I never saw a single Gallagher. Not when I found a place to stay, two cities over, or further north, when I was too scared to stay stagnant for another day. It wasn’t until I saw Matthew—one of Tommy’s friends—in the crowd while I was at the market.
Every day since the night I killed Tommy has felt much the same, paralyzed by fear and paranoia.
Except now.
For the first time in a year and half, I let myself simplybe. I feel…safe, like I can finally take a breather from running and looking over my shoulder. Like there’s someone else in my corner looking out for me.
I could get addicted to this.
Three bags rustle against the currents, oscillating and pulling against Ordus’ powerful propulsions as air bubbles climb overthe oxygen dome over my head. The nonperishables and food in wrappers are in the nylon bags strapped to his back. The waterproof one has the basic necessities.
My legs tremble around his waist from the hour we’ve already spent in the sea on the way back to the island. Pain lances my arm, from my shoulder all the way down to my fingers. My elbow throbs from the use, and the cold is making it even worse. The wetsuit isn’t helping nearly as much as I want, and I don’t want to admit how much I want Ordus’ suckers to do that thing it does that makes my arm hurt less. Being carried bridal style isn’t an option when he’s holding a gallon of mineral water in each hand.
To add insult to injury, it feels like someone lit a fire on my tattoo, then took a grater to it. At least I feel the best I have in days—it was probably the chicken essence. I can hear Dad’s “I told you so” from the grave.
Still, I feel sick to my stomach. What might have happened if Ordus never intervened? What would those guys have done to me the night of Nat’s birthday? What if I decided not to run that day, and some man showed up at my house? I could have found out firsthand what is worse than death.
Silver lining? I have asemblanceof a plan when it comes to preventing death by lack of food and water.
I packed some plastic containers to collect rainwater. I managed to find my old, barely functioning tablet to access the internet. Reddit suggested filtering seawater with a T-shirt, and in my nonprofessional opinion, it sounded like bullshit. If I’m desperate, I’ll give a solar a go.
If all else fails, Ordus can swim to the mainland to get me another couple gallons of distilled water.
The crappy, lagging, jailbroken iPad also helped teach me how to start a fire so I can cook water and fish—shit, I forgot seasoning. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. This is one long episodeofSurvivor. I’m not about to fuss over the fact that I can’t have sambal with crab.
But chances of me successfully starting said fire? Closer to zero percent than a hundred. I’m crossing my fingers the matches and lighter I packed stay dry.
A cramp goes through my whole body, and I bite back a whimper. I untuck myself from his neck to glance at the surroundings. Sunlight streams through the waves. Silver beams of light illuminate the surrounding blue.
Minutes pass. I stare over his shoulder, waiting for pops of color or evidence of sea life, but…nothing? Just trash floating around like water bottles, cigarette buds, straws, plastic, the occasional wreckage of what I can only assume came from a boat.
No fish. No reef. No evidence to suggest we’re swimming though something other than a graveyard.
It continues for miles. It’s like a wasteland—rocks, sand, the corpses of animals long dead.
Are these the side effects of global warming scientists warned us about? Where are we on the map? Are we going north through the Java Sea, where we’d eventually hit Borneo or Sulawesi—or the Philippines, if we’re going through the Strait? Singapore if we’re heading northwest.
Or south toward the Indian Ocean. Or southeast to Australia.
All I know is, the scenery doesn’t change as we head further away from Bali, other than there being less and less trash the further away we get.
“What happened here?” I ask, more to myself than to Ordus. I can’t hear much of the other side of the bubble, so consider me unnerved when the dome expands, and suddenly, another person’s breathing fills the small space. I lurch back to put distance between our faces—as if I hadn’t spent the past few hours leaning my head on his shoulder.
“My kingdom is now known as the Dead Lands,” he says quietly, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear.
I’m sorry. Did he sayhiskingdom? The proper noun or whatever would beourpronoun—as inus krakens’kingdom, right? It’s a slip of the tongue.
“Now? Has it always been so…”Don’t say dead.“Barren?”
He shakes his head once, watching me closely from the corner of his eye. He’s on edge, stiffening every so often, darting his gaze all around. It’s puttingmeon edge.
What if Ordus isn’t the biggest creature out there? I tighten my grip on him.
“My territory was booming with life fifty years ago. Game was ripe. There was coral of every color each way you looked.”
My.
I swallow. “Global warming?”
