Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” Vance sobs. “Marcus, thank you. I’ll never let you down again. I was wrong. She made me mad and I was trying to get back at her. I’ll never—”
Marcus switches the safety off on his gun, pointing it at Vance.
“No!” Vance cries. “You said I had a chance to be honest and I was!”
Marcus narrows his eyes, his face impassive as he says, “In this case, honesty earns you a bullet before we bury you.”
The shot rings out and I jump. Ellison releases my hand and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, both to her and to myself.
Marcus tucks the gun into the waistband of his shorts, turning around.
“This is what happens when power is abused here.”
No one breathes. It’s eerily silent until the trill of a monkey sounds in the jungle. Marcus looks at Nova and says, “Finish it.”
Then his gaze locks onto me, the sorrow I saw in his expression back in my room replaced with stern authority.
“Let’s go.”
26
I’ve been pinned down in some tight situations. Outnumbered and outgunned. But pressure builds diamonds. When the going gets tough, keep your head. Never give up. As long as your heart’s still beating, there’s hope.
– Excerpt from an interview with Ben Hollis for a book authored by Margie Gillis
I’m practically jogging to keep up with Marcus as he storms through the darkened camp, the ring of the gunshot still playing over in my mind.
I expected it to happen—why else would they dig a grave? As I watched them shovel earth from the ground and heard Vance beg for his life, I went back and forth over whether I thought he deserved to die.
I’m still not sure, but I know I feel safer knowing he won’t be waiting around any corners for me.
“Hey,” I say from a few steps behind Marcus. “You said we’d talk.”
He casts a quick glance at me, his brow furrowed. “You want to talk now?”
“I’ve had questions since I woke up on the boat that brought me here, so yeah. Now would be good.”
My pulse pounds as he walks back to me. A storm still rages in his eyes, and I know this isn’t the best time to talk, but I’m done following orders and not getting answers.
“What do you want to know?”
Where do I even begin? I could spend hours asking him all the questions I have.
“Were you elected to be the leader here?”
He grunts. “More like appointed.”
“Who appointed you?”
“The guy who used to be in charge.”
I’m about to ask him to elaborate when something gently drifts onto my cheek. When I touch my fingertip to it, there’s a tiny crunch before it melts into water against my skin.
Weird. I write it off as a fluke, but then another cold flake kisses my arm.
“That’s snow,” I murmur, even though I know it’s impossible.
“Fuck,” Marcus mutters. He puts his hands on his hips and looks up at the sky. “Really?”
He starts walking again, but I keep my feet locked into place on the ground. After about ten feet, he turns around. “What are you doing? Let’s go.”
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “I’m not moving until I get some answers.”
He blows out an exasperated breath and walks back to me. “It’s the middle of the night. Can we do this tomorrow?”
“No, I’m not letting you put me off for another second. Is that snow?”
A pause. “I think so, yeah.”
“How is it snowing on a blazing-hot tropical island? And don’t tell me it’s magic because my tolerance is worn down to nothing at this point. I want a full, honest answer.”
I can barely make out his expression in the faint glow of a nearby light, but I see the corners of his lips quirk almost imperceptibly. “Aromium is being used to experiment on people and animals here. It’s not the only experiment. There are also microclimate experiments. The control panel for those was broken, but Virginia must have an electrician in her camp. With the tools she got from the cache, they must’ve fixed it.”
For a few seconds, I’m too stunned to speak. And not just because of what he just said, but also because it was a real answer instead of a brush-off.
“Microclimates.” I shake my head. “That shouldn’t be possible.”
“It is.”
My scientific mind is reeling, coming up with questions faster than I can process them.
“Won’t snow kill the crops?”
“It shouldn’t. It’ll take time for her to ramp up to produce enough snow for that, and we’ll have time to cover the crops. But even if it killed them” —he shrugs—“we’d just replant. Everything is engineered to grow quickly.”
I fire the next question that comes to mind at him.
“How many people are buried back where...we just were?”
He considers for a second. “Around fifty. And before you ask, no, I didn’t shoot all of them.”