Page 48 of Blue Arrow Island
This might be my only chance to get out of here before Marcelle calls me into the circle. I cup my hands around my mouth to amplify my voice.
“I can fight! Let me out, and I’ll fight with you!”
I listen for the span of a few frenzied heartbeats. Nothing. The voices have gone quiet.
Putting my palms on the metal lining my prison, I groan. I want to pound my fists against the wall and rage, but my dad’s training won’t allow me to. A hand injury will only make things worse.
“You cocksucking, piece-of-shit island! Just give me a fucking chance!”
A crack of light enters the hole. I tilt my chin up and the brightness grows. The man standing there looking down at me isn’t Pax this time.
It’s Olin. My jaw drops, tears springing to my eyes.
Then he walks away.
“No! No, please! Come back!” I cry out in frustration. “Help me, Olin! Please!”
Something appears at the top of the hole, but it’s not Olin. I squint, dropping to my knees when I realize what it is.
The ladder. He’s lowering the ladder into the hole for me. I want to sob with gratitude, but there’s no time for that. He must be using the opportunity of everyone leaving camp for the boat to free me.
I spring back up and reach toward the ladder, relief flooding my entire body when I wrap my hands around the sides of it to guide it to the ground.
It’s barely secured in the mud when I scramble onto it, the mud on my boots making my foot slip on the second rung. I force myself to slow down, keeping both hands and both feet on the unsteady ladder.
When I reach the top and feel the ground beneath my feet, Olin is smiling at me, the chaos of his coarse, bright-red hair a beautiful sight. I can tell from the flare of his eyes that I look and smell like a neglected farm animal, but I don’t care. I throw my arms around him in a hug.
“I owe you my life, Olin.” It’s hard to get the words past the lump of emotion in my throat. “Thank you just isn’t enough.”
He pulls back, his brown eyes brimming with seriousness when I meet them. Bending, he picks up a reed-woven bag from the ground and passes it to me. Then he reaches into his pocket and passes me something that looks like a folded-up leaf.
When I unfold it, I see that he’s used something to scratch words onto the leaf’s surface.
RUN FAR. HIDE. THEY WILL COME FOR YOU.
I flick my gaze up to him. “You mean Virginia and Pax?”
He nods and rushes to get the ladder from the hole and hang it back up on the building wall. As soon as it’s secure, he closes the cover to my underground cell.
Then he returns and picks up the last things on the ground, two spears. He passes me one and keeps one for himself, pointing at the jungle as he backs away.
He wants me to go.
“You’re going to the beach? To fight for the people on the boat?”
He nods, his lips set in a solemn line. When he points to the jungle again, it’s more emphatic, his brows lowered.
“Come with me. If they catch you, you’ll be in huge trouble.”
He shakes his head, points at the jungle again, spins away and breaks into a run. I only watch him for a second before I shoulder the pack and turn in the opposite direction, heading straight into the jungle.
16
Effective knife handling starts with proper grip techniques. In this week’s classes, you’ll learn forward grip, reverse grip, and transitional holds to maximize control and prevent disarmament.
-Excerpt from a police training manual written by Ben Hollis
A branch catches on my cheek, adding another burning scratch. The droplets of sweat falling from my chin to my chest are tinged red, my shirt a disgusting swirl of blood, mud and piss.
