Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

I stare. A woman is shoved our way, and her flailing arm hits me in the face. My nose starts to bleed.

“Leilani.” Dad tugs me into the open elevator and pounds the close button. The doors shut. We’re alone with a bald guy.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.” I’m pinching my nose, but blood drips onto my favorite camisole.

“Oh, man,” Dad says.

I can’t believe this .

“Here.” The bald guy fumbles through a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Loose change spills to the floor. “It’s clean. Keep it.”

“Thanks,” I honk, holding my head back.

“Crazy out there, eh?” he says, helping to position the kerchief on my nose. “Like we’re in some twisted game show. Smile! You’re on Cannibal Camera !”

“People are starting to lose it.” Dad ducks to collect the man’s change. “Thanks for your help.”

“No prob. Forget the coins, man.”

Dad picks them up anyway and gives them to the man, who winks his appreciation. “All right, time to raid the gumball machine.”

In the parking garage, brochures and flyers line the wall. Dad studies them and stuffs brochures into the bags of food draped over his shoulders. We hurry to our car and rush out of the garage.

And just like that, we’re caught in moderate traffic along Ala Moana Boulevard. The sky’s a bit hazy this morning—weird for Hawai`i. But other than trash piled all around, the street looks rather normal. I can’t quite fathom how ordinary it feels.

We sit in silence as we cross over a canal out of Waikīkī, a boat harbor to our left. It’s mostly empty, in stark contrast to a couple days ago. Still, sailboats of every type bob along the marina piers. I try to see us on one of them on the open ocean and anxiety stabs my stomach.

“Look through those brochures,” Dad instructs me. “Find out which of the helicopter tours leave from airstrips other than Honolulu International. I’m not even going to go near there.”

I hesitate.

“Just do it, Lei.”

I scan the flyers. “Two companies leave from Kalaeloa Airport. That’s past Pearl Harbor.”

“That’s it?” Dad looks very discouraged.

“Unless you want to brave the main airport.”

“No. Kalaeloa.” Dad heads for the main highway.

Up ahead, a strip mall with a grocery store swarms with looters. I gasp, sinking into my seat. Food and clothing and appliances tumble from overstuffed shopping carts, and other people quickly sweep up the items. Almost everyone is armed with sticks, bats, or machetes. Some sport shotguns. I even spy a harpoon and a fishing spear.

Dad pushes past, eyes forward and jaw clenched. He has to drive slowly through a crowd milling in the street. My eyes are glued to the spectacle. Oddly, it looks as if everyone is having fun; lots of smiles. One guy is strumming a ukulele. I recognize an expression I’ve seen many times on Kai’s face: the triumph and wonder of getting away with something. These people seem to be looting just because they can, rejoicing in their mischievousness.

The crowd bangs on the outside of our car. I shrink into my seat, gripping the cushion. The love taps grow steadily more intense … and then we’re through. Dad accelerates and lets out a deep breath.

“Wow. This is really happening,” he says.

“They were having so much fun.”

“Yeah, but this won’t be a game to anybody for much longer.”

We merge onto the highway and into bumper-to-bumper traffic. Where’s everyone going? Drive three hours in any direction and you end up right where you started.

“Dad, I’m kind of scared.”

“Me too, honey.”

“I really miss Kai and Mom.”

“Me too.”

“Grandpa.”

“I know.”

“But—the Big Island is more rural. So this same stuff isn’t happening over there.”

Dad is quiet. “Right. They’re safer than we are.” Something bothers me. Safer ? I figure out my worry right away. “But they don’t love haoles. If people are going nuts … It kills me to say it, but maybe we’re safer here .”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Talking about haoles and Hilo.”

I shrug.

“It’s not that bad, is it? I’ve never really felt it.”

I scoff.

“How badly are you bullied back there, Lei?”

I stare at him. He really doesn’t get it. It’s not his fault; I only talk to Grandpa about it. “Dad, why do you think all the other professors at the U send their kids to private school?” His answer is practiced. “They’re cop-outs. They have no faith in the public schools.…”

“Dad. It’s because their kids beg them. To get away from the bullies.”

“Ah.” Dad frowns. He’s quiet for a while, driving. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe talk to Grandpa about it.”

I roll my eyes.

“Be that as it may, back to the original point: we’ll be much better off at home than here. Mom and Kai and Grandpa are fine . And we’ll be back there before we know it, okay?”

“Yeah.” It’s home. That’s all that matters.

As we pass the junction with the road that heads over the mountains toward Kailua and the Marine Corps Base, I spy six army buses caravanning up the green slope like a great caterpillar assaulting the world’s biggest leaf. They’re the first vehicles I’ve seen that seem to have a purpose: to move people away from Honolulu, and fast.

Maybe we should be on one of those buses.

The Kalaeloa Airport is bursting at the seams; there’s nowhere to park. We’re sucked into a vortex of aimlessly circling traffic. Dad fumes. I stay quiet. All the parking lots have broken barrier arms at their entrances and exits, but there are security guards to stop traffic.

Finally, Dad double-parks along a maintenance alley a quarter of a mile away from the terminal. “Let’s go. Grab your stuff.”

“Wait, we’re just going to leave the car parked like this?”

“Yes.” He hands me a bag.

We enter the terminal with our bags draped around us. Dad muscles through the crowd and we wedge ourselves close enough to the counter to hear a clerk talking to the guy ahead of us.

“We’re already booked up through Tuesday morning.”

“Doesn’t matter. Put us down.”

“That’ll be three thousand. Cash.”

“What?”

“Each. That’s three thousand each.”

“Here,” the man says. He leans over the counter and passes the clerk a watch. The clerk inspects the watch closely. He jots down the man’s information. The customer now has a bright tan line on his wrist.

“Three thousand each ?” I gasp.

Dad shakes his head. “Hey,” he shouts over to the clerk. “We’re trying to get to Hilo.”

“We don’t fly to the Big Island. Moloka`i’s the best we can do. We’re booked up through Tuesday. We’re charging—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dad waves him off. “What do you mean you’re booked through Tuesday? There’s a half dozen choppers sitting on the pad right now!”

“Most of those have tungsten circuit boards. Fried. Besides, the military is restricting our airspace. It won’t be long before they commandeer our whole fleet and gut our molybdenum parts. Now, you have cash?”

Dad grimaces. The clerk turns to another couple.

“You should go to the Marine Corp Base,” someone sitting against the wall says to us. He’s also sporting a strong tan line on his wrist. “I hear they’re collecting folks for transport. You’re in much better shape than the people who want to get back to the mainland. A few of the army planes work; they’re always landing in Hilo. You could hitch a ride on a cargo flight and be home in time for dinner.”