For a second, they manage to brush fingertips.

Then our group moves past theirs, breaking their touch. The woman starts sobbing, her hand still reaching for him.

Another group gets shoved in front of Brian and he disappears into the crowd, still reaching for her.

THE BOAT is two stories high and has seen better days. The paint is so scraped that I’m convinced the boat must have been lying on its side on the roof of a ruined building before the bad guys put it to use. Somehow, it still manages to float. And it still sports the words “Captain Jake’s Alcatraz Tours” in blue, although with all the scratches, it looks more like “Alcatraz ours.”

The engine starts and we’re treated to a dark plume of exhaust. The smell of gas pollutes the air almost immediately. A human minion must be running the boat. I kind of hope it’s not Captain Jake.

Everyone gets jostled and shoved toward the boat. Scorpions begin releasing us from the nets. We have no place to run, of course, not if we want to live a few more minutes.

As the first captives begin boarding, I manage to get close enough to Mom and Clara for us to shuffle together. Mom hands me the stuffed bear like she’s been keeping it safe for me.

I slip the bear onto my sword, disguising it again. I have wild hopes of being able to take it with me and maybe using my fledgling skills to get us out of this mess.

My hopes are dashed when I see that weapons are being taken from prisoners as they board. There’s a growing pile of stuff on the dock by the boat ramp. Axes, spiked bats, tire irons, machetes, knives, and even a few guns. I would still have hope if the pile only had weapons but it also includes purses, backpacks, dolls, and yes, even stuffed animals.

There are grim-faced people—humans—taking these things from the prisoners. They don’t talk and they don’t look anyone in the eye. They just grab whatever is semi-visible on the prisoners and toss the objects onto the pile.

I stroke my bear, wondering if this is my best chance at escape. Even if I couldn’t get away, maybe I could cause enough of a distraction so that Mom and Clara could. We’re in the brief window of time when I still have my sword and we’re no longer trapped in a net so it’s now or never.

A gunshot explodes so close that we all duck.

A man who apparently didn’t want to give up his gun holds it still pointed at one of the women minions who is now bleeding on the ramp. He is instantly surrounded by scorpions with their stingers. Their fangs are so close to his face that I’m sure he can smell their breath.

He trembles so badly that he actually drops his gun and a spreading wetness stains the front of his pants.

The scorpions don’t attack the shooter, though. It’s as if they’re waiting for something.

“Here, take her knife,” says another human minion. His face is lined with grief, his eyes half-dead and shell-shocked. He grabs a kitchen knife out of a prisoner’s hand and gives it to the shooter. “Now, toss it into that pile.”

The shooter’s arm spastically jerks the knife onto the pile. He looks so frightened that he probably never considered stabbing one of the scorpions with it.

The scorpions hiss and back off, moving to patrol the crowd again.

We were all so riveted by the drama that none of us thought to escape while it was happening. So much for causing a distraction to let Mom and Clara get away.

The shooter replaces the minion that he shot as he takes weapons and bags from the other prisoners. He doesn’t make eye contact and he doesn’t say a word. He does occasionally sneak a glance at the woman he shot who is dying at his feet.

After that, there are no more incidents as everyone gets on the boat.

When one of the minions reaches for my bear-disguised sword, I have to force myself to lift the strap over my shoulder and place it on the pile myself. It takes all my willpower to do it, since a part of me wants to yank it out and chop up a few scorpions. But there must be twenty, maybe thirty of them here.

I slip the scabbard into the bottom of the pile, trying to hide as much of it as possible. Someone will eventually find it. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.

Mom and Clara pull me up and along with them. I guess I looked like I didn’t want to leave it behind. I glance back at the silly teddy bear partially buried under a pile of weapons and bags and can’t help but think that maybe I’ll never see Raffe or his sword again.

Behind me, the woman who reached for her lover cries softly.

Chpater 34

THE WATER slaps onto the boat’s side while the deck rolls back and forth. We shuffle onto the ship, and before long, we’re gliding through the dark waters.

Alcatraz is legendary for being the most inescapable jail of all time. Just the sight of it in the dim light makes me want to run away. I think about diving into the water with Mom and Clara and taking our chances, but others beat me to it.

A couple runs for it. It’s Brian and Lisa, the couple who had been separated by the nets. My heart races with hope that they’ll make it. We’re not so far off that they can’t swim to the other side, freezing or not.

But the scorpions are fast.

So fast that three of them zap their stingers to tag the couple on their way out the doors.

They don’t chase them though. They just let the pair make their own choices. It takes time to become paralyzed, but I know the excruciating pain and stiffness starts immediately. By the time the couple reaches the edge of the boat, they’re dragging their feet.

It would be suicide to jump. They’ll be paralyzed long before they can reach shore.

But the other option is to stay frozen among the scorpions, completely at their mercy.

Tough choice. I really feel for them. I’m not sure which I’d choose.

They choose to stay on board. Brian leans against the rail as if thinking about jumping, but he can’t seem to commit. Lisa lays her head down on the deck beside him.

I understand. Anyone who is alive now is a survivor. They’ve done what it takes to make it this far, and they can’t help but keep going. Brian slides down the rail and lies beside Lisa, twitching and losing control of his muscles. The scorpions mostly ignore the couple, seemingly bored as they leap off the boat to fly while others land on deck and walk around.

A scorpion bends over and plucks Brian’s glasses off his face. It tries to put them on upside down. When they fall, the scorpion picks them back up and tries again. As if it wasn’t already weird-looking enough with a man’s body, dragonfly wings, and a scorpion tail. Now, it looks around with one cracked lens on its wire-rimmed glasses.

I feel oddly naked without my sword. I keep reaching for the soft fur of my stuffed bear and remember that it’s not there any more. I sit between Mom and Clara, three unarmed women surrounded by monsters.

Just a couple of months ago, tourists sat this boat with cameras and phones, taking photos, yelling at their kids, kissing in front of the city skyline. They probably roamed around in their newly bought sweatshirts, totally unprepared for the cold summer winds of San Francisco.

Now, there are hardly any children and none of them are running around. There are only a couple of older folks mixed in with the others, and only a quarter of the crowd is women. Everyone looks like they’ve gone too long without a shower or a good meal, and all our attention is focused on the scorpions.

They leave us alone for now. Most of them are not as beefy and broad-shouldered as I imagined monsters would be. Some of them are outright scrawny. They’re not made to muscle their prey. They’re designed to use their stingers as their main weapon of choice.

They all have tails that look like they’ve been on steroids. Fat and muscular, unnaturally bulging, and grotesque. If I look closely, I can see a clear drop of venom at the tip of each stinger, as if keeping the pipes in working order.

One of the scorpions wears a pair of pants. But the pants are on backwards and hanging with the zipper open to allow for the tail. There’s something about it that bothers me but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

As the scorpion pulls up its pants with its all-too-human-looking hand, something glints. My stomach clenches in sick dread as I realize what it is.

It’s a wedding band.

What is a wedding band doing on a monster’s hand?

It must be just some shiny thing that it got from one of its victims. Like an animal playing with a toy. Or maybe it discovered that rings were good for hitting, like brass knuckles.

Yeah, that must be it.

And it’s pure coincidence that it’s on the ring finger.

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.

Chpater 35

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?