Page 146 of Blue Arrow Island
I study his icy expression, which takes me back to the night he shot Vance.
He said I’m more beautiful than a rose. That he can’t breathe without me. He holds me so close when I sleep that I can hear his steady heartbeat against my back. But he also decides whether people here live or die. He has to be hard and decisive; cold even.
I know both sides of him, but I wonder if he realizes that the hard decisions he makes aren’t who he is. He carries so much on his shoulders, and he bears that weight alone.
Five minutes later, I’m climbing the stairs out of the bunker, the air thickening with every step. Monkeys nearby are whooping and chattering, oblivious to us.
We break apart, each pair taking a separate path. Marcus and I scan our surroundings as we slowly creep forward, watching our footfalls to stay quiet.
“Are you still sick?” I ask in a low tone.
“I’m good.”
“Tell me the truth.”
There’s a pause and then he says, “Yeah. I might stop to puke, but I’m okay.”
Within a minute, he needs to stop. He throws up twice and then wipes the back of his hand over his mouth before nodding and moving on.
“Think we lost McClain?” I ask softly.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That bastard’s probably long gone, laughing it up.”
“You think so? He seems pretty haunted by what he’s done.”
“He should be.”
When I look at the ground to see where I’m stepping, I notice a deep emerald vine sliding along next to me. I lower my brows and stop walking.
The vine stops too. I bend down and examine it. Tiny dark purple thorns are scattered around it, and there’s the occasional small bundle of leaves with purple vascular bundles that resemble veins.
I take two steps. The vine slithers to catch up, then stops again.
I don’t even have my aromium on, and I’m not feeling a surge of emotions like I usually am when I call out to the vines. But Flavius followed Marcus before he turned his aromium back on.
“So I have a friend,” I say in a low tone, glancing at Marcus.
He brings his index finger to his lips, signaling for quiet. I stop, listening intently.
There are voices in the distance. I ready my gun, forgetting about the vine by my feet.
We keep moving, watching every step we take. After a couple minutes, the voices have faded. Staying silent, Marcus leads the way to another bunker, the trapdoor to this one also covered with leaves and vegetation. He hooks his fingertips into a small crevice in the door and opens it.
This bunker is much smaller. It’s only about two feet deep and about six feet on each side. It’s stuffed full of weapons, empty plastic water jugs, some canned food in glass jars, and a metal ladder.
Marcus lifts the ladder out of the ground, his arm muscles cording from its weight.
“This unfolds and extends to twelve feet,” he says. “We’ve never needed to use it, but it should get us over the wall.”
I close the bunker door, making sure vegetation covers the small inlaid handle. It’s only about a half-mile walk to the wall from there, and my pulse races as we get closer.
Marcus is quiet, unfolding the ladder and easing it against the wall. The sharp, pointed spears on top of the wall are going to be an issue.
“Are you sure about this?” I whisper.
He reaches into the pack on his back, taking out a rope. “I’ll go first and secure this to the spikes. I’m going to use it to rappel down the other side. Then I’ll throw it up to you when you need it.”
It’s a good plan—in theory. But getting over the long spikes isn’t going to be easy.
