As I pass, he waves his hands and shouts for me to come for an interview, but I pretend not to hear him and stare straight ahead at a large, white marquee.
Tizona glances at me over her shoulder and grins. “This is going to be more fun than that Detroit Depression challenge.”
I raise a shoulder. “At least I have a vehicle this time.”
She snickers. “I saw the footage with you and the goats. What a pity Berta Ridgeback drowned. She was such a fun underdog.”
My muscles tighten at the mention of her name, and I turn my gaze to the left and catch glimpses of the desert through the gaps in the fence posts.
“What are you talking about?” Katana nudges the dark-skinned Amstraadi. “She was an ugly duckling.”
Tizona shakes her head. “I would agree if this was the Extreme Surgical Show, but no amount of corsets and contouring could ever transform that dog into a swan.”
“Quiet,” Sabre snaps from the front. “Have some respect for Popcorn’s best friend.”
My shoulders relax. Right now, I don’t care if they want to call me popcorn as long as they change the subject. I’m about to exhale a relieved breath when Sabre turns around and winks. I clench my teeth. How could she possibly know I killed Berta?
Sergeant Travis opens the marquee door and steps inside. Cold air blasts us from all directions as we follow her, and my eyes adjust from the dimmer light. The space is about thirty feet wide, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate the tallest of trucks.
On the far left, a pair of guards in black armor stand to attention at both sides of a ten-foot-wide gate, and on the right are six solar quad bikes lined up in pairs. The vehicles parked behind them become increasingly larger, from an open jeep with two periscope guns at the top, to vans, and a massive truck with monstrously large wheels at the end.
I chew on the inside of my lip, hoping the girls don’t change their minds and choose the bikes.
“That one.” Sabre points at an armored van in the middle. It’s sand-colored with three-foot-tall wheels and an extra-large truck with two rows of seats and a pair of huge machine guns on its roof.
Sergeant Travis steps back and tilts her head to the side. “The Desert Destroyer requires advanced driving skills. May I suggest—”
“Colonel Victorine told you to offer us any vehicle,” says Sabre from between clenched teeth. “We also need four sets of handguns.”
I gulp and glance at the less intimidating jeep at the front. Shouldn’t she listen to the sergeant’s suggestion? I doubt that the Amstraad Republic has many sandy deserts so far up north.
Tizona claps me on the shoulder. “Hey, Popcorn. Worry about how you’re going to rescue those Foundlings from the flesh-eating wild men.”
I gaze into her smiling face. She’s the friendliest of the Amstraadi girls and always says what she means.
The sergeant walks across the marquee, opens the door to the driver’s seat and taps a few commands in the steering-wheel screen. The vehicle’s dashboard lights up, and she steps aside. “In situations like this, it’s customary to give a team ten minutes to retrieve the foundlings before the gunfire starts.”
Before we step in, a pair of camerawomen rush forward and attach recording equipment to the vehicle’s interior and exterior. Trying not to roll my eyes, I remind myself that they’re only doing their job.
I clasp my hands. “We need to get going before the wild men catch up with the camels.”
Sabre takes the driver’s seat, and I slip into the front. The other two sit in the back and press their faces to eyepieces that I guess operate the guns.
Sergeant Travis taps on the passenger window, which slides down. “Here are the guns.”
“Thanks.” I keep one for myself and hand the others to the Amstraadi girls, hoping we won’t have to use them.
Sabre presses a button in the middle of the steering wheel, and the vehicle’s engine roars to life. “This is your mission. You’ll be out in the sand, helping those people board.”
“Sure,” I say.
Blinding light floods the marquee’s interior. Up ahead on the left, the gate rises, and Sabre pulls out and drives the van out into the desert. My heart thunders like lightning is about to strike, and I stare out into the endless sand. This is the first time I’ve left Phangloria. I turn to the rearview mirror and watch the gates fall into place. What if they never let us return?
Nobody speaks, and the truck’s noisy engine fills the silence. Katana and Tizona swing their periscopes and fire a few practice shots. I lean forward in my seat and look out for the approaching vehicle. About three miles ahead stands a massive formation of orange rocks. I swallow several times in quick succession, wishing that I had asked Colonel Victorine for an approximate time of arrival.
Moments later, a cloud of dust forms between the rocks. At first, it’s difficult to see its cause, but the air settles and the approaching vehicle emerges from the haze. I hold my breath, waiting for the camels to appear, but the vehicle travels toward us alone.
“Tizona.” I turn to the two gunwomen sitting behind us. “Can you see the others through your periscope?”
“Don’t worry,” she mutters. “Your camels are safe.”
“But those wild men are fast,” adds Katana.
When I turn around, I still can’t see any sign of camels or riders, but the vehicle is a few hundred feet away. It’s dark brown, about the size of our truck, and with an exoskeleton that seems to be made of pipes.
Dread rumbles through my stomach, and I clutch the
