The Forsaken

another. I feel our pod start to move, like it’s being dragged out of the plane with us inside.
    I grip Liam tighter.
    I know that these people will probably open our pod soon. I can feel Liam flex his muscles. His body has become hard and taut, like the string of a bow. He is a warrior preparing for battle. I feel at one with him.
    Our pod starts moving faster. We get slammed against the hull of the plane. I hear a clatter, and the world starts spinning as our pod begins to rotate. I realize we’re probably being rolled down a ramp, out of the aircraft and onto the sand.
    The pod keeps moving. The motion goes on for several minutes, until we finally come to a sudden, brutal stop, as though we’ve hit a wall.
    The jarring impact makes me cry out loudly.
    I bite my lip.
    But it’s too late.
    I hear startled voices yelling. Footsteps running toward us.
    Oh no—they heard me!
    “It’s okay,” Liam whispers into my ear.
    And then comes an awful wrenching sound, as the roof of our pod is torn back in one piece by a gigantic pair of metal shears.
    The sun hits my eyes, blotting everything out in a blaze of white light. Except for the shadowy figures that loom over us with guns, screaming wildly.

DESTINY STATION
    LIAM EXPLODES UPWARD WITH surprising energy, clawing his way right out of our pod. He’s yelling, trying to scare these people.
    But as my eyes adjust to the light, I see that they already look scared enough. “These kids are awake!” one of them yells, stumbling back from the opening.
    I’m right behind Liam, staggering up and out. Our silver zone suits sparkle under the harsh glare of the desert sun. I flail, trying to clear my vision.
    I realize that at least thirty adults are now amassing around our pod. We’re pressed right up against the edge of a dune. To our right, I see a mountainous, red-colored sandstone rock formation, the size of several city blocks, towering two hundred feet above the dunes. It has a flattened top, like a mesa, and it’s the only visible landmark, other than sand.
    “Oh my God!” another voice yells. I turn in her direction. It’s a middle-aged woman with dark curly hair.
    She’s not particularly threatening-looking, but I still scream at her: “Get the hell away from us!”
    She backs off rapidly, as do the others.
    Liam crouches on the sand in his warrior stance. We’re both trying to make sense of where we’ve landed and who these people are. They don’t look like UNA scientists or soldiers, that’s for sure.
    They’re just a mix of regular men and women, all dressed in loose white desert tunics. On their faces, I see looks ranging from surprise to catatonic shock.
    I move over to Liam and stand back-to-back with him. The group has formed a wide circle around us. Behind them I see the aircraft that brought us here. It looks like an old slate-gray UNA bomber, large and cumbersome. It’s missing part of a wing from our landing.
    “Who are you?” Liam yells. “What is this place?”
    A tall, lanky man with thinning gray hair and glasses takes a step forward.
    “Keep your distance!” Liam barks. “Don’t come near us, or I’ll kill you.”
    Liam sounds both ferocious and believable. The man stops moving and stretches out his empty hands, presumably to show that he’s unarmed and means no harm.
    “What’s your name, son?” he asks. He has a strange accent. Maybe British or Australian.
    “Don’t call me ‘son’!” Liam snaps. “I said stay back!”
    I glance around at the group of adults. If these really are the technicians who intended to dissect us, then I hate them with a passion that I’ve never felt before.
    Yet I see looks of compassion and pity on some of their faces, now that their shock is wearing off. It’s hard to imagine that these rumpled desert dwellers are murderous UNA scientists. I don’t even think we’re in the UNA anymore.
    I hear one woman murmur to another, “The first ones who are awake! And there’s more than one of them.” When she sees me glaring at her, she stops talking pretty fast.
    “I’m Dr. Terry Elliott,” the tall man says to us.
    “Doctor?” Liam asks, his face darkening. “So you want to cut us up and study our corpses? Sorry we aren’t frozen enough for you.”
    “No, no.” The man shakes his head. “Not that kind of doctor. I’m an anthropologist, originally from Old Melbourne, Victoria. Do you even know where you are?”
    I don’t reply.
    “What’s your name, hon?” the middle-aged