Phoenix Island (24 page)

“Here comes Carl’s friend,” Tamika said. “He don’t look so good.”

“Oh,” Octavia said.

Ross’s face looked like a Halloween mask from some fresh beating he’d taken, the whole thing black-and-blue and so swollen it seemed like he was having a hard time opening his eyes and closing his mouth. Octavia felt horrible for him. She remembered how brave he’d been, standing up for Carl.

Medicaid stumbled into view, crying again. He had a bloody nose. She noticed with a wave of involuntary disgust that he had also wet his pants.

Decker and his thugs surrounded the miserable kid, laughing and prodding him with clubs.

Clubs?
Octavia narrowed her eyes.
What was up with these guys carrying weapons?

Then she noticed that each of them also wore a shiny black armband with a bright red phoenix at the center.

“They look like the damn Hitler Youth,” Tamika said.

“Yeah . . . or the Parker Youth.”

The kid next to them, a timid type named Soares, said, “I wouldn’t joke around if I were you. Things have changed around here, so watch out.” The kid had a fat lip, a little split there, some dried blood. Wide-eyed, he watched Decker’s crew prod Medicaid into the group.

“What do you mean,
changed
?”

“Just be careful,” Soares said, and then he sidled away, like he was afraid they would get him in trouble or something.

Tamika said, “One of them tries to use a nightstick on me, I’m turning him into a Popsicle.”

Octavia laughed, but she had to force it. This was no joke. She didn’t know just what the weapons and armbands meant, but it was bad—really, really bad. In her dread, she could all but hear the voice of her dead stepfather.
You didn’t really think it would all be okay, did you? Has your life taught you to believe in happy endings?

No, it hadn’t. Not at all. And here it was at last, she thought, the next wave of bad luck . . . in the form of cloth and sticks.

Decker’s club smacked loudly on Medicaid’s butt, and Medicaid fell, squealing like a little kid.

“Get up, Porky Pig,” Decker said, jabbing Medicaid’s belly with his baton.

Octavia jumped to her feet. “Leave him alone.”

Decker looked up at her, smiling.

Oh no,
she thought, seeing the terrible, amused cruelty in his eyes.
What have I done?

The chow hall doors sprang open. Parker’s voice boomed, “Form it up, orphans!”

Octavia turned away from Decker and got into the ranks.

“Smooth move,” Tamika whispered, “picking a fight with an armed psychopath.”

Octavia rolled her eyes. Why did they have weapons? And Parker obviously didn’t care that they’d used them on Medicaid.

When that Stark guy had saved Carl, she had hoped—had almost believed—the nightmare had ended. She’d been wrong. It was all starting again, only this time, this time, it wouldn’t just be Parker and the drill sergeants. . . .

The soldier in question circled the formation, eyeballing everybody. Parker looked so stupid, standing there with his stupid neck brace and his stupid sling and the same old stupid scowl on his face. She hated him like she had hated no one except her stepfather, hated him like she’d thought she’d never hate anybody again.

He grinned at them. “Guess you orphans are hungry, hooah?”

“Hooah!”

Octavia hated all this hooah crap. After she got off this island, the first person who hooah-ed her, she was going to hooah in the nose.

Parker said, “Today you move on to land navigation. You’ll work in teams. Instructors will drop each team at a different location. You’ll use a compass, a topo map, and coordinates to find a series of checkpoints. Hooah?”

They sounded off.

Not bad. At least she’d get away from Parker for a while. Decker, too. Then a dark thought clouded her mind. What if Parker put her in the redneck’s group? She thought of the club, the cruel laughter in his icy eyes. She did
not
want to be stuck out in the jungle with him.

Parker said, “You get no breakfast today.”

Everyone groaned.

“Lock it up,” Parker said. “We want you motivated. Always, always, always. First group to reach the finish line gets extra chow at dinner. The last group goes without again. Hooah?”

“Hooah!”

“Now that’s motivation. And here’s some more: first group back pulls no guard duty this week. Last group back covers their shifts. Hooah?”

Everybody sounded off, Octavia included. For extra food and sleep, she would
run
the stupid course. Besides, they’d studied map reading and compass use. That stuff was easy.

“One more thing, orphans. Commander Stark is looking for motivated orphans who can listen to orders and get tough when they need to. Someday, some of you might be invited to join Phoenix Force. That’s the varsity team, hooah?”

They sounded off louder than ever. She didn’t give a crap about Phoenix Force—the day she turned eighteen, she was out of here—but she yelled just as loud as everybody else, dreaming of food and sleep.

“Great balls of fire, orphans, what have you been eating, whiskey and gunpowder?”

“Straight meat, Drill Sergeant!” they yelled—just one more stupid response Parker had hammered into them.

“Hooah! That’s what I like to hear. Now lock it up, because most of you have about as much chance of making Phoenix Force as I have of becoming the Queen of England.”

There’s an uncomfortable image,
Octavia thought.

“These are your groups for land nav. Group One . . .”

Here we go,
she thought. Her stomach clenched.

“Decker . . .”

No, no, no, no—

“Funk, Chilson, and Stroud.”

Decker and his toadies cheered.

She relaxed. She wasn’t with them.

“Group Two,” Parker said, “Gregoric, Ross, and Medicaid.”

Group One roared with laughter, and Parker paused to find Octavia and give her a big smile. She looked away. So be it. He’d paired her with Ross, who currently looked like he should be in the emergency room, and Medicaid, who
always
looked like he should be in an emergency room—or a mental hospital. So friggin’ be it. . . .

When it was time to group up, Ross found her. “Sorry about the face,” he said. “I left my real one in the barracks. . . . Uh . . . it hurts to smile.”

She looked around. “Where’s Medicaid?”

Ross shrugged. “We’re screwed. Having Medicaid on your land-nav team is like having an acrophobe on your rock-climbing team.”

“Where is he?”

“See, that was a joke. An acrophobe is somebody who is afraid of heights—”

“I know. I get it. Look, Ross,” she said, putting a forceful hand on his shoulder. “I don’t care if we have to take turns carrying Medicaid, we’re going to win this thing.”

“Win it?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “It’ll be a miracle if we don’t come in last.”

“Win it. I want that extra food and rest.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Serious as a ten-car pileup. Let’s go find the third musketeer.”

C
ARL PUSHED OUT ANOTHER REP
and set the barbell on the rack.

“Good form,” Stark said. “Rest for thirty seconds. Then you’ll do one more set. That’s all, though. You have a big day in front of you.”

Carl nodded. It was amazing. Even after two weeks of training, working out several times a day—mostly boxing, cardio, and what Stark called combatives, which was basically mixed martial arts and gymnastics—he felt zero fatigue.

“Three, two, one,
go
,” Stark said.

Carl racked out a dozen reps, focusing on form and breathing, just as Stark had told him. With each rep, his muscles swelled. By the time he finished the set, his chest muscles were massive and rounded, twitching for more work.

“Great work, Carl.” Stark slapped his hands together. “My turn. Give me a hand.”

Carl’s mind conjured an image of Ross making one of his lame jokes: Stark asking for a hand, Ross shrugging and applauding with a little golf clap. . . .

He missed the little weirdo. Stupid jokes and all.

Octavia, too. He wondered if she knew he was all right. He wondered if she cared. The last time he’d seen her, she was pretty mad at him. That had been a long time ago—jeez, probably a month.

Other than missing and worrying about his friends, life was perfect. The weeks he’d spent here as Stark’s apprentice had been truly awesome. The man was amazing—smart and strong, cool and interesting,
upbeat and encouraging—and life had been a blissful collage of top-notch training, reading and discussing books, and endless conversation, all of it fascinating. He encouraged Carl to embrace “self-efficacy,” which he said was the key to long-term success. Self-efficacy meant having absolute faith in your mission and yourself, so much that it freed you from worry or overthinking, allowing you to live in the moment and concentrate on whatever action you were supposed to be doing at that very second. In Carl’s situation, it meant unwavering faith in his abilities, their work together, and his destiny. Forget the past, don’t question the future, and focus on the moment at hand.

Carl loved his new freedom. Stark allowed him to choose his own books, and Carl’s questions drove their reading discussions. He had a voice in which training to do when, and Stark allowed him to come and go as he pleased on solo runs, so long as he promised to avoid other trainees. He even had his own bedroom in the hangar, complete with a small bookshelf and a minifridge stocked with good food he could eat—without asking permission. Life was great.

Or was, anyway, until he pictured Octavia’s eyes or imagined Ross impersonating Rivera. Then all the happiness whooshed out of him. But what was he supposed to do? Quit his apprenticeship and head back to Blue Phase? That wouldn’t do anybody any good. As soon as he could help them, he would. Until then, it was best to embrace Stark’s self-efficacy and focus on the moment at hand.

Distracted by these thoughts, Carl moved as mechanically as a robot, helping Stark load heavy plates onto the bar. Only as they slid the final plate into place did the reality hit him. “That’s a lot of weight.”

“Seven hundred pounds,” Stark said, lying down on the bench and squaring himself beneath the bar.

“Really?” It made no sense. Seven hundred pounds . . .

“Really. On three. My count. One, two, three—” The bar flexed as Stark lowered it smoothly to his massive chest and pushed it up again with seeming ease.

“Awesome!” Carl almost yelled.

Stark pumped out seven more reps before racking the weight. He didn’t need a spot.

“That was amazing!”

“Thank you,” Stark said. There was no show, no roaring, no flexing, nothing. He acted as calm as someone who’d just done eight push-ups. “Last month, I maxed out at nine hundred and eighty pounds. I’m only ninety-five pounds under the world record.”

“That’s crazy.”

Stark smiled. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. In a couple of months, I should be able to beat it, too. Not that I care about the record books. I want strength in case I need it. If a mission goes hand-to-hand, I want to be able to punch a hole through the enemy’s chest.”

“Or rip his arm off and beat him with it.” Carl couldn’t imagine fighting Stark. It wasn’t just the power. The guy was sharp and fast and threw smart punches. He could kick or grapple, and probably knew how to use every weapon in the world.

“You’ll be just as strong,” Stark said.

Carl laughed.

“I’m serious. I wasn’t born at this level. You’re eating what I eat, taking the same supplements I take, training like I train. You’ll be squatting Humvees in no time.” Stark crossed the room to a set of scales. “Let’s check your height and weight, get a baseline.”

Carl stepped onto the scale. Stark checked his height first. “Five eleven. Congratulations, you’ve grown two inches since coming to Phoenix Island.”

Carl couldn’t believe it. He was nearly six feet tall. . . .

Stark adjusted the balances atop the scale. “One hundred and eighty-seven pounds,” Stark said. “And I’d guess you’re at about six percent body fat, if that. Six percent is good. Go much lower, and you’ll cut into your energy reserves.”

“Unreal . . .” Carl wondered aloud. He stepped off the scale and flexed. “It doesn’t seem possible.”

“You’re not finished growing yet. You’ll get taller, heavier, and stronger. I’d rather not pack a lot of excess muscle on you, but your genetics might have something to say about that.” Stark uncovered a freestanding mirror beside the scale. “See for yourself.”

Carl turned toward the mirror. He’d been so preoccupied he hadn’t
really looked at himself in weeks. His reflection didn’t seem real. He looked like a smaller version of Stark. He raised his arms and flexed. “Those shots we were getting back in camp, those were that stuff? HG-whatever?”

“HGH, human growth hormone. And yes—you and a few others received it. Not everyone. HGH is expensive, after all, and let’s face it: it would be a waste on many of them.”

“But I did. . . .”

Stark laughed. “Carl, I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. I have employees throughout the juvenile justice system. Think of them as talent scouts. Counselors, probation officers, judges. For cash under the table they identify at-risk youths who display considerable potential. The names come to me, and I conduct research. Your name came to me shortly after you’d won your boxing titles.”