Tracey Ward - Backs Against the Wall

“No!”

“That’s what you were describing,” Ryan says.

“No, it’s not.”

“Do you read lady porn?” Trent asks calmly.

I pause to cool down, to collect myself and not give anything away. To get angrier is to be too adamant in my denials and they’ll never believe me. And they’ll know that, yes, I do have lady porn. Sue me!

“Anyway,” I say tightly, “I get annoyed with Pretty in Pink because her best friend is in love with her but she brushes him off to date some rich guy who then brushes her off for his friends because they’re snobs and they look down on her because she’s all poor and crap.”

Ryan frowns. “That’s the whole movie? Sixteen Candles was way better.”

“Of course it was, but that’s not the end of the movie. The guy comes groveling back, apologizing for sucking and her best friend forgives her even though he still loves her and everyone lives happily ever after. Everyone but the friend. It’s stupid. She chose the wrong guy.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully. “Can I just hate it with you instead of committing two hours of my life to watching it?”

“No, it’s all or nothing. You have to feel the anger, Ryan. You have to live it with me to really appreciate the hate. You have to yell at the screen and tell her she’s dumb.”

“You can’t hate by proxy,” Trent agrees. “That’s lazy.”

“Can’t we watch Sixteen Candles again?” Ryan pleads.

I shake my head. “Not until you live the hate.”

“Lame.”

“No, you know what’s lame? Watching you cage fight three Risen blindfolded .”

That right there, that’s a mic drop. That’s an end of discussion because there’s no coming back from that and smart guy that he is, Ryan knows it.

After almost an hour of sailing, we see light in the distance. Nothing direct, just the yellow haze of civilization spread out and thriving. It’s the burn of electric life humming in the perfect darkness of a world gone dead. It’s strange. Eerie. And we’re headed right for it. I feel anxious. Like we’re headed somewhere I used to know but forgot about. Somewhere I’m not so sure I want to go again.

I glance at the Lost Boy ahead of me, then at the one behind me as the tall white sail snaps in the cold air above us. I want to tell them to turn the ship around, to take me back to Neverland.

I want to tell them I’m not ready for this.

“This is weird,” Ryan whispers.

“I don’t like it,” I agree.

Something floating in the water smacks the hull of the boat, startling us all. We fly past it, fast on the wind, but I look back to see a large, round object floating in the water. It’s painted hot pink.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Buoy,” Trent answers, his eyes fixed steadily forward. “Fair warning, there are more coming.”

He’s not kidding. We pass by another not long after. This one is bright green. Then a yellow. A blue. A white.

“What are they marking?”

“Water depth?” Ryan suggests.

“Maybe,” Trent says, not sounding convinced.

If he plans on telling us what he thinks they are marking, he never gets the chance. We’re nearing the shore. I can see it building in front of us, a black mass against the dark sky. The lights glow from far inside the island, but out here there’s nothing. Nothing but the strange buoys, the sound of the water lapping against the shore and the group of men standing submerged up to their knees in it with weapons in hand.

They appear out of nowhere. Shadows in black stepping out of the night, waiting patiently with clubs, spears and machetes held confidently. These weapons haven’t seen the constant use ours do in the city, but it doesn’t mean they don’t know how to use them. You can see it in the way they hold them. These are still hunters. Killers, as we all now have to be because we no longer have the luxury of someone else doing the dirty work for us. Military, police, hunters, farmers. Everyone who took lives for our safety and comfort are dead and gone. Or they’re us now. I wonder what I’d classify as, other than scared.

This is a huge unknown, sitting in this Hive boat in front of a group of mysterious men on an island I’ve never heard of. One that Marlow was way too interested in yet unwilling to approach himself. One that Crenshaw helped build once upon a time. One that he calls Elysium, Heaven, but that right now feels more like something sinister and better left forgotten.

Trent drops our sails. I’m surprised how quickly we lose momentum. I’m thrown forward, right into Ryan’s back. He doesn’t look back but he reaches for me subtly, keeping his movements hidden in the hull of the boat. I weave my fingers through his until our hands are loosely tangled together. I’m shocked by how much that small contact actually helps. How steadier I feel.

“You’re lost,” a man calls out calmly.

“Is this Vashon island?” Trent calls in reply.

“It was.”

“What is it now?” I ask.

I can feel eyes on me. It’s my voice. It just told them I’m a girl and I wonder what that changes for them. If it puts me in more danger or less.

“Nothing for you. Turn this boat around and go back the way you came.”

“We came looking for help.”

“You came to the wrong place.”

“That’s not what Crenshaw said,” I say clearly, playing the only card we have and hoping it lands.

“I don’t know what a crenshaw is and I don’t care,” he says, his voice turning cold. “Turn it around. Leave.”

“No.”

He takes a step closer, his machete cutting through the water as he approaches. I can see him better now. He’s stocky. Strong. Probably about 30 or so but he looks young enough, healthy enough, to be a problem for me with my messed up arm and an exhausted Ryan with an injured shoulder. I realize as I watch him approach that it was a big mistake coming here like this. In the dead of night in a boat full of injured people with no clear idea of how we’ll convince them to help us. Everything with The Hive happened so fast, we didn’t take time to think this through. To plan. But we’re in it now and there’s no going back.

I swing my feet out of the boat, slipping off the side to land in the water. I stifle the gasp that begs to explode out of me when my body registers the cold. I’m only in it up to my thighs, but it’s enough to make me want out. Cold and wet means sick and dead in my mind.

“They’ll leave, but I’m staying,” I tell him, working to keep the tightness out of my voice. “We need help. I want to talk to your leader.”

“Joss, we’re not leaving you here,” Ryan insists angrily.

“He’s right, because you’re all leaving,” the guy agrees.

I hold out my hands, pressing my wrists together firmly. “I’m not. You’re taking me with you back to your camp or whatever it is you have here. You can bind my hands and search me if you want, but you’re taking me back with you. Either that or I’m walking out of this water onto that beach and you’ll have to kill me to stop me.”

The guy looks at my wrists pressed together. He smirks. “I didn’t bring my handcuffs with me. Sorry.”

“You’re also not completely stupid. You don’t leave the house without a weapon, a piece of flint and a rope of some kind.”

His smirk becomes a scowl. “We don’t live like that anymore. I’d like to keep it that way, which is why you’re leaving.”

I step toward him. “Not until I talk to someone.”

He glares at him, his eyes shining hard in the faint moonlight. I’m beginning to shiver from the cold. From the wet, and I don’t know when or where I’ll get a chance to dry off and warm up. That scares me more than anything.