Island of Years

Part One Chapter 1

"This isn't a game.
"This isn't a game, where right at the last moment, before you get killed, ripped apart, whatever, you're going to be saved. We don't care if you die. In fact, if you die, it benefits us. It gets us closer to the answer. We aren't trying to keep you alive, we're trying to save a world, through you. This isn't a game, you could die, just as I'm sure every day of your life has taught you."
I sink lower in my chair trying to not be scrutinized as the man's gaze sweeps the room.
The man speaking is brutal looking. He is large and muscular, with dark hair, and dark eyes. He is so intense and brisk in everything he does, I'm afraid he'll break me in the first day of the Item Ranking stage. Whatever that is.
"My name is Roth," he continues, "and I will be with right until you step onto The Island. I'll be the judge during Item Ranking- which will, in turn, determine how long you survive on The Island."
He then proceeds to tell us all about why we're here and about how long we'll be here and such.
We're here to solve all the world's problems. Whoever, after a year, is left standing, out of the 40 of us, will have demonstrated the brains to survive against all odds. They will then be richly awarded, or, should I say, their family and guardians will be rewarded and they'll have their brain chopped up to be made into medicine and distributed to all the people of the earth (at least, what's left of those people) and cure the Cied. (Pronounced •side•)
You see, after World War IIII lasted for eighteen years, one team or another bombed places with special chemicals, which started a disease called the Cied.
It's called that because, well, let me tell you. You know you've caught it when you get dizzy and cough until you wretch and cough up blood. Then the chemicals get attracted to any blood (such as in your throat or lungs, from coughing) and go and eat up all the tissues surrounding and in contact with it. And you die from getting eaten, inside out. Really great, I know. Cied stands for Coughing, Internal bleeding, Eating, Death.
Once you catch it, there is almost no hope, plus, it's contagious by contact, so all your friends and family members isolate you. Or, if they're nice, shoot you in the head if they have a gun.
It's a pretty messed up world.
And here I am, one girl out of forty teenagers, destined to be dead, one way or another, in just over a year.
So, that's how long we'll be here. Two weeks at this compound, then we get our bags and are on the Island for a year, or until we get killed.
"So," Roth says, getting excited as if he's about to tell us a great secret, "I've told you why you're here and for how long you'll be here. But I haven't specified on why you, as individuals, are here. Why aren't your neighbours? Why aren't your siblings? Why not all the other people in your villages and towns? What about them?..."
He goes on like this for a bit, and I just tune him out, like, what? Does he think he's some poet?
"I'll tell you." Smile. "Each one of you is between the ages 15 and 19. It's at this stage in which your brains are most resistant and will benefits us all, more. But furthermore, and more importantly, every single one of you has caught the Cied and survived. Few people have ever done that, aside from the ones we bring here and experiment on, so be proud of yourselves! I think an applause is in order!"
No one claps.
Catching the Cied and living isn't magical and wonderful, it's hell. How do you think it was to have your throat being ripped apart first from coughing then from acids? You dread each and every cough, 'cause you know what comes next. Never will I forget the day I woke and the chemicals had found my throat.
So when I survived I wasn't a happy girl, thrilled and ready to live life; I'd been through hell and back, and I wasn't gonna brag about it. Or applause.
"Fine. Didn't think you'd clap. Of all the years I've been doing this, someone has yet to raise their hands. Including me. Alright! Enough fooling around. Welcome to the real me," he snarls. He literally snarls. "You're here because you've survived once, which now makes you immune and increases your survival chance. This is the last time this experiment will happen, as the previous champions have "donated" their brains to our cause. After one of you wins, the world will be saved. If we don't get on with this and finish this in a year, the Cied will wipe out all human existence. So, that's it. Off we go!"
Roth leaps up and with a follow me, barked over his shoulder, exits the room.
...
I'm literally terrified.
Even at home I felt a small measure of security and safety, knowing that each day I have to face, I can at least face with my family. Here I could become completely alone.
Furthermore, at home, there's a chance I'll live, fall in love and maybe have kids. All that has been taken away from me. I'm gonna die in a year. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna die. I'm going to die.
I'm with the group of the "immunes" trudging through stone and metal corridors, learning bits of info that Roth calls back at us.
"The door to the left is my office. Never enter it."
"That is the training room. No, you idiots, the right hand room. Yes, that left one holds the medicines we've made. Don't try to break in."
"What would happen if we did try?" asks one seriously brave (or dumb) guy.
Roth turns and smiles. The smile never reaches his eyes.
"You'll be killed."
...
"This is the dorm where you'll all be sleeping. That door over there leases to the cafeteria where you'll eat along with all the scientists and trainers. It's currently 10:30 at night and training tomorrow begins at 7:00. I suggest you go to bed. Goodnight."
Roth turns to leave but is stopped when a girl calls out, "I'm just wondering, what year is it? No has ever told me."
True. No has ever told me either. All I know are the important dates about wars and deaths from a long time ago. Current history doesn't matter. According to my mother.
"Hello there, Just Wondering. Nice to meet you. Next time I want to be asked stupid questions I'll call on you," replied Roth, icily.
Again, he turns to go. But I want to know. Gathering courage, I too call after the retreating man.
"I would like to know the year as well. Please." I add the please as an after thought.
A boy glances my way with a grin.
"Me too."
"Ya," says another girl.
I smirk. I really want to know, though.
Roth stops. His shoulders lift and fall. Is he containing rage? Oops.
But then, without turning around he snaps, "2515," and leaves, slamming the door.