The Sandcastle Empire
Kayla Olson
ONE
I WON’T MISS these mornings.
I won’t miss the sand, the sea, the salt air. The splintered wood of the old, worn boardwalk, burrowing beneath my skin. I won’t miss the sun, bright and blinding, a spotlight on me as I watch and wait. I won’t miss the silence.
No, I won’t miss these mornings at all.
Day after day, I slip down to the boardwalk when it’s still dark. I’ve worked hard to make it look like I’m simply a girl who loves sunrises, a girl who’d never shove back. One of those is true, at least. The Wolves who guard this beach hardly blink at me anymore, a rare show of indifference bought by my consistency, my patience. Two years of consistency and patience, every single morning since they plucked us from lives we loved and shoved us into gulags. I sit where the guards can see me—where I can see them—where I can see everything. I watch the water, I watch the waves. I watch more than water, more than waves. I look for cracks.
There’ve been no cracks. The guards’ routine has forever been solid, impenetrable, the only reason I haven’t yet made a break for it. I will, though. I am a bird, determined to fly despite clipped wings and splintered feet. This cage of an island won’t hold me forever.
One day, when the war ends, I will eat ice cream again. I will run barefoot on the beach without fear of stepping on a mine. I will go into a bookstore, or a coffee shop, or any of the hundreds of places currently occupied by Wolves, and I will sit there for hours just because I can. I will do all of these things, and more. If I survive.
I am always ready for a way out, always looking to leave. I carry my past wherever it fits: tucked in at my back, hanging from my neck, buried deep in my pocket. A tattered yellow book. A heavy ring on its heavy chain. A vial of blood and teeth. My empty hands are my advantage—with nothing but my own skin to dig my nails into, with no one left to cling to, I’m free to take back this war-stained world. If everything goes as planned, that is.
It may not be obvious to anyone else, but things are changing. I see subtle signs of it everywhere, for better and worse all at once. Where there used to be only two guards at this beachfront station, now there are four. Where the guards once stepped casually around certain patches of sand—they’ve been loud and clear in warning us of the land mines buried there—they now step carefully, single file, if they even leave their station at all. Until last week, their post was equipped with a blood-red speedboat. Now they’ve traded sleek for simple, a no-frills green sailboat in its place meant to disadvantage anyone who tries to use it to escape. As if any of us could make it that far without being blown to pieces.
This quiet shifting of routine assures me the rumors are true.
Someone escaped last week, people say. Someone else plans to try. Today, tomorrow, next week, next month, I’ve heard it all. The rumors aren’t about me—I’d never be allowed to sit here now, watching as always, if they were. This worked out exactly the way I hoped, that my being close to the beach triggers the assumption that I am up to nothing, nothing at all out of the ordinary. To change my routine would be suspicious.
Now I wait only for the guards to turn their backs on me, as they sometimes do, when they go for coffee refills inside their bare-bones old beach tower. They are far too comfortable with me looking comfortable. Too confident I’ll stay put. They keep their eyes trained on the seawall, on those who’ve taken a sudden interest in the sunrise.
The boardwalk has been lonely for the better part of two years, but not now. Not yesterday, either, or the day before. Whether the others are plotting an escape or just hoping to glimpse one, who knows? This is undoubtedly the best spot for either, I figured that out my first week. From every other side of this island, the water leads straight back to mainland Texas. Better open ocean than that.
These fresh faces that peek out over the seawall and divert attention away from me—it’s good, and it’s not. Anyone could make a run for it at any time. The Wolves will redouble their security measures when that happens, no doubt, rain bullets and bombs over the entire camp. I can’t be around when that happens. I need to make a run for the boat today, this morning, now, or I might never get the chance.
I have to be first.
Dawn breaks, a hundred thousand shades of it, so brilliant the sky can hardly contain it.
Two guards go inside their post, and the third turns—this is it this is it this is it—but then the air shifts. It starts with a seagull, warning on its wings as it flies straight for the ocean, like it wants to get far, far away. The two remaining guards meet eyes. I hear the rumble of footsteps, not from the beach but from beyond the seawall at my back, toward barracks and breakfast and the silk lab I’ve left behind.
A distant explosion shakes the entire island. Two more follow on its heels, five more after that. Gunfire, like a storm—so many blasted bullets I lose count—screaming, chaos. It’s louder with every second. Louder and closer.
I freeze, every muscle in my body stiff. I’m too late, a split second too late—someone must have attempted escape from the wrong side of the island.
Looks like I’m not the only one who wanted to be first.
All four officers are out of the post now, running their tight zigzag pattern through the sand, toward the noise, careful not to blow themselves to pieces. They don’t look my way as they pass.
I should have gone for it in the dead of night, shouldn’t have waited for perfect timing—there is no perfect. These bullets and bombs are the consequences, I’m sure of it, security measures on steroids. I’ve missed my chance.
Or maybe not.
The green sailboat bobs idly at the end of their dock. No one has stayed behind to guard it.