Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
A choice between groups led by a man and a woman is an easy one for me. I consider telling Amira which group looks safest, but I stop myself. She seems nice, but it’s always best to share as little as possible. I have to take care of myself; assuming anyone else will could be a death sentence.
Something arcs through the air, drawing my gaze up to the pale-blue sky. It’s an arrow, fired toward the boat by someone on the beach. The guards don’t even acknowledge it. It plunks into the water, out of range.
“Inmates, you have thirty seconds to get off this boat before we start removing you,” the head guard says.
Amira jolts forward and I instinctively put my fingertips on her arm to stop her. Her eyes bulge with worry.
“We have to jump,” she whisper-hisses.
“Wait.”
I don’t want to be one of the first inmates to reach that shoreline. If we hang back, maybe we’ll be able to see what’s going on before we get there.
Someone murmurs a prayer and the thunking splashes of people plunging into the water begin. Amira takes deep breaths as we approach the boat’s edge, nearing the gaps where a protective railing used to be.
She reminds me of Ellery, the first friend I made after the virus hit. We watched each other’s backs and survived in the shadows for more than four months until she was shot while keeping watch as I checked houses for food.
My first post-virus lesson on making friends was short. Don’t.
Sweat trickles down my spine beneath my shirt as I leap off the watercraft’s edge, my instincts screaming to get away from the people behind me and the ones in front of me at the same time.
You’ve survived worse, Briar. Pressure builds diamonds.
For five years, my humanity has been stripped away, piece by piece. If fate wants me to die on this beach, at least the last of it will be taken all at once. I’ll be able to rest.
The cool, crisp water infuses me with new energy. I swim cautiously, keeping my head above the surface. The others are doing the same. No one wants to get within range of the arrows.
We move toward shore in a cluster until we get close enough to make a choice about where we want to exit the water. Most people are going for dead center between the warring groups, probably hoping to make a run for the jungle.
“I’m a hunter!” a man yells from the water. “I can help you!”
My feet find sandy footing and I slow down, looking in every direction. Amira moves with me. We watch as the first person walks up to the beach, quickly going from waist-deep in the water to mid-thigh, to calf-high.
“I’m not your enemy!” he calls out, his hands in the air.
The guy with the spear runs toward him, his brows lowered in a determined expression. Others follow.
“Shit.” Amira’s voice rises with panic. “What do we do?”
The attackers are everywhere. They’re even coming into the water after us now.
I shove my feet into the soggy sand in a bogged-down run, eager to have full control of my legs again. People are screaming. My stomach churns as hands reach for me and I barely evade them.
I grab Amira’s arm, fear clawing up my throat. “Run.”
2
If you’re taken to the ground, don’t panic. Prioritize protecting your head and finding enough space to get up as quickly as possible. Use leverage. The ground is not a good place to be.
Excerpt from a police training manual written by Ben Hollis
I was five years old when my father gave me my first self-defense lesson. He taught me where to kick to inflict the most pain and how to shove my thumbs into an attacker’s eyes and push until they squish back.
And how to scream like a warrior. My voice, he always told me, is my greatest weapon. I use it now.
The raw, visceral sound that travels up my chest and out of my mouth takes the person grabbing me by surprise. I stomp on her foot and swiftly kick her knee back. She drops with a swear that’s half grunt.
I crouch, taking in the chaos around me. A massive man with long, tightly woven braids is fighting someone, blood spraying through the air as the huge man lands a punch to the other guy’s nose. A prisoner is crawling out from between them, frantically trying to clear the sand from his eyes.
The peaceful beach has become a battlefield. I don’t even know who’s on which side. The people waiting for us are all dressed similarly. Some have their faces painted with dark smudges.
“Come with us!” a woman cries, her expression as terrified as the prisoners’, even though she has a spear in her hand. “We’ll get you to safety!”
“Stop fighting me!” someone says, using a staff to block punches.