Page 7 of Dance Practice, Marooned: Part 2

Footprints in the wet sand are the worst. I use a leafy branch to sweep them away as best as I can, back and forth, until my arms are burning. Every time I look up, my heart stutters—because there, on the horizon, the thin black mast is creeping closer, the shape growing more distinct with every heartbeat.

Then, we all make our way into the trees, praying we haven’t left anything behind.

Because if we have, being stranded on this island will be the least of our problems.

2

“CAN YOU SEE ANYTHING yet?” I ask Aggie, who has the scope up to her eye as she scours the horizon.

We’ve been at our cave hideout for about two hours now, and none of us have been able to put the scope down. Constantly checking, seeing if the ship is moving closer or further away. Kellen set us up so we can see the creek, because he thinks if they stop here, it will be looking for food and water. At least we can see what we’re dealing with.

I hope if they stop, they have no plans on staying, because if they do, we’re in big trouble.

We’re no match for pirates, not even if all the guys are great fighters.

A gun will outlast any fist.

“I think...” Aggie pauses, then puts the scope down. “It’s coming in this direction now.”

Kellen is on his feet in seconds, snatching the scope off her. Ace is quickly by his side. He looks out, then lets out a curse. “Fuck me, she’s right. They’re coming towards the island.”

“What if they saw us?” Rachel whispers. “We saw them on a scope, who’s to say they didn’t see us?”

We all fall silent, and my heart feels like it might just jump into my throat.

“We’re fucking dead,” Aggie hisses, crouched beside me. “We’re so, so dead, that’s what’s happening here.”

Which, for the first time in weeks, feels like it could be true.

“They didn’t see us,” Zeke answers, low. “If they’d seen us, they’d be hauling arse in this direction, no doubt blowing off cannons.”

I believe he’s right, mostly because we can only just make out their boat, so there’s a solid chance they didn’t see a bunch of people running around. Still, the thought makes me shiver.

“I’m just saying, we should be ready,” Rachel mutters.

Which, of all the things to say, is probably the least useful. Nobody here has had a single moment of comfort for forty-three days, but Rachel just likes to narrate the obvious. I peer down at the beach, through a gap in the rock. I wonder if they will just collect water and leave? That’s all we can hope for. I sit back down, bringing my knees to my chest and waiting, just like everyone else. What is there to do or say? We just have to wait. As painful and gruelling as that is.

The next two hours drag, but finally, we have a clear view of the ship. If I squint, I can make out paint scrawled on the hull—something like a skull and some letters. She leans a little to one side, like she’s been patched together by nightmares, but whoever is on board seems pretty comfortable just hauling an anchor into the ocean, unbothered by who could be around. They don’t even try to come quietly—the little raft they send out is quickly filled with men, by the looks, and they’re not quiet.

I count heads as they finally reach the shore and climb out. Six men, three women, and a young woman who might only be eighteen, if she’s lucky.

Aggie sucks in her breath. “Jesus. Look at them.”

I do.

We all do.

The men are massive and look just like they rolled out of a dirty bar somewhere. They are all barefoot, wearing ragged clothes, and judging by the scuff on their faces and missing teeth, they have been out on the sea a long damn time. The women are almost worse. One has a streak of blue hair, tied up in a knot, and her face is sharp, feral. The others are stacked in mismatched layers, half-naked, and two of them start fighting immediately, throwing slaps and shoving each other before one just kicks the other in the shin.

The youngest girl is the only one not moving. She stands by the edge of the water, alone, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the sand between her toes. They have supplies—big yellow water tanks, sacks. The instant they’re clear of the surf, one of the men hauls up a bottle and starts swinging it, chugging. Judging by the way another man snatches it and takes a long drink, I would say it isn’t water.

Tatiana’s eyes are fixed on the young girl, who has this beautiful blonde hair, flowing in the breeze. “She’s so young. Gosh, she would barely be eighteen.”

I nod, wishing I hadn’t noticed her at all.

The next hour is the worst kind of anxiety I have ever lived through. Like with every passing second, we become even more afraid of the fact that they might find us.

The pirates immediately begin scouring the land, and Kellen stands beside me, fists balled, watching as they find the water. I know what he’s thinking: get the water and leave. Just fucking leave.