The Craving - Marooned

26. Dinghy

They had shot Nita and Chris.

I stared at the two bodies floating in the lagoon, expecting them to move—willing them to move. Willing the world to undo the wrong it had made me witness. Willing this absurd farce to stop.

I clenched my teeth, fighting the bile rising in my throat.

Two of the guys in overalls got out of the dinghy and waded through the water. They prodded the bodies with gloved, uncaring hands, then they pulled them to the shore and placed them there, side by side.

"Let's get away from here." Farid's words hardly registered with me.

One of the overall-guys stooped down and pulled something from a pouch at his belt, applying it to Nita.

First aid? Not likely.

He, or she, put the thing back into the pouch. Then he repeated the same steps with Chris.

"They're taking blood samples," Farid replied to my unspoken question.

Two other guys in yellow overalls had left the boat and waded through the water towards the shore. One of them carried a large, red canister, the other one had an oversized gun in his hand and a pack on his back. When they reached their companions, the first one poured a clear liquid over the bodies.

Disinfectant?

Three soldiers also left the dinghy, their guns at the ready. They stationed themselves on the shore, some ten yards away from Chris and Nita's fallen figures, facing away from the yellow suits and studying the island. One of them stared right at the ridge we hid behind. 

I held my breath, knowing I should duck and get away. But the proceedings around Chris and Nita kept me locked in place.

When the canister was empty, the people in the suits took a couple of steps back. The one with the backpack aimed his fat gun at our comrades.

A flame spurted from its end, bright, yellow, and fierce. It engulfed Chris and Nita.

"Come." Farid tugged at my arm, pulling me back.

My mind was numb—wrapped in and enmeshed with cotton wool.

A blackish, oily smoke rose from the bodies.

The overall-guys stood there and watched their victims burning as more and more fire poured over them. It was only Farid's grasp that kept me from lunging myself at them and their guardian soldiers, tearing them all apart for their atrocity.

The wind carried the smell of burning fuel and the stench of charred meat.

Farid's tugging grew stronger. My anger ebbed into desolation, and I moved back from the ridge. Once we were away from it, hidden from view, we ran. Or rather, he did most of the running, dragging me along.

Nita and Chris were dead. Killed while I watched.

Killed while I didn't do anything for them.

Killed for having been with vampires—the wrong vampires.

This was a nightmare. And just like any nightmare, it didn't make sense. Something didn't add up. The plot didn't feel real. I probed the cotton in my brain for a clear thought, frantically trying to find reason in cobwebs.

The taste of blood filled my mouth—I must have bitten my cheeks or lips.

If I only could find the flaw in the logic of his tale, I could prove it was nothing but a dream. Then I could escape from it, wake up, and return to my mundane life of precious regularity and boredom.