wrapped around my waist territorially. I wonder how Madox and Monster feel about that.
“We’ve spotted two other rafts.” Harper’s voice is hoarse, and her mouth is downturned in a deep grimace. She is beautiful, far more fetching than the lot of us, but even she looks weather-beaten and exhausted.
Willow points toward the horizon, reminding me there are two flawless females aboard this raft, and that her physical appeal holds up better than the former’s. “Both are behind us, but not by much. One is a set of green rafts; the others are orange, I think.”
Pandoras plod around inside their two rafts, as if they can smell change in the air. Guy points out the birds in the sky and the driftwood floating in the water, and says that means we’re close to land.
Land. After eight days riding a salted roller coaster, it sounds like a dream.
Guy is right, of course, and after a few more hours, we discern land in the distance. It’s so far, I can hardly see it save for a gray blemish. We’re encouraged, and Cotton takes over for Mr. Larson. Together with Guy, the two move the raft even faster toward our goal.
We’re making good time — if you can make good time in a raft on an ocean you can’t name — until Olivia holds her hand up. Always and forever, we’re checking our devices. It’s become a nervous tic ever since that first day in the jungle. So we usually know when a message is awaiting us. Out of our group, someone will catch it. Someone will be checking their device when the red light starts blinking. This time, it happens to be Olivia.
We put our devices into place, and I don’t have to fight the urge to tear my hair out as I did yesterday. I lost a lot of that fire as I slept. So I sit there — legs crossed, hands on knees — and wait like a good monkey for the woman to begin speaking.
“Congratulations, you have nearly reached the ocean base camp. As you approach the island, you’ll find two runways marked by the small round buoys you’ve become familiar with. The one to the left will have eight buoys across the entrance, and each will have an attached colored flag. The flags are color coordinated to the rafts Contenders have resorted to. When you reach these flags, you may choose to pull one. If you do so, the rafts that match the colored flag you have retrieved will sink. If you pull more than one, your own rafts will sink. Of course, if someone pulls your colored flag, your rafts will sink as well.”
“Oh my God,” Olivia cries. “What about the sharks?”
This was my first thought, too. But we haven’t seen sharks since Jaxon died, not that it bestows me with confidence. We hadn’t seen them before Braun’s pig was knocked into the ocean, either.
Olivia crawls toward Harper for comfort, but Harper recoils from her touch.
“One final note before you begin your journey toward the island: You must choose one person from your group to swim to shore unassisted. With a little fortitude, this swimmer can get to base camp and stake claim for your group so that you are one of the six clusters allowed to proceed. The chosen swimmer should use the runway on the right to enter the island.”
My scalp tingles with the realization of what she said. The island is much too far away. There’s no way anyone could swim that distance. Anybody who attempts it will surely die.
And they’ll die because we chose them.
Cotton stands up. “I’ll go. I can swim well enough, and it’s my fault Braun’s pig … and Jaxon …”
He’s talking about his Pandora’s hand in the two deaths. I didn’t know if he realized it was Y-21 that accidentally knocked the pig overboard.
“No,” Harper practically shouts. She seems to gather herself, realizing she spoke too quickly. Harper shoots a death glare at Mr. Larson. “Seems to me it should be the person who’s done the least amount of work.”
“The weakest,” Willow says quietly, looking at Mr. Larson. She squeezes Harper’s hand in agreement.
The red-faced man puffs his chest out. “No way, I can’t swim that far. I say Cotton should go. He volunteered.”
“I bet Willow could make it,” Olivia whispers.
“Olivia,” I bark, because naming anyone for this death sentence is beneath her. She doesn’t mean it, though, and her face flushes with embarrassment to prove the point.
Madox, come here. My fox jumps into the Contender raft and into my lap, and I press my lips to the crown of his head. I hold his small body tight and allow his wriggling to comfort me. Then I gaze at AK-7, my bear, and FDR-1, the iguana who’s been through hell. Finally, I look at Guy. He’s inspecting his hands as if a solution may materialize from the cold ocean morning and nestle itself into his open palms. He shouldn’t worry, because I already know the solution. Because I can’t sit back and watch anyone else die.
“I’m going,” I announce. “I’m the strongest swimmer.”
“You can’t possibly know that,” Harper says, rising to her feet.
Some of us argue for the chance to go ourselves, while others shout names of people they want to shove overboard. At some point, I turn and find Guy slipping a leg into the water.
“No,” I yell, racing across the raft and gathering his wet suit into my fist. “You don’t get to make this decision for the rest of us.”
He stands up. “I’m good at things like this, Tella. Besides, the Contenders I leave behind will need guidance.”
“Who needs guidance?” Harper counters.
