I gulp when I realize he must be one of the survivors of the tyrox outbreak that killed most of the population of LA forty years ago. I can’t help staring at the smuggler’s craggy face because it’s pockmarked with tyrox scars. He can’t take the zode from us! My mother needs it to conduct her research, and the fish we caught from it kept us alive during the last famine.ĭespite Cam’s warning, I glance up. “That’s a good-looking zode you have there,” one of the men says in a deep, gravelly voice, and shivers skitter down my back. He thanks me weakly before they help him aboard their vessel. Two smugglers step down into the zode and lift the boy. “You’ll be safer if you can’t recognize them.” “Try not to look at their faces,” Cam warns me and Robry quietly, as the boat pulls up beside us.
A half hour later, we rendezvous with a sleek, fast, dark boat. With Robry’s help, I finish bandaging the young smuggler and cover him with a blanket. I can’t believe we’re risking our lives to help this idiot.
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