Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“Paige?”
Cole’s looking down at me with careful assessment, as if he might be genuinely worried for my welfare.
“I’m taking a group out on a hike, and I already know how it’s going to go . . .”
I did a hike with these guys last year. One guest came prepared to suck murky brown groundwater through an off-brand LifeStraw before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and raving about the 99.99 percent filtration abilities. The rest of the group was suitably awed, but given the opportunity to sample it for themselves, 99.99 percent stuck to their run-of-the-mill CamelBaks.
“But if you’re worried about it,” I continue, “I could take someone with me. Oscar’s taken, but maybe Blaze?” I say it like the thought had only just occurred to me. Oh right, that one guy, Blaze. He could work.
Cole’s mouth flattens into an unamused line. “Somehow I think you’ll manage just fine without an accomplice.”
Right. Good to know he values my well-being far less than Camila’s. She gets a beefy Australian bodyguard. I have to fend for myself.
The hike takes it all out of me. The guys aren’t even listening to me talk about the trail’s history. Like toddlers intent on putting anything and everything in their mouths, they immediately home in on the plants surrounding the path.
“What’s edible here?” one of them eagerly asks.
“Oh . . . actually, I’m not an expert on that. Let’s stick with the trail mix the resort provided us. If you’re allergic to nuts, I also have some jerky.”
Not two seconds after I finish this polite but assertive recommendation, one guy picks a few berries off a bush and eats them, claiming they’re “completely harmless and chock full of fiber.”
His tongue’s already swollen to twice its normal size by the time I get him back to Dr. Missick.
There are two other preppers sitting in the doctor’s waiting room when we arrive. One presses an ice pack against a pronounced goose egg on his forehead. The other clutches a barf bag, his face ashen, eyes glassy. I recognize him as the corned beef hash guy from the lobby that morning.
“Turns out, those things do expire,” he tells his friend just as Dr. Missick opens the door with sweat trickling down his forehead. He sees me and groans. “Good god. What now?”
At dinner in the staff cafeteria, we all exchange war stories from the day. Cole’s whiteboard in the break room has been claimed by a new countdown.
DAYS UNTIL THE PREPPERS LEAVE: 4.
“4” is written in red and circled a hundred times over.
That night, I linger in the lobby at the excursion desk as long as I can manage it, wanting every morsel of action I can get. My eyes eventually grow too heavy, though, and I know I’ll need to rest up for tomorrow if I’m going to survive another day with these guys.
I’m taking a shortcut around the back of the resort when I see Cole outside, just past the double doors. Oof. He looks like he’s been through the wringer a time or two. He’s shucked off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His hair is mussed, too, like he’s been tugging at the roots all day in exasperation. He’s not alone; he’s talking to Beverly from HR and Annabelle, one of the singers from the resort lounge.
At first I think they might all be commiserating. If Cole were a smoker, he’d be draining a pack right now. No doubt his nerves are shot after today. I wonder how many fires he had to put out. How many staff members he had to placate. How many weapons he had to confiscate from disgruntled guests. “Come on, now. This isn’t a weapon, it’s my hunting machete!”
Only upon closer inspection, I realize that Annabelle is crying and shaking her head. Her shoulders are quaking, and Beverly is rubbing her back, trying to console her. I can’t see Cole’s expression, but it makes my stomach hurt, seeing them like that. I’m tempted to step closer, somehow insert myself in a situation that has nothing to do with me just so I can get some answers, but I wisely leave well enough alone, scurrying along before any of them see me.
I don’t have to wait long for answers.
I’m working through a bowl of oatmeal in the cafeteria the next morning when Lara takes the seat across from me and hisses, “Annabelle got fired last night!”
My bite gets lodged in my throat, and I force it down with some effort. “What?”
“Yeah, she’s gone. Like gone. Camila’s dorm is right next to hers. She said she saw Annabelle leaving the resort this morning with all her stuff loaded on a cart. A security guard was with her, but Camila thinks he was just trying to help out. Not like escort her off resort premises or anything, but who knows?!”