Guy touches my hand. His fingers linger on my skin for only a second. “You know this is the right decision.”
“I don’t know that at all.”
“I can swim farther than you can, and faster. It will take me longer to arrive at base camp than it will for the rest of you, but I will get there.”
“You were stronger when you trained before,” I say under my breath.
A shadow passes over his face. “You know nothing of how I trained.”
I don’t know what I expect to happen. One
of us must go, and deep down, I understand that he has the best chance. None of the Contenders behind me has contested his going. They know he’s right, and I know he’s right. So why can’t I let go?
Because even though he doubts me, he makes me feel safe.
Because I’d rather swim to shore knowing he’ll be there, than paddle to shore hoping he is.
Tears sting my eyes, and I wrench him away from the edge of the raft. “I’m sorry. I can’t let you do this. Not this time.”
Guy grabs my shoulders, and his face comes within an inch of mine. “Damn it, Tella. You know this is the right decision. You know I’m stronger than you. Think of your brother. Use your head.” He swallows and breathes deeply, drops his gaze. “You want to make your own decisions, fine. But make sure you’re choosing the right ones. Especially now.”
I jerk away from him, stung by his words. It takes only a moment to recover, to remember Cody, and all the other Contenders behind me who are competing for people they love. Guy is right; I can’t make decisions based on what I don’t want to lose. I have to remember what I stand to gain: my brother getting out of bed on Sunday morning and tugging on his favorite yellow sneakers for a run; my brother getting his GED and heading to college, his childhood stuffed animal tucked into the bottom of his duffel bag because he couldn’t leave it behind; my brother smiling; my brother laughing; my brother well and happy with a long life to fill with mundane adventures.
I snatch the binoculars from Braun and eye the oncoming rafts. Then I tell Guy, “Take a bottle of water with you, but leave M-4. The woman said you must swim unassisted.” I turn to the Contenders. “Braun, take the front paddle. Cotton, you take the back. The rest of you need to sit down and stay still. Remain quiet as Braun and Cotton paddle, and be alert for any changes. I’ll gauge the rafts behind us. I don’t know how many Contender groups have gone before us, so we have to assume we’re in sixth place.”
Guy is still in the raft, head tilted back. He watches me like he’s never met me before. As if I’m someone he’d like to get to know.
“What did I say?” I yell. “Get your ass in the water!”
Guy grins, and for good measure, I shove him off the side of the raft. My heart leaps into my throat, terrified I made a mistake. I wait for the sharks to come, but they don’t. I wait for him to curse me, but he only laughs as he reemerges.
“You will make it to base camp, do you understand?” I say.
Guy nods, the water making his eyelashes clump together.
I glance to Cotton, who eyes me with a look I can’t place. It could be that he wants to kill me; it could be that he wants to buy friendship bracelets.
“Paddle,” I tell him, and he does.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I don’t allow myself to search for Guy. I keep my eyes on the island straight ahead, and occasionally, I locate the rafts behind us. It seems like days before we reach the water runway on the left, outlined on both sides by buoys. In actuality, it’s probably a few hours. Already, I must drag my thoughts away from Guy and his plight of trying to make it to land. If it took us hours with rafts and paddles, I can’t imagine how long it will take him.
Just as it was explained to us, there are eight taller buoys across the entrance, each holding a different-colored flag.
“The rafts behind us are orange and green, right?” Mr. Larson asks. “Which is closer?”
I understand immediately what he means. He wants us to pull a flag and sink a group of Contenders.
“Listen to me carefully, Mr. Larson,” I say. “If you take one of those flags, I’ll let AK-7 loose on you.” As if to prove my point, AK-7 stalks toward the Contender raft, muzzle lowered, jaws agape.
Mr. Larson humphs. “That’s nuclear warfare. You sic your Pandora on me, and I’ll sic mine on you. We both lose.”
Mr. Larson and I study his alligator for signs of aggression. The reptilian Pandora opens one sleepy eye and closes it.
“If we don’t pull their flag, they’ll pull ours.” Mr. Larson reaches toward the green flag.
His hand is all but on it when I yell, “Mac, you sit your ass back down in the raft and keep your mouth shut. We’ve carried your weight this far, but as God is my witness, I will kill you myself if you touch that flag.”
Mr. Larson plops down on his large, flat rear and grinds his teeth.
We’re still half a mile from the coast, and there’s no telling what might be in the water. I don’t know if my decision to leave the Contenders behind us unperturbed was the right one, but with Guy gone, I’m determined to make swift decisions.
Our three rafts, still bound together by rope, float between the taller buoys and toward the island. I watch through the binoculars as the next set of rafts, the green ones, halts by the colored flags. My breathing becomes shallow in my anticipation of their decision.
