Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“No,” he says. “You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you do it.”

“Dad, I can’t belay your weight the way you can belay mine. And your hand’s hurt. How are you going to grab on to the railing with one hand?”

“Leilani.”

“No time, Dad. Just give me plenny slack.”

“Oh, God,” he moans.

I step onto a chair, psyching myself up to stand on the wall.

“Wait!” Dad says. “Loop the rope over the lanai above.”

“Dad, I’ve got this. It’s just like the uneven bars.”

“If you miss, you could fall out of your harness. I don’t—”

“I won’t miss.”

Dad groans. I wait until he’s sitting on the ground with his feet planted at an angle up against the low wall and the rope doubled through his belay device and choked off with two loops around his good hand, and then I stand up on the edge of the lip, my feet balanced just below the railing. My chest is pounding. My senses are sharp, and I focus on my target like a sniper.

Another round of gunfire. My eyes dart to the chilling flicker of light. A different window. What are they doing?

Dr. Makani’s voice echoes in my head: “Seizures can be induced by stress. You need to avoid any adventures …”

Way too late for that . I glance down and see tongues of flame pushing smoke out of more windows. A coast guard boat in the bay attempts to reach the hotel’s burning facade with its fire hoses, falls short. The ground—I might as well be a mile high.

My pills. I can’t go on like this, and we’re not going anywhere without the keys .

I look at Dad. He has pulled the rope tight against his right hip, locking the belay device. Ten feet of rope dangle in a loop below me. I’m ready. Dad wears a look of pure agony.

I focus on the handrail eight feet away. If you were doing this six feet off the ground, you wouldn’t even hesitate. Piece of cake .

I step up onto the handrail, leaning my weight forward into thin air, and I leap.

My hands latch firmly onto our lanai’s railing as my feet dangle against the wall, desperately seeking purchase.

“Leilani!” Dad shouts. He can’t see me because he’s locked in place on the floor.

“Got it! Don’t move.”

“Thank God.”

More gunfire. I pull up with my arms and shoulders and swing my left leg around enough so that I can jam my foot between the wall and the handrail. The rest is muscle and sheer determination. I pull myself over the edge to solid ground without a hitch.

“I’m in. I did it!”

Dad stands up. From across the gap, he eyes me with terror and triumph and pride.

“Didn’t even need the rope.”

“Go! Now!”

I dart into our dark room, aided by alternating red and white lights, snatch my meds, toiletry kit, and the keys. Gunfire. The alarm buzzing. Hunted. Every muscle begs to flee.

Dad and I meet in the corridor, race down the long hallway to the farthest stairwell, and spiral down toward the lobby, our bags banging after us. As we pass the fifth floor, I hear gunfire behind the stairwell door. I yelp. Dad and I pick up our pace and catch up to a logjam of people trying to pour through the final door into the lobby.

We heave forward, struggling to stay upright with our things. Unseen smoke burns my throat. In the lobby the crowd thins, and we race for the garage. Men near the main entrance tackle people as if they’re felling stampeding wildebeests. Locals. Tribal tattoos. One tosses a bag of pretzels atop a cart loaded with groceries and toilet paper.

Some sort of gang raid?

We leap across the hallway, fly down the last stairs, and run to our car.

Seconds later we’re dodging other cars. Dad squeezes my hand as the truck ahead of us jumps the curb and speeds across the gardens. We pull forward and flee over the canal.

I silently study the destruction that has taken root in every direction as we slip into the dawn of a new Hawai`i. The glow of morning illuminates the city. Smoke rises like columns holding up the sky. Abandoned cars, shattered and burnt to smoldering shells, are scattered everywhere. Trash bins spill their guts upon streets and sidewalks. Storefronts are cavities of empty racks and shattered glass. All that remains are the postcards and souvenirs lining ABC Store shelves. The beach is empty, and the bay contains only a few coast guard vessels.

“Has it really only been a week?” I marvel.

“We’re all werewolves under a green full moon.”

“It’s going to get much worse.” I try on the words. As unwelcome as they are, they feel right. I’m haunted by the tribal tattoos of those men. Several races—haoles among them—but all locals. Attacking tourists. Attacking me. Almost certainly gangbangers, but still. I shiver and run my hand through my smoky hair.

“Lei.” Dad shakes his head. “You were amazing up there. I don’t think I could have done it. You’re a hero, you know that?”

I feel my cheeks grow warm. “Heroine.” Adrenaline still simmers in my veins. I feel powerful, angry.

One week .

Right before my eyes, my beautiful islands are changing forever.

And so am I.

The rising sun turns our broken windshield into a hundred glinting shards. The haze has intensified. For the third day since we left Honolulu, we are camped out in our car, slowly weaving south over crowded roads littered with abandoned vehicles.

Because of the reports of tsunami damage to boats moored along the north and east coasts, we’ve focused our attempt to charter a ride south of Honolulu, along a bay called Kaupa Pond. It’s rimmed with houses, each with a dock. There must be a pier along here that will offer us a way off O`ahu. But the only boat traffic beneath the bridge that leads to the open ocean belongs to coast guard patrols, which intercept unofficial ships like sparrow-hungry hawks, commandeer gasoline, and turn sailboats back to shore.

Dad pulls into a strip mall, zigzags across the untidy parking lot, and stops in front of a busted-out grocery store. “Give it a try. Quick.”

I jump out and trot over to the newspaper vending machines. We’re scavenging for information. But every rack is empty. How did things unravel so fast? No news. No food. No medicine. We’ve tried seven different pharmacies in the past forty-eight hours, all ransacked, nobody on duty. I have enough pills to last the month, and a few dozen more back home, but what happens when they run out?

I return to the car and shake my head. We pull back onto the main road.

I glance at our gas needle: down to a third of a tank.

Why are there so many ditched vehicles? Have the cars run out of gas? Or have the drivers run out of steam, tired of circling?

Most of the abandoned cars seem newer. Too many electronic parts? Our no-frills rental is acting strange: radio dead, but all the warning lights lit up. We have to pull over when it rains, because the wipers don’t work. The headlights randomly flicker or dim at night. Dad’s worried about the fuel pump. He closes his eyes and whispers something every time he starts the car.

To my left, the caldera of an extinct volcano sinks into the ocean, creating a deep-blue bay teeming with coral. Straight ahead, singed by a crown of fiery morning light, is the tall peak of another cinder cone, Koko Head.