Up close, it’s not much of a vehicle and looks on the verge of falling apart—half-tractor at the back, half-pick-up at the front, and all rust. It slows and flashes its lights. I press the button at the window and squint against the onslaught of light and hot air.
The driver is a man with skin even darker than Tizona’s and a huge, salt-and-pepper beard. Crammed in the seat next to him are about four women and behind him, rows of countless children sitting on each other's laps.
“Is this the Oasis that we heard about on the TV?” he asks in a drawling accent.
My brows furrow. “Television?”
“Yeah,” he said. “We drove all the way from Red Rock. Is this the place?”
Sabre leans across the passenger seat and shouts, “They’ll let you in at the gate. Hurry.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Could you radio in and tell them to keep the doors open a bit longer? There’s eleven more of us on camels being chased by psychos.”
As soon as he continues toward the Great Wall, I twist around in my seat and glower at Sabre. “Why did you lie?”
“Don’t blame us,” Katana replies from behind. “We’re not the ones using false advertising to lure people into my country,”
I swallow back a retort and close the window. She’s absolutely right. There’s no telling how long that vehicle will last, and it’s too late for them to turn around if I tell them the truth.
“It’s not exactly a lie.” Tizona muses. “If they’re lucky enough to birth genetically perfect offspring, those children might get a chance to become Harvesters or be taken away at birth and trained to become servants or spare parts for the Noble elites.”
A huff of air leaves my throat. “What?”
“Focus,” Sabre hisses. “I’ve just spotted the camels.”
Nobody gets eye tests in the Harvester District, so it’s hard to tell if those shapes moving up and down the camels are people or baggage. I gulp several lungfuls of air. A quick glance at the rearview mirror tells me that the Foundlings’ vehicle is now following our tire tracks toward the hatch.
I exhale a long breath, clear out thoughts of the Nobles broadcasting lies to attract people to the Oasis, and focus on the mission ahead.
As we approach the camels, I turn to Sabre. “Stop in front of them, and I’ll get their riders to board the back.”
“Make it fast,” she says. “I want to put as much distance between us and those wild men as possible.”
The dust clears, giving me a better look at the galloping camels. Each beast carries at least two men, and the rider at the back hits the camel with some kind of whip. My chest aches for the beast that was forced to run such long distances.
Riderless camels run behind the ones in front, each piled with bags. I hope they didn’t lose their riders.
Sabre stops the vehicle and twists around in her seat. “Katana and Tizona will provide cover. You’ve got three minutes before the watchtower opens fire.”
I open the door, grit my teeth at the blast of hot air, and jump out of the van. The heat of the sand seeps through my boots, and the scent of dust and dried earth fills my nostrils. Katana, who sits behind the drivers’ seat, opens her door, and I sprint toward the approaching riders.
“Hey,” I shout.
They exchange glances and continue toward me.
I cup both hands around my mouth and shout, “I’m here to escort you into Phangloria. Board our vehicle, and we’ll take you through the gates.”
“Is this the Oasis?” a man shouts from the distance.
My throat dries. Whatever these people watched on their televisions was promising enough to make them leave their shelters and travel across the desert. They will never see the Oasis in their lifetimes and most likely won’t even pass the minor wall and become Harvesters.
A howl echoes from the distance. I turn to the rock and find a hoard of naked people racing toward us. Red and black pigment cover their skin, with white accents to resemble bones.
Terror seizes my windpipe and all notions of the wild men being actors evaporate in the desert heat. In less than a minute, they’ll arrive, and I won’t be around to suffer their attack.
“Hurry.” I wave my arms at the men. “The wild men are coming.”
“We’re not leaving our animals,” shouts the one in front.
I shake my head. “Phangloria won’t let you in with those camels.”
The man rears back. “Why not?”
“Look behind you.” I clench my teeth and step back toward the vehicle. The wild men are picking up their pace and gaining on the riders. “You’ll be stuck at the gates, and those wild men are already catching up with us.”
One of the men at the back jumps down from the camel and lands in a crouch. He rushes to the camel behind and yanks off the saddlebags. As he gathers his possessions, a few others dismount and follow his lead.
What was at first a distant howl now sounds like dozens of voices, some male, some female. The riders run past me and dive into the van, leaving only two camels still carrying riders.
Sabre sounds the horn, but the noise only mingles with the yowling. They’re less than a quarter of a mile away and closing the distance. Clicks and clatters accompany their howls, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
My feet shuffle toward the truck, and I turn pleading eyes to the first man, who hasn’t dismounted. “If you won’t come alone, we’ll have to leave you to get eaten.”
Two more men jump down, snatch their bags from the camels behind, and race past me. Their spokesman now sits alone.
“Ten seconds, and we’re closing the door” yells a voice from the van’s interior.
The man shakes his head. “We’ve been breeding these camels for generations. They’re all we have left.”
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He frowns. “Thomas.”
“Thomas,