The people running the Brimstone Bleed want us to destroy one another. Maybe they sorted us into groups so that when we turn on one another, no one person is to blame.
It was a group decision. So I won’t put that on my conscience.
This activity teaches us to attack groups of Contenders instead of individuals. But we didn’t succumb to warped temptations. Now the question is whether the green rafts will follow our lead.
The Contenders pause at the flags for a moment longer. They are fighting among themselves, that much I can make out through the binoculars. In the end, though, they glide between the buoys without pulling a single flag.
I clap my hands and throw my arms over my head. “They didn’t do it,” I tell the others. Mr. Larson almost seems disappointed that we aren’t sinking.
It isn’t until the orange rafts reach the flags that I start to sweat again. At this point, we’re two football fields away from shore. Close enough to swim with ease, though I still don’t want to chance being in the water, not after what happened to Jaxon.
The Contenders stop next to the flags. An arm reaches out.
And three distinct popping noises spring from our rafts.
“I knew it,” Mr. Larson hollers.
As our rafts deflate, Contenders scramble for their Pandoras. Mr. Larson is already slipping into the water, but I grab his arm before he can swim away. “You better show up on shore with your Pandora in tow, Mr. Larson, or my threat of letting AK-7 maul you will actualize.”
He scoffs, but the alarm on his face is real enough. He waves V-5 over and smashes his shoulder under the Pandora’s head with more force than necessary.
Madox, Monster, and Rose are already in the water, but the remaining Pandoras fumble over themselves to get out before they’re wrapped in the deflated rafts. In her craze, EV-0, Olivia’s elephant, manages to overturn one of the Pandora rafts.
The water is colder than I remember it being, and my teeth chatter from the temperature and inexorable fear. Madox and Monster swim ahead, but turn back as if egging me to follow. I check behind me to ensure I see all Contenders and Pandoras, and my gaze zeroes in on something beneath the overturned raft.
It’s a bag.
It’s a blood bag.
It was taped to the bottom of the raft, and I have no doubt that it was slowly oozing its contents the entire time we rowed through the ocean. There must be more beneath the other two rafts, covertly attracting man-eaters from miles away. We never noticed the bags as the rafts were being inflated, but why would we have thought to look? A bolt of terror shoots down my spine as I wonder if they still drip, even now.
I swim.
I swim hard and fast, and every other second I swear I sense a shark beneath me, rising up from the depths to disembowel me.
From the distance, I hear the unmistakable sound of a Pandora howling in pain. The noise is followed by a Contender — Braun, I think — crying out.
And then I know. It’s exactly as I suspected, exactly as I feared.
There’s something in the water.
A sharp sting explodes against my left shoulder blade, and I yelp. Madox s
hoots a worried look in my direction, but I urge him onward with my mind.
As pain fires up and down my back, I realize what they’ve filled the entrance with.
Jellyfish.
I search my memory, attempting to recall all I know on the subject. Jellyfish don’t seem as worrisome as sharks. But, wait, didn’t I watch five minutes of a documentary about a woman who got stung by a Portuguese man-of-war? She writhed in pain; that much I know. But did she live? It didn’t seem like she would live; that’s why I turned it off. That and my best friend, Hannah, was texting me about Ryan Gosling and asking whether if I saw him on the street, would I play it cool in hopes that he’d relate to me on a personal level or would I fangirl and call it a day?
Answer: fangirl.
This is good. My husband, Ryan Gosling, is keeping my mind off the searing agony coursing through my body. My Pandoras help, too. Madox takes AK-7’s shape, and the two bears attempt to lift me from the water. But I know my weight will slow the animals down, so I push them forward and keep an eye on FDR-1.
Every few minutes, howls rip through the evening air. Pandoras and Contenders alike scream, and up ahead, I see Cotton swiping a tendril from his cheek. He growls and punches at the water.
I startle when Harper’s head appears. “I thought it would help to swim beneath them,” she says, while catching her breath. “But there are even more down deep.”
I keep moving, and Harper swims close by, keeping a steady eye on me at all times as if she’s remembered why she’s returned to the race. Despite the waves crashing over our heads, despite the stings we suffer on our necks and hands and lips — we make headway. But as the green rafts close in and a plump wave swells above us, shuddering as it anticipates cresting, I glimpse what rides the wave a moment before it smashes into Harper.
The jellyfish’s globular head resembles an iridescent, retro football helmet, and its tendrils trail lazily behind. It doesn’t look like the others I’ve seen, not exactly, and when it touches Harper’s skin, I know it’s the worst we’ll encounter.
Salt & Stone Page 12
