The Harvest
The air reeks of salt and decay as I load the crate onto the transport. My hands are raw, the skin splitting at the knuckles, but I can’t stop. Not now. Not when everything is in motion. The others keep their heads down, their faces blank, moving in the rhythm we’ve been trained to follow since we could walk. Eyes forward, hands steady, no questions. Questions get you reassigned. Or worse.
But today, there’s no time for fear.
The transport’s engine hums, low and ominous, as it waits to be filled. The crates are labeled with neat, sterile codes—K-16, D-45, P-10—marking their contents. Not that we’re supposed to know what’s inside. Organics, they call it. Necessary for the mainland. Vital for the survival of the elite. They don’t say what happens to the rest of us.
I glance toward the overseer’s tower. The tinted windows reflect the gray sky, hiding the faces of those who watch us. They’re always watching. My pulse quickens as I catch movement inside. A shadow shifts, then disappears. I lower my gaze, pretending to focus on the crate, but my mind races. Did they notice? Do they know?
Stay calm, Isla. Just one more trip.
The others shuffle past me, their shoulders hunched under the weight of the crates. My best friend, Lina, falls into step beside me. Her brown hair clings to her damp forehead, and her breathing is shallow. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks.
“Is it ready?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but I hear the tremor beneath it.
“Almost,” I say, keeping my eyes on the ground. “Tonight.”
She doesn’t nod or smile. That would be too risky. Instead, she shifts the crate in her arms and moves on, blending back into the line. I feel the weight of her trust pressing down on me harder than the crates ever could.
The overseer’s voice crackles through the loudspeakers. “Keep moving. Quota must be met by sundown.”
The quota. Always the quota. They don’t care how many of us collapse trying to meet it. They only care about the shipment leaving on time. And that’s exactly what I’m counting on.
Night falls quickly, wrapping the island in shadows. The floodlights hum to life, bathing the docks in harsh, artificial light. Most of the workers are back in the barracks by now, their bodies too broken to keep going. But not me. I volunteered for overtime. The overseers like that—initiative. It makes me invisible.
The last crate is loaded, and the transport doors seal with a hiss. My heart pounds as I slip behind the loading bay, where the shadows are thickest. The key I stole from the maintenance shed digs into my palm as I wait for the guards to pass. Their boots crunch on the gravel, their voices low and uninterested. They’re not expecting trouble. Why would they? We’re too beaten down to fight.
Or so they think.
When the guards turn the corner, I dart forward, my footsteps silent. The hatch at the base of the transport hums as I unlock it, the stolen code blinking green. Inside, the air is cold and sterile. Rows of crates stretch out before me, neatly packed and humming with refrigeration. I climb inside, my fingers trembling as I pry open the nearest crate.
Lina was right. It’s worse than we thought.
Organs. Hearts, lungs, kidneys, all suspended in viscous fluid. Each one labeled with the name of the donor. Not a name we would recognize—a code. A code for someone who lived, worked, and died on this island.
I bite back a scream as I spot the code I’ve been dreading: L-27.
Lina’s brother.
I’m still shaking when I slip back into the barracks. Lina is waiting for me in the corner, her eyes wide with fear. I sit beside her, the stolen code chip heavy in my pocket.
“It’s ready,” I say. “The transport leaves at dawn.”
Her face crumples, but she doesn’t cry. None of us cry anymore. “And the others?”
“They’ll follow when they see the signal.”
She nods, her jaw tight. We both know what this means. If we’re caught, there won’t be reassignment. There won’t even be death. Just disappearance. The kind of disappearance that ends with your organs floating in a crate.
The sky is just beginning to lighten when the explosion shakes the ground. I’m already running, Lina close behind me, as alarms blare across the compound. The transport is engulfed in flames, thick black smoke curling into the sky. Guards shout orders, their rifles raised, but the workers are flooding the docks now, their faces alive with something I haven’t seen in years: hope.
The overseer’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and angry. “Contain them! No one leaves this island!”
But it’s too late. The chaos is our shield. Lina and I slip through the fray, heading for the maintenance boat at the far end of the dock. It’s small and battered, but it’s our only chance.
We reach the boat just as the guards spot us. Bullets ricochet off the metal hull as we scramble aboard. Lina grabs the controls, her hands steady despite the chaos.
“Go!” I shout, shoving the stolen code chip into the console. The engine roars to life, and the boat lurches forward, cutting through the waves.
The guards don’t stop firing. One bullet pings off the metal railing beside me, and another slams into the console, sparking a cascade of smoke. The boat shudders, slowing just as the shoreline of the island shrinks behind us.
“We’re losing power!” Lina yells, slamming buttons.
“Doesn’t matter!” I scream back. “We just need to get far enough.”
Far enough for what? I don’t know. But we have no choice.
The engine sputters to a halt an hour later, leaving us adrift in the middle of an endless blue expanse. For the first time, we can see the sky—the real sky. Not the floodlights or the haze of factory smoke, but the soft, golden hues of dawn breaking across the water.
“What now?” Lina asks, her voice hoarse.
I stare at the stolen code chip in my hand, the final piece of a life we’ve left behind. Somewhere in the distance, the island looms like a scar on the horizon, but it doesn’t matter anymore.
For the first time in years, I breathe.
For now, freedom is enough.