Free Red Sand by Ronan Cray

Why?”
    “Someone’s stuff is in there.”
    “Oh, sure. You thought we built these just for you? You’re not the first survivors to wash up here, just as we weren’t. Ships crash all the time. We’ve had many, many people stay at Departure Camp over the years.”
    Lauren asked the obvious question. “Well, if they departed, why didn’t they take their stuff?”
    “There wasn’t time to pack! When we spot a ship, we get in the boat and get out there as fast as possible. A split second could make all the difference. I’ve seen people run for the boats without pants on. One couple had to stop in the middle of, well, they were in a hurry.”
    “But there are pictures in my hut!”
    “It’s like being at the office. Survivors like to put up pictures of their family, whatever they had on them in their wallets and purses. It keeps them going, at least until the boat comes.”
     
    The camp settled as everyone dozed through the afternoon. That evening, more vegetables and water waited for them near the campfire. There were no trees on the island that they could see. The fire smelled poorly, apparently made of reeds, seaweed, and dried human dung. It provided warmth, though, as the sun set and a cool breeze blew on shore.
    Lauren woke from her afternoon nap even more exhausted than before. The weight of the last twenty-four hours settled on her. Reality grew starkly apparent. Eating that lamb back in the village,  she almost bought Mason’s “adventure” theory. Now she wanted out of the theme park. She ate her vegetables quietly, deliberately, and then retreated back to her hut.
    Later that night, when Lauren woke from a sweating nightmare, her first thought was of the wall. Why are there so many pictures?
     
    Lauren woke earlier than most of the others. She hadn’t slept well. Her dreams were punctuated by screams and wet noises, darkness and confusion. She pushed her head out of the door. Night still hovered over the island. On the horizon, the newborn sun struggled in a caul of clouds. She was on a beach, looking at a sunrise, just as she had always wanted. But this beach was empty of people, her cabana threatened to fall in, the sand fleas attacked without mercy, the air smelt of shit, and she had no hope of escape.
    Paul tended the fire. When she approached, he apologized, “I’m sorry we don’t have any coffee.”
    “That’s all right.” She took stock of her companions. No one else had risen. She thought of Max. “How’s our friend, Max?”
    “He’s in the hut at the furthest end. He’s awake. I heard him moaning. You can visit him, if you like.”
    Lauren stood up, slightly chilled, and moved that way. The last hut, closest to the latrine, consisted of five wooden timbers pushed against half an iron canister. It didn’t look comfortable. The door creaked when she entered, and she heard Max roll over as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
    The hut smelled like something diseased. He had stopped vomiting because there was nothing left to come out.
    She reached for his hand. “Max? How are you doing?”
    His voice was a whisper. “It’s penance.”
    “What?”
    “I deserved this. I’ve done bad things.”
    “They couldn’t have been that bad.”
    “They were. They were. I cheated children.”
    She shrank back but held his hand.
    “I need to confess. Listen, please.”
    “I’m not a priest. I just came to see how you were.” She wanted to leave. Honestly, she’d expected him to be asleep. He hadn’t been this talkative in the boat. She remembered hearing that terminal patients experience a surge of energy before death. She shuddered, started to turn away, but then she remembered Mason’s pledge. “But… if you have something to say, I’ll listen.”
    Max coughed, a dry rattle like gas through a sewer pipe in an old home. “It’s the cavities,” he started. “No one gets them anymore. Damn fluoride! I couldn’t make a dime. My only profits came from cosmetic dentistry.” He