Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

“Lei, you snagged enough of this stuff to last us a year.”

“Bleeding throats for a whole year. Yay.”

“You might have just inadvertently gotten us our tickets home.”

“What?”

Dad rubs a hand through my sopping wet hair. “Something to trade for passage. Infinitely more valuable than an effing Rolex.”

The thought makes perfect sense. It lifts my spirits, in a mad sort of way. I wonder: Is that what we’re doing? Are we trading cancer prevention to get home? So that the five of us can slowly die together?

We work our way through the houses along the beach to the nearest road. In spite of the tremendous effort that went into our escape, the entrance to the Marine Corps Base is only three-quarters of a mile away, across a thin causeway that stretches over the bay. We were so intent on getting out that I never really thought about the next steps. Get off the island … but how , exactly?

“I know where we should go,” Dad says as we head inland along the side of the road. “It’s in Kailua, but it’s in the same direction as the beaches there. I think we can get there before morning. We hole up for a day and find a way off this rock.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

We march along the outskirts of Kāne`ohe, staying within sight of the road to Kailua but sticking to the bushy slopes of the hills that separate the two towns. Cars occasionally putter along the road. After grueling hours of hauling our gear, we come upon a flickering glow in the woods.

Cautiously, we approach the edge of a steeply sloped clearing—and then we stumble back in shock. A pile of three bodies lie in flames at the center of a bonfire. As we watch, a fourth, naked corpse is tossed onto the pyre by four men. I turn away, shutting my eyes tightly, but not before I see a bullet hole right between the eyes of the final body.

“Lei, you all right?” Dad pulls me close.

“I don’t …”

“Stay with me, hon. Breathe.” He looks into my eyes.

“It’s not that, Dad.”

“Follow me.” We back away, lifting the suitcases as the powerful roar of a vehicle comes from up ahead. Lights jostle into view over the nearest hill, scattering the shadows of trees like elongating claws. We dash into the brush as a van rockets past. A half-dozen men burst from the van with handguns and fire on the pyre builders.

The four pyre builders dash for their weapons. Within seconds they crumple, dead.

The newcomers race toward the pyre; they struggle to pull out the burning bodies and beat out the flames.

I’m frozen in place, and my headache throbs with my pulse. It looks like they’re trying to rescue people they know. Others raid the enemy truck, hauling away milk crates filled with food.

“Come on. Now.” Dad takes my hand and we scurry away until we’re over the next hill. As we slide down, Dad whispers, “You okay?”

“What the hell …” I catch my breath, dizzy.

“Christ—that was the worst thing I’ve ever seen,” says Dad.

Why did we leave the base? I want to scream. My headache tempers my panic, though. Focus on that pain, not what you just saw . We march onward, jumping at every shadow and sound. Finally, we arrive on the streets of what used to be a well-to-do neighborhood on the slopes of Kailua. With the sky already pink with approaching sunrise, Dad weaves us through trash heaps and burnt-out car shells with the same caution we used to escape the base.

Just as the sun peeks over the edge of the ocean, Dad relaxes his white-knuckled grip on the suitcase handles. “Here we are. Quick,” he whispers, and tells me that we’re at the O`ahu home of the chancellor of UH Hilo. Dad’s been here. The chancellor and his wife were in Hilo when we left. The place should be empty.

Dad cautiously knocks on the front door of the little yellow bungalow. “Hello?” No answer. We slip into the backyard, broad leaves and tall ginger blooms providing cover.

Dad snatches up a garden gnome near the back lanai and punches the red pointy hat through the window of the porch door. Carefully, he reaches through and unlocks the door.

“Dad, I need water so bad.”

“We’ll find some in here.”

In the kitchen he opens the fridge and steps back, holding his nose. “So much for that .” He slams the door. “Try the cabinets.”

The cabinets are empty. I glance at the door to the garage. Pried open. “We’re not the first people to snoop around in here.” I pointlessly twist the faucet.

“You’re dehydrated,” he says.

“I think so.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

I shrug. “You’d’ve had me licking leaves or something.”

“You’re right.” He snaps his fingers together. “I’ve got a better idea.”

He snatches an empty water bottle from his pack and walks into the bathroom.

He lifts the toilet-seat lid and stares at the water in the bowl.

“Dad. You have got to be …”

“Just teasing.” He drops the seat cover and removes the lid along the tank. “Bingo!”

He dips the water bottle into the back of the toilet and presents it to me as if he’s offering frankincense to baby Jesus. I stare at it, and then I guzzle down the water. Once I’ve emptied it, Dad refills it for himself. He fills it again and hands it back to me.

He checks the medicine cabinet and tosses a big bottle of aspirin to me. I greedily flush two tablets down.

“Don’t ever tell anyone about this,” I command. “Ever.”

“Not a word.”

We go into the master bedroom. Dad ducks under the bed and surfaces with a black security box. It’s locked. “Whoever broke in didn’t know to look here.”

“What’s that?”

“Something John shared with me. At the time, I did not approve.”

He hefts the box, places it on the bed, scratches his head. We find a hammer in a kitchen drawer. Dad claws at the box. Useless, I wander the rooms. I take off my shoes and socks and curl my toes against the soft throw rugs. Just to be indoors—a roof to block the sun, no mud on the ground, warm colors on the walls—I could be in Buckingham Palace. I roam, savoring every moment, studying the photographs of Hawaiian flowers and coral reefs and the portraits of the chancellor and his family.

What I wouldn’t give just to see a picture of Mom and Kai. I grab my phone to look through my pics—and remember that it’s zapped. My longing hits me like a bout of nausea. I pace the hall. Not even a hundred miles between us .

I’m coming, Mom. Kai. Grandpa. Be strong . I blink back tears.

Dad is still working.

I return to the bathroom. A clean toilet seat: I imagine it’s like a first-class bed-chair on a long flight. I’ve never enjoyed sitting on porcelain so much. I feel like a queen. I turn to flush and stop just in time. Do we need that water?

When I see myself in the mirror, I gasp. I look like what an Egyptologist might see when she unwraps a mummy. Thin. Disheveled, tangled hair. Dirt—everywhere—mixed with scratches and endless mosquito bites …

Aukina called this “eye-catching”?

You’d think I’d recently had several seizures, jumped from a burning building, languished in a prison, broken out of a military complex, death-marched through the jungle, and survived the OK Corