IN A FEW MINUTES, Alcatraz looms in the dim light. I lean back as if I could make the boat slow down. By the time we land, I’m trembling all over.
My imagination keeps wandering to what might happen to us here. I try to corral it back, but I’m not entirely successful at it.
The island seems to be a giant rock. The water is probably hypothermia-cold, not to mention filled with sharks or thrashing scorpions or toothy demons from hell.
So this is how it all ends.
The world destroyed, humans imprisoned, my family scattered.
The thought makes me angry. I hope the anger burns up all other feelings because it’s probably the only thing keeping me on my feet and moving right now.
A lot of the prisoners are cringing and sobbing, not wanting to come out of the boat. People and animals aren’t that different. We can all tell when we’re being led to slaughter.
The island dock is similar to the one on the mainland—spiky, dark, damp. The cold bay winds blow through my shirt, giving me goose bumps. I’m colder than the temperature calls for. I brace myself to face what’s coming.
But nothing can prepare me for what’s happening beyond the dock.
SPOTLIGHTS BLAZE along the buildings, lighting up the walkway as we trudge onto the island. Everywhere I look, I see stone and concrete. Peeling paint and rust stains drip down the walls of the nearest building.
Four scorpions work near a shipping container that has a chain mesh gate like the one on the mainland.
They grab glossy entrails and body parts from buckets and toss them onto the concrete. The gore lands just out of reach of the trapped humans in the metal container.
The stench is unbearable. These people have been trapped in that cage for way longer than I want to know. I can tell not just by their stench but also by the fact that they are stretching their emaciated arms to try to grab the entrails and chopped-up body parts just out of their reach.
These people make sobbing, groaning noises. Nothing aggressive, just desperate. Their arms are too skinny, like they’re already dead but don’t quite realize it yet.
They can’t be meant to be turned into new monsters or even to be fed to them. They’re too abused, too underfed. How hungry would you have to be to reach out for raw, chopped body parts?
“Stupid as dirt in so many ways,” says a familiar voice. “But they still have the devious, twisted instincts of humans.”
It’s Beliel, the demon. His stolen white wings spread out behind him, a heavenly backdrop to his oversized body. He stands behind the scorpions who are tossing the chopped-up gore that’s plopping onto the ground.
A heart gets tossed onto a broken board, snagging on a giant splinter.
Beside Beliel stands an angel whose toffee-colored hair and gray feathers are windblown. He wears a light gray suit that quietly conveys taste and elegance.
Even without his trophy girls, I recognize Archangel Uriel, the politician. He’s the one who secretly orchestrated Raffe’s wing switch to keep him from being a competitive candidate in the upcoming angels’ election. As if that wasn’t enough to make me despise him, he likes to walk around with matching girls who are terrified of him.
“Are you referring to the locusts or their toys?” Uriel’s wings spread out partially behind him like a body halo. In the soft light of the aerie hotel, his feathers looked off-white with a touch of gray, but now in the harsh light of the utility lights, his wings look gray with a touch of midnight.
Locusts?
“The locusts,” says Beliel. “The humans are stupid as rocks, too. But they’re too tortured to use instinctive ingenuity. The locusts thought this game up themselves, you know. I was impressed. As devious as any demon from hell.” He sounds almost proud.
He must mean the scorpion monsters. I always imagined locusts to look like grasshoppers, not scorpions, so I don’t know why he calls them that.
“You’re sure the ones you trained will teach the others?”
“Who can tell, eh? Their judgment is clouded, their brains have shrunk, they’re probably insane from the metamorphosis. Hard to predict what they’ll do, but this batch did get extra attention and do seem more capable than the rest. They’re as close to a leader group as you’ll get.”
A scorpion with a white streak in its hair gets tired of the game and walks up to the container of humans. The forest of skeletal arms withdraws back through the chain mesh. The captives’ feet scrape the metal floor as they shuffle away from the monster.
The scorpion stands tall in front of the dim interior. Then he tosses a bit of gore into the cage.
The night is instantly filled with metallic scuffling, animal grunting, and half-screams of frustration and desperation.
The people inside are fighting each other for the bloody scraps. For all I know, it could have been one of their own who got dragged out and turned into torture bait.
“See what I mean?” Beliel sounds like a proud papa.
I pick up my pace, wanting to get past the container as soon as possible. But the others move at the same speed, careful not to draw attention to themselves.
My arm is clamped in a viciously tight grip and I’m yanked so hard that my neck feels like it’s about to snap. A scorpion with greasy hair dripping down to its shoulders pulls me out of the herd.
The white-streaked one who threw the body parts to the prisoners looks at me, interest lighting its face. It walks over to me.
Up close, its shoulders and thighs are massive. It grabs me out of the first scorpion’s grasp and drags me behind it, holding both my wrists in one hand.
It’s headed for the torture container with its desperate victims.
Skeletal arms reach through the metal mesh with their unnaturally long fingers.
I can’t get enough air into my lungs and what I do manage to breathe in makes me gag. The stench up close is ferocious.
I skid on something lumpy and slippery, but the monster’s grip is so tight that I stay upright.
My heart has practically stopped with the realization that I won’t be going up to the stone building, but instead, will be joining the tortured victims.
I drag my feet and resist. I struggle, trying to loosen one of the monster’s hands. But I’m no match for its strength.
A couple of steps before the opening, the scorpion throws me up against the metal mesh.
I slam into it, grabbing the chains to keep myself upright.
The second I hit, the darker shadows in the back of the box scuffle toward me.
Hunched with sharp angles accentuating arms and legs, rags dragging on the floor, they shove each other out of the way to reach me as fast as they can.
A scream tears from my mouth as I frantically push myself back.
Arms reach out like a forest of bones sprouting through the chain mesh.
They grab my hair, my face, my clothes.
I thrash and scream, trying not to see their skeletal faces, their mangy hair, their bloodied nails.
I twist and yank, desperate to get out of their grasp. There are a lot of them, but they’re weak, barely standing on their feet as I pull away.
White Streak makes a series of screechy noises that sound suspiciously like a laugh. It thinks this is funny.
It grabs me and drags me toward the stream of people coming from the ferry.
It never intended to dump me into the torture bin. It just wanted to tease the prisoners and, I guess, me.