Ex-Isle by Peter Clines (electronic reader TXT) 📕

potted plants on board,” Devon said. “Ferns and crap. We used them for compost, all the dirt went to growing stuff. Then we added in a lot of…fertilizer.”

“Like what?” Barry asked.

“Leftover fish parts. Some seaweed.” Devon looked ahead. “Other stuff.”

Madelyn’s brows went up. “Other stuff like what?”

Devon didn’t say anything.

The dreadlocked man from St. George’s examination cleared his throat. “The Chinese call it ‘night soil,’ ” he said. “It’s a pretty classic fertilizing techni—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said the cowboy. “It’s shit, okay? We all have to shit in buckets so nothing goes to waste.”

“Shut up, Mitchel,” said Steve.

“It’s what it is. Why’s everybody got to pussyfoot around it?”

“I said shut up, Mitchel,” Steve repeated.

“But you couldn’t’ve had enough with just that,” said Barry. “Not even if everyone got a hundred bowls of Super-Colon-Blow cereal. You’ve got a couple of good-sized garden patches there.”

“We dredge some stuff up from the bottom, too,” said Devon. “Mix it in with everything to make better dirt.”

Madelyn looked at the man. “From the bottom of the ocean? That’s, like, a mile down. How are you getting anything from down there?”

“Quiet,” called Eliza.

She stood before a big set of double doors. They were imitation stained glass, like a church window, making the image of a leaping dolphin with a crown instead of a religious figure. St. George was pretty sure it was the same logo he’d seen half-obliterated on the ship’s smokestacks, just done in color. On the other side was bright light and movement.

There were no voices. Not even the low murmur of conversation. Just the dim sound of breezes and a few flags.

“Maleko’s going to talk with you,” she said. “Show a little respect.” She looked St. George in the eye as she said the name, then shook her head.

“Is he the king or something?” asked Madelyn.

“He saved every one of us by bringing the ships together,” she said. “We’d all be dead without him.”

Barry raised an eyebrow. “Live together, die alone?”

Eliza nodded. “Exactly.”

“Told you this was a mysterious island,” he said to St. George and Madelyn. “I bet there’s a pirate ship filled with dynamite around here somewhere.”

Madelyn laughed.

“What the hell are you talking about?” growled the cowboy.

“That show,” said Devon. “The big one, right before everything fell apart. Lost.”

Barry gave the bald man a thumbs-up.

Devon managed a weak smile. “No one likes talking about that too much out here. Sore subject.”

“Ahhh,” said Barry. “Sorry.”

Eliza snapped her fingers three times. “Everyone had their fun?”

She rapped on the glass, and the doors pulled open. Sunlight blasted into the halls. St. George and Barry squinted. Madelyn winced and fumbled for her goggles. The air swirling in was warm and fresh with hints of salt.

St. George blinked a few times and glanced at the guards near them. They’d had their heads turned when the doors opened. They’d been ready. Expecting it.

The group moved out into the open.

It was a big space, somewhere between a huge courtyard and a small arena. A walkway circled it up above. There was a pool at the far end. It wasn’t hard to believe it had once had dozens of sun chairs or some kind of sea-themed aerobics or yoga classes. Maybe all that and more.

Men, women, and children surrounded them. At least two hundred people. Just as many watched from the walkway above. Their clothes were faded and patched. Most of their hair was long and uneven.

The people above looked back at him with nervous eyes.

The Middle Eastern man they’d seen on the helipad stood just off to one side. He glanced away when St. George looked at him. Devon took a few steps back and settled near the man. He leaned his head back, and they exchanged a few words.

A few pillars of wood helped form a small gazebo-type structure in front of the pool, and beneath it was a large chair on a low platform of wood and steel. St. George recognized it as staging, the kind of riser used for presentations in small venues. It took him a moment to figure out the chair, but he was willing to bet there wasn’t a space on the cruise ship’s bridge for the captain to sit. Not anymore, at least.

The man next to the chair had his back to them. He stood five foot ten at the most, not much taller than Madelyn, and had long black hair like her, too. His thick ponytail was bound with a half dozen strings down its length. He wore two or three layers, but all the sleeves had been torn off. St. George wasn’t sure if the man’s skin was very tanned or naturally dark. A curling tattoo wrapped around the man’s right bicep, an intricate array of bold lines and triangles.

He had solid arms, St. George noticed. Not huge, but not thin. A worker, not a gym rat.

Eliza walked across the open space. A single folding chair sat out in front of the crude throne. She stepped around it and took up a position near one of the gazebo posts facing the heroes. Steve moved to stand across from her. The other guards faded back into the crowd like Devon had.

Barry craned his neck to look around. “Anyone else getting a vibe that’s less First Contact and more Thunderdome?”

“I think I am,” said Madelyn, “and I’m not even sure what you’re talking about.”

“I’m getting some kind of vibe,” said St. George. He looked around the crowd again. Something was off. He tried to look at the crowd the way Stealth would. She’d’ve already picked out the nagging element and deduced what it meant. He looked at the sunburned men and women, the wide-eyed children.

The children.

He looked up at the walkway, then around the courtyard again. “All the children are down here with us,” he murmured.

Barry looked around. “Yeah,” he said. “Almost a third of the people down here are kids.”

“Why?” said Madelyn. “If they don’t trust us, why are they letting us near their kids?”

St. George looked back at the throne.