Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“Food.” I pull both suitcases into view. “More than we came with.”

Dad’s eyes widen. I think he’s about to praise me, but he whispers, “How are we supposed to swim all this stuff across the bay? And we can’t wheel all this down the open road past the base’s main gatehouse. You need to consult with your father before breaking into guarded military buildings.”

I bite my lip. How to get all of our stuff over the water never crossed my mind. We were going to float our backpacks beside us … they’re made for wet canyon hiking and river crossings, with inflatable compartments. But these suitcases?

Then I see the bus we’re hiding behind.

“Dad, this is the bus that takes the keikis to the beach, right?”

“They all look the same.”

“Can you open these compartments? Boogie boards. Floaties. Things like that.”

“Ah,” he says, popping open the first compartment under the bus. Nothing. All of the compartments are empty.

“Lei, let’s go. We’ll keep an eye out.”

I pull on my pack. “So, do we leave this food here?”

He eyes me sternly, shakes his head. He picks up both suitcases. I try to grab one.

“No. I’m balanced this way; it’s actually easier. And I don’t think we should risk the sound of rolling them.”

“Wait, Dad. Not that way! They’re guarding the front of the warehouse.”

“When did you become a ninja?” He follows me on a winding route as I carefully scout out the path ahead. We can hear voices and boots on gravel behind buildings up ahead, but our course is remarkably free of patrols, and soldiers.

Gunfire sounds across the bay, a long, sustained burst. A machine gun? Is the military out on the island, securing the towns?

Who knows? Doesn’t make any difference right now . I peek around the next corner. We dart for a bit of cover.

A flurry of flashlights from far behind catches my attention. I glance backward and my heart leaps into my throat: they must’ve discovered the hole in the fence. A dog barks. Another.

I hate dogs .

“Lei, go!”

We scurry into a grove of trees. I can hear the gentle lapping of water ahead. The thin strip of forest abuts some sort of compound, a water-treatment plant, maybe. I can just make out a parking lot through the foliage, and I smile.

I see the familiar silhouette of a surfboard on a roof rack. I point it out to Dad.

“Perfect.”

The barking in the distance becomes more excited.

Please, God, no dogs .

We leave our bags and scurry to the SUV, free the longboard with quiet efficiency, and then duck under the trees.

The strip of forest ends in a pebbly beach, and the bay stretches out before us, only twenty yards away. With the built-in tubes of our backpacks already inflated, we tie the suitcases onto the longboard with my climbing rope.

Searchlights whip through the sky. The barking grows frantic—and closer.

“Ready?” Dad asks.

I peer across the dark at a few distant fires burning in Kāne`ohe. Calm as this bay is, protected from the ocean by the large promontory of the military base, it’s still two miles across. Our plan is to arc to the left beyond the tidal sandbars in the mid distance and scope out a safe place to beach along the foot of the peninsula that connects the base to the rest of O`ahu.

The barking is nearer.

We sneak out into the water, carrying the suitcase-laden surfboard into chest-deep water. We remove our packs. Lying flat on the surface of the water, they bob gently on our little waves. We dog-paddle farther out into the gentle surf, pushing the floating packs and surfboard ahead of us.

Five minutes later, a pair of flashlights appear along the shore, accompanied by excited barking. The flashlights scan the bay, but we’re out of range on the mild waves. After a few minutes, our trackers move back toward the base.

“First thing. When we get to the beach.” Dad’s teeth chatter. “We eat. Real food.”

We pause intermittently to gather our strength as we dodge tsunami debris—mostly plastic trash—and then turn left, heading for the nearby shore. At one point I almost tip the suitcases.

“Don’t soak our steaks,” Dad jokes. It makes me wonder if the tins of tablets are waterproof. I should have checked.

Our feet touch the nearest beach of Kāne`ohe, still very dark. We haul our belongings up the beach and into the trees, free the suitcases, and ditch the longboard. Wordlessly, dripping wet, we each scarf down half a stick of salami and some dried fruit.

“Dad,” I whisper, forcing down a strip of leathery mango the best I can without any water. “What’s potassium iodide?” He raises a dramatic eyebrow. “Nothing we want to be dealing with.”

“Why?”

“It prevents radiation sickness during nuclear disasters.”

“What?” I listen in cold shock.

“Iodine is processed by our thyroid glands, in our necks. Nuclear meltdowns produce radioactive iodine isotopes, and they enter our bodies through the thyroid. If you take potassium iodide, though, your thyroid glands can only process so much iodine at a time, so you coat the glands with safe iodine. The radioactive stuff won’t enter the bloodstream. It can burn your mouth and throat and stomach, but it beats getting cancer. Why do you ask?”

It takes me a moment to find words. “Aukina gave me some, told us to take them. All the soldiers are taking it. I found boxes and boxes of the stuff in the warehouse, and I grabbed a bunch.”

Dad is silent.

I whisper, “Was this whole thing … a nuclear war?”

Dad doesn’t answer for a long time, but he finally shakes his head. “There are over five hundred nuclear plants around the world, Lei. Not to mention submarines and aircraft carriers. If the power is out everywhere … it would be hard to pump fresh water into cooling tanks. With that many chances for something to go wrong, it could— somewhere —only take a couple weeks for used fuel to become exposed and sizzle through containment structures. Gas generators could hold off the situation for a while, but what happens when the gas is gone? A lot of plants could already be melting down. The radiation could render parts of the earth uninhabitable for millions of years.”

I stop chewing.

Dad brushes sand off his hands. “The Three Mile Island disaster in 1979 was caused by a stupid pipe valve. Fresh water couldn’t enter the cooling tanks, and fifteen minutes later the core was exposed. It turned into … it was like volcano lava. Oozed down to the bottom of the tanks and melted through six inches of solid carbon steel before anyone noticed. A few more minutes and there would have been an explosion that ripped the dome apart. It could have scorched the entire region. Something similar happened at Chernobyl in 1986, but they didn’t contain it in time. It did explode. Parts of that region are still radioactive. And the Russians actually prevented the worst-case scenario.

“Can you imagine what’s happening to all those five hundred plants without power? Without hundreds of employees running around at each of them turning dials and rerouting systems?”

“Stop. Please.”

He pauses. “Hawai`i’s probably the safest place on the globe, if it comes to that.”

“Aukina said—” I cough, wishing desperately for water. “Aukina said something about aircraft carriers and subs ‘in the neighborhood’ dealing with issues.”

“What kind of issues?”

“I don’t know.”

“Start taking the iodide,” Dad says a minute later.

We each dry-swallow an iodide tablet—each fortunately sealed within a waterproof blister pack. I can feel a headache coming on. How will we find fresh water to drink?