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“You’ll know soon,” Hiro says, a smile in his voice.
“What in the absolute fuck,” I mumble.
Olin grips the edge of our seat as we start rolling faster, going downhill. It’s like a roller coaster, only not even a little bit fun. I press my lips together, holding my breath.
The car clatters over the tracks, leveling out. I breathe again. A second later, we’re flying down a steep hill, my stomach lurching and my balls tingling. Olin screams.
When we reach the end of the drop, the car flies straight ahead, approaching a light. It gets brighter as we move closer. The outline of Hiro’s face becomes visible, and that bastard is smirking.
Something in the tracks clicks into place, forcing the wheels to slow. We’re entering another large cave, lit like the first one was.
The car comes to a stop, and Olin and I waste no time getting our seat belts off and stepping out.
“A warning would have been nice,” Olin mutters, glaring at Hiro.
Movement by one of the cave walls grabs my attention. A woman is approaching us, her expression a cross of boredom and amusement.
No, not just a woman. A stunning one. She has long blond hair, high cheekbones, and a body I have to force myself not to gawk at.
“It’s about time,” she says, her voice like warm honey.
Hiro gestures toward her, saying, “Pax, this is your partner, Abby. In the field, she’s known as Nightingale.”
18
“We’re hurting. The supply shipments haven’t come since our people left on the submarine, and the gardens don’t provide enough food for everyone. If you hear from any of our people, please let us know how they’re doing.” – radio transmission from Ellison James to Island Four
Evander
Amira amazes me.
When she agreed to go back to the camp of the people we met on the road, I was convinced it was a mistake. We didn’t have much choice since we were outgunned, but by making it her choice, Amira gained control.
We rode in the back of the big truck, in seats installed in what was once the pickup truck’s bed. There was a woman there, Marcie, who told us a little bit about their community. It’s based at a former apartment complex, a security fence built around it. They don’t see a lot of people, she said. So when they spotted us walking, they came to see if we’d want to trade for medicine.
My baseline is wary and gruff, but by the time we reached the community after a ten-minute ride, Amira and Marcie were talking and laughing like old friends.
The guy who was talking on the megaphone is Don, and he’s watching me like I’m a grenade with the pin pulled halfway out. He and Marcie seem to be in charge here, but she does most of the talking.
Once the security fence was opened for us to enter, we found there were around fifty townhomes in the community, all built around a courtyard. The vehicles all stopped in front of a building that once housed an exercise facility and large meeting space.
It’s been revamped into a command center of sorts. Supplies in crates are stacked high. Around twenty people are gathered here, most of them sitting around tables. Along one wall, there are several hospital beds.
“What medicines do you have?” Don asks as soon as we walk in.
This was Amira’s plan, so I leave her to explain her way out of it. We have a first aid kit with a few basic supplies, but it’s not much.
“What do you need?” Amira asks.
Don’s brow furrows. Marcie answers for him.
“We have a burn victim. We have albuterol, statins, blood pressure medication, and enough anxiety and depression medications to last a decade. None of those will help her.”
A little crease forms between Amira’s brows.
“Can we see her?” she asks.
“Are you a doctor?” Don asks. “Or a nurse?”
