In the thirty seconds it takes me to get out of the mess hall and across the dimly lit yard outside, I’ve already decided: it’s time for me to run. I’ve got no hope of figuring out which of the roughnecks has murderous intent towards me, and the longer I stay here, the more likely I am to piss the Super off. And then the big stupid ox will turn me in.
I can’t get arrested. It’ll take the authorities a short minute to figure out who I am. And, while I’ve got no idea if the United States has an extradition treaty with the Federated States, I’m pretty sure the Coalies will find some way to smuggle me across the border. Then it’ll be back up north to the capital to go on trial for running the Arcadia ashore. The charges against me – treason, sedition, murder – are nothing to be sneezed at. If they find me guilty (which they will), I face the rest of my life doing hard labour, until they work out a way to get rid of me permanently. Some nights, I think it’s exactly what I deserve.
A faint electrical buzzing sound comes from one of the floodlights set up round the exercise yard. It sets my nerves ringing. Where I come from, that kind of hum means one thing: drones. I shake myself to relax. There are no drones here. No Coalies. No rebellion trying to make me into some sort of hero poster boy. No mother telling me how disappointed she is that I won’t be following in her footsteps. No girl that reminds me of the one I lost.
The thing that’s bothering me, festering like an infected wound, is the fact that the guy was wearing my uniform. So was he the target or was I? And will the murderer be giving it another go?
At the edge of the compound, there’s a fence, and beyond that, wild jungle, steeped in shadows that move with the faint breeze. I speed up. Crossing the dusty basketball court in six strides, I waft away a cloud of midges that are gathered round one of the lights. It’s a quiet night. Hot. Dense with pollen and sea spray. This base camp belongs to the enviro-clean-up company I work for and consists of ten flat-roofed buildings arranged round a rectangular yard. The mess hall’s the biggest. The Super has his own single-storey house with an office attached. Then there’s a gaggle of barracks standing round the other sides of the yard.
As I get to the door of my hut, I’m almost running. This whole thing has me spooked. I slam through the screen door that’s meant to keep the mozzies out. No one’s in here sleeping yet. Too hot, and they’re all too busy talking about that dead body and trying to figure out if I’m a serial killer. The smell of feet and armpits never wanes. Mice scuttle in the corners. Once I woke up to find a bat circling the ceiling.
I rush between the lines of empty, unmade bunk beds, then I go out of the door at the back of the room and through the stinking latrine room where flies buzz up from the plugholes. Through the utility room where we can wash our clothes in cold brown water. Into the storeroom lined with cluttered shelves that hold buckets of that pink sludge chef calls food. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one’s following me, then use an upturned bucket to climb through the ceiling hatch. At least I won’t be an easy grab if the murderer does come for me.
Before I click the solar lantern on, I hold my breath in case someone’s already up here waiting for me. Then pale light floods the roof space, picking out my hammock strung between two beams, my pile of clothes, and the paper bag of extra food I keep for emergencies. But no murderer, so I close the hatch carefully behind me. The roof space reminds me of my bunk back home. More importantly, it’s private.
Standing with my head bent under the low ceiling, I try to figure out which of the roughnecks I share base camp with is most likely to be a killer. Problem is I keep myself to myself. Apart from Ken, I almost never talk to anyone, and I don’t think he’s got the energy in him to fight another man to the death so I’m pretty happy to strike him off my list of suspects. And that leaves … no one. I have no clue where to even start investigating.
You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be here long enough to figure it out. I grab my holdall from behind the hammock and shove my spare set of clothes into it, followed by my old boots and a packet of biscuits I’ve been saving for a rainy day. Then I swing into my hammock. It creaks on its ropes. First thing, when it gets light, I’ll hop on one of the transport boats to Tampa. I can get a bar job or something on a farm to keep me afloat while I figure out where I go from here.
By the time I’ve crunched through a couple of biscuits, my anger at the Super and the anxiety of the day are fading. The tension drains from my shoulders. The skin on my nose is tight with sunburn, and I scratch it until it’s too sore to touch. There’s a sound somewhere over the thick jungle. Right about now, the night shift will be heading out on to the rigs, taking their turn at cleaning up the mess made a hundred years ago.
It’s warm and quiet, and my head gets fuzzy from the sway of the hammock. Her face floats to the front of my mind. Beaming after we dropped leaflets all over the Lookout cafe.
Hugging me and saying goodbye before she left the ship the first time.
Running after her sister on the Flotilla.
I jolt awake, a wave of grief crashing over me. It feels as fresh and raw as it did in the days after she was killed. Murdered. By Hadley’s Coalies. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until my vision blackens.
Somewhere in the sky, the sound of an engine gets closer. Something else joins the grief swimming in my gut. Dread and realization. That noise isn’t in the distant jungle any more. It’s in the air above base camp.
I drop out of the hammock and end up in a heap on the rough wooden boards. Scrambling up, I put my eye to a crack in the panelled walls, scanning the night for the source of the sound. Lights swing through the darkness, shining from the silhouette of a helicopter.
There’s no time to run. Even if there was, there’s nowhere to go. Into the forests that surround the compound – then where? It’s just ocean beyond that. Too late, I realize I’ve trapped myself out here on this island with no way to escape.
I’m a rat in a barrel.