Red Sand by Ronan Cray

guarding against? It looks as if they were meant to keep us in.”
    Lauren looked back. He was right. They stood in the portal, watching the group go.
     
    A series of low structures squatted on the lava plain. Wooden strips supported layers of mismatched plastic sheeting, translucent fiberglass, a wall of glass bottles, and more than a few patches open to the sky. It looked like a quilt of condom latex. Stepping out of this monstrosity was a curious man with steel rimmed glasses. He stood straight and tall, to a height of six foot seven inches. He had a book in one hand and some kind of mechanical device in the other.
    “Ados,” the man said, by way of introduction. He did not shake hands. He stood inspecting them for a moment before saying a word. Like Paul, he seemed to be sizing them up. At last, he spoke, “Come. Let me show you the center of our world.”
    Lauren thought she detected an accent. Portuguese? She followed him in, pushing back a canvas flap. The distinct tang of manure swept over her first. She wanted to gag.
    “You may pour the contents of your honey pot here. The sun will evaporate the liquids, similar to our salt ponds, and the solids will later go in this pile. This is our compost room. These bins store everything from human excrement to fish remains to whatever organic waste washes up on the beach. We stir them for up to a year, while the juices are drained out. If the smell makes you vomit, please do so in the bin. It would be a shame to waste anything. Yes?”
    Emily had her hand up. “My kids had to do some composting in the back yard for a school project. They said you’re not supposed to compost meat.”
    Ados stared as if a small animal had inexplicably learned the art of speech. “All matter decays, given enough time. I believe you are referring to the fear that meat will attract predators to household compost bins. We have no large predators on this island. You may pour your bucket now.”
    Lauren and Carter dumped the slop, set the pot down, and stood with their hands out as if looking for a place to wash them. Ados offered nothing but moved to the next room.
    “This is our mycofarming room.” Tiny white button mushrooms pushed out of dark earth. “The mushrooms are native to the island. We found them when we first arrived. I had to determine if they were edible by eating one myself. They are.”
    He waved them to the next room. Green leaves filled the air with a pungent, living odor. It smelled wonderful. Tomatoes, cucumbers, squash, and peppers grew in various containers up and down the walls. “This is the bulk of our food supply, when we are not eating salted fish. There are potatoes, too. These provide the minimum of nutrients we need to survive. The peppers provide Vitamin C to prevent scurvy. We get Vitamin A from carrots. Vitamin B from fish…” his voice droned on with very little intonation. “You get the idea.”
    “The water, of course, is evaporated off the salt pans as you saw yesterday. It is then brought in buckets and sprayed onto the roots.
    Lauren interrupted him, “Where did you get all these vegetables. They’re not native, are they?”
    He stared at her for a moment. “No. We collected them from the debris of various ships. You may notice that these are the vegetables that float. Their seeds were carefully extracted and cultivated. It took years to assemble this variety.”
    “Why don’t you just grow them on the island? Why grow them in greenhouses?”
    “The island is not hospitable to agriculture.” He spoke simply, but this simplicity lent something sinister.
    Their day was like a day on the farm. They shoveled out compost and spread it along the beds. They plucked ripe vegetables and prepared them for dinner. They opened and closed roof panels to keep the plants from overheating. It felt like a collective. Unfortunately, this uncomplicated work gave them all day to think, to replay the days before, to wonder about the days ahead, to fear the