Page 37 of Blue Arrow Island
I have to work on the list Pax gave me, though. After dumping the leaves at the perimeter of camp for fear of getting caught eating them, I return the shirt to my room and go to what’s left of the storage building.
It’s just a pile of rubble now, a random, waterlogged boot lying on top of the mangled boards that used to be the building’s walls. There’s a folded paper stuck between two boards on what’s left of the building’s front left corner, where Pax told me I’d find it.
I pick up the wet paper and take it to the single-room office Pax and Virginia share. Once I’m alone, I carefully unfold the paper and scan the words on it.
It’s a preprinted inventory list. There’s an empty line next to each of the items, and there are two long rows of items. My heart pounds nervously as I read through it as quickly as possible.
The first things on the list are all foods: oats, beans, rice, barley, lard, salt, pepper, curry powder, honey, protein powder, and pasta. There’s a zero written by the oats and a line drawn down all the other items to indicate they’re also zeros.
Then there are medical supplies: amoxycillin, doxycycline, aspirin, morphine, ivermectin, iodine, alcohol, and various-sized bandages. There’s a three by the ivermectin, but zeros everywhere else.
Other things on the list include different sizes of shirts, pants, underwear, bras, socks, blankets, and boots. There are numbers by all of those things, but not many.
I hold my breath as I quickly try to take in everything. There’s too much to remember. But almost everything else has a zero by it anyway.
So there must have been a time when this camp was well supplied, but it isn’t anymore. I fold the paper up the way it was before and set it on the desk on the right side of the room, where Pax told me to leave it.
His desk is otherwise mostly empty. There’s a sharpened pencil and a pile of papers. I flip through them, but it looks like it’s just a handwritten list of people in the camp, with notes scrawled next to some of the names.
Eleven names on the list have lines drawn through them. Two of them are Robert Adler and Mateo Rodriguez. Another name also rings a bell. Jonathan Carpenter. The one who was attacked and killed by the jaguar.
The names crossed off must be people who have died since the list was made.
I turn toward the door, glancing at Virginia’s desk. Only a blank pad of paper and a pencil sit on top, a small black safe sitting off to the side beneath the desk. Whatever’s in that safe, I imagine it will answer some of my questions about this place. Getting caught touching it is probably a death sentence, though.
It’s a risk I have to take. I rush over to the safe and pull on the handle, finding it locked.
My heart sinks. Of course it’s locked.
I quickly leave the office, my pulse still racing. I’m disappointed about the safe, but I did discover a few other things that could be helpful.
My next task is to help a bunch of threes carry debris from the storm to the camp’s dump about a mile away. I won’t be ableto do much digging for information, but I plan to keep my ears open for anything I might need to know.
The Rising Tide “spa” was gutted by the storm. Only the primitive toilets remain; the showers and the water delivery system will need to be completely rebuilt.
That leaves us with nature’s bathtub—the ocean. Pax and I are walking toward the beach that evening to clean up, bars of soap in hand. Both of us are grimy and sweaty from a long day of sweating in the tropical heat.
“How long have you been here?” I ask him.
He shoots me a quick glance. “You mean on the island? Three years.”
My bare feet squish through the mud; I can’t take another minute of wet socks and boots, so I left them back in my room to dry. Or rather, get less wet. In this humidity, nothing truly dries.
“That’s a long time.”
He shrugs and grins. “It’s a different life here. I know it’s an adjustment, but...” He stops walking and turns to face me, crossing his arms as we both wait for the loud tittering of monkeys nearby to pass.
“That’s one pissed-off primate,” he cracks.
“Yeah, what was that?”
“Probably a mating thing.” His eyes crinkle with a sheepish smile. “Nothing gets any animal going like mating does. Which is, uh...not the reason I stopped and makes me feel awkward even saying this.”
I can’t help liking him, despite everything. I don’t trust him, but there’s an underlying charm to Pax that’s hard to resist.
His expression turns serious. “I got called into the circle. Tomorrow night.”
The death-match circle? A pang of worry gnaws at my stomach. It’s only because of Pax that I’m not still working in the kitchen, and now that I know what’s included in the mystery meat stew, I can’t go back there.
