When the sun begins to fall toward the horizon, we begin preparations. Grabbing our rafts and all our weapons, we move down the jagged rocks and settle on a decent spot close to the ocean so we can easily slip in once we’re ready. Our weapons are strapped to the bottom of the rafts, the guns held on with more rope Achilles wove out of palm fronds. He’s a crafty bastard, I’ll give him that.

“Remember, the guns won’t fire with water in them,” Creed warns as we do what he says and fasten them tightly in a way they don’t interfere with the reeds. “Once on dry land, we can blow the chamber out and shake as much water out as possible since we don’t need them for long, but in the water, we can’t fire at any of the patrols.”

All we’ll have is knives and that won’t do shit against guns. It’s risky, but there’s no other option, not if we want to get off this island.

I kick my boots off and toss them away into the rocks. We have to get rid of anything that’ll water-log us. The lighter we are, the better. I get rid of my pants too, stripping down to just my underwear and the black tank top I’m wearing that I’d still had in my duffel. I tie it so it’s tight around my stomach, making sure there are no lose ends that could give me away. I tie my hunting knife around my thigh with a strip of fabric from my other shirt, so I have it handy. Then, I braid my hair as tightly to my scalp as possible, pulling it so snug that it makes my scalp burn. I don’t need it floating around my face in the water, or worse, giving away my position when it appears while I’m hiding.