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“This fine gentleman is Amar. He’s in charge of making sure our injured are given the attention they deserve. Amar, meet Emily and Rhiannon. They’ve been kind enough to volunteer their time; do you think you can put them to good use?”

“Hello,” said Amar with a tired smile. He was a tall, good-looking man, no older than Emily and with distinct West Indian features. The medic sounded as exhausted as he looked but he managed to add a smile and a nod.

“I’ll leave you in his capable hands, then,” said MacAlister. He looked as though he was about to add something else, but instead turned and headed back toward the captain’s office.

“Okay ladies, here’s how you can help…”

• • •

Over the next few days, Amar taught Emily how to monitor and change the dressings on some of the less severely injured.

The crew was desperately short of medical personnel and Amar quickly began to refer to Emily and Rhiannon as his “Angels.” The sub’s surgeon had been ashore when the rain fell, along with most of the trained nursing staff, so the job of surgeon/chief nurse had fallen to Amar. Until the rain had arrived, he had been a nurse but now found himself the only qualified member of the crew with anything more than general first-aid training. Since the fire he had spent his time supervising the injured while trying to impart as much of his medical ability to the other surviving crew. Now he could at least grab a few hours of welcome sleep while Emily and Rhiannon watched over his patients.

The extra pairs of hands allowed him to direct more time to the three more severely injured members of the crew. Their injuries ranged from second-degree burns to the most severe, a crewman who had fractured his skull during the fire. He’d been in a coma since then.

“All I can do is make him as comfortable as possible,” he told Emily as they stood over the injured man. “If I had access to a hospital or a qualified doctor, he might stand a chance. Here…” his gaze swept around the small room, “there’s little hope he’ll make it.” The frustration Amar felt at not being able to help his colleague was palpable. “Thank God we at least have more morphine available than we need.”

Rhiannon on the other hand quickly became the crew’s surrogate mascot. She spent her time flitting from patient to patient, fetching water and meals for them, and listening intently and with wide eyes to the crew as they spun tails of the exotic-sounding ports of calls they had stopped at during their tour of duty aboard the Vengeance. She seemed particularly taken with one of the more badly injured patients named Parsons and would spend hours reading a dog-eared copy of Alice in Wonderland aloud, his burned hands unable to turn the pages.

Thor seemed especially happy with all the extra attention he was receiving too. To the extent that Emily had to speak quietly to the captain; his crew was surreptitiously feeding the dog treats and leftovers when she wasn’t looking, and he was starting to put on some extra pounds. The captain would make sure that stopped, he promised her, much to Thor’s chagrin, he was sure.

The only person who didn’t seem happy was Jacob. He was as good as trapped in the other building, the snow too deep for him to make it through in his wheelchair, but Emily got the impression that even if the path had been clear between the two buildings, he would have found some other excuse to stay where he was. The arrival of the crew of the Vengeance was a fly in the ointment for whatever plan he had had, she supposed. Her feelings toward him were still a confusion to her, his motivation for bringing her here to this desolate island duplicitous at best, but still, if he hadn’t done what he had done… she didn’t even want to think about what would have happened to her and Rhiannon. Maybe one day, she would be able to forgive him. For now, she kept her distance from him.

• • •

The young sailor in the coma died in the middle of the night two days later. Amar discovered him the following morning and they buried him in the cold ground next to his comrades that same day.

His death seemed to hit the crew especially hard, as if their defenses had been down, and Emily felt a distinct numbness begin to settle over them.

And, as she walked with them back to the tiny cluster of buildings, Emily realized she didn’t even know the kid’s name.

“Gregory,” MacAlister had told her bitterly when she asked. “His name was Gregory.”

CHAPTER 3

Emily had to lean hard on the second door leading outside before it would open. The temperature had dropped even further and bands of ice and snow had formed around the rim of the doorway, freezing it shut; she heard it crack as she leaned her shoulder into the door.

Stepping out into the glacial air, she felt her breath freeze instantly, stinging her nostrils and lips.

At least the wind had finally relaxed its hold on the island, leaving the air feeling thick and heavy in Emily’s lungs. But when she looked to the south she sucked in a painfully deep gulp of the freezing air; the skirt of cloud hemming the horizon was so much darker now, like thick pools of congealing blood. The intertwining seams of purple stitched through the storm’s body twisted and tumbled to form cauldrons of spirals that coiled and melted their way into each other like the beads and colored glass of a child’s kaleidoscope.

What little light that made it through the clouds covered the island in a pall of perpetual twilight. It created a dull dissimilarity with the pristine white of the snow. Emily’s eyes tried but failed to compensate for the painful contrast, and she quickly felt a dull throbbing headache form in her forehead as she squinted from beneath the shade of her outstretched hand.

She hoped it was just her imagination, but the cloud to the west seemed closer. It was hard to tell from ground level as the buildings obscured her view.

She stepped down off the ice-covered steps and crunched through the knee-deep snow, walking awkwardly around the side of the building while using the exterior wall to steady her balance as she high-stepped through the snow to the opposite end.

Fifty feet beyond the cabin a hillock rose sharply up to a blunt plateau high enough to give a clear view over the roofs of the camp’s buildings. Emily’s breathing came in short, rapid pants as she climbed to its top, the air collecting like rubble in the bottom of her lungs. At the hill’s summit she had an unobstructed 360-degree view of the island.

It stilled her heart, petrifying it in her chest.

The ring of clouds circling the horizon on every side had crept closer, constricting the hole of hazy sky above the survivors’ sanctuary.

Emily’s gaze skittered across the curve of the island, and out to sea where a shining mist descended from the cloud base and melted into the sluggish sea: rain! Sheets of it were pummeling the waves out there. She could see a slick of red forming on the ocean’s surface, slowly spreading with the swell. It was the same in every direction she looked, a slowly tightening noose around their necks.

A gust of wind thumped against her, pushing her back a step. A second gust buffeted her sideways. She tottered for a second, almost losing her balance as her legs tangled at the knees. She had a sudden disquieting notion that the storm knew she was observing it, and it was letting her know it saw her, watching her right back, this insignificant bug crawling on the surface of the world it had conquered.

From the west, another strong gust rocked her then rose to a constant blast that threatened to push her off the summit. Steadying herself, she sidestepped down the hill toward the camp just as the snow began to fall again, but this time the crystal-pure white of each perfect flake was stained with red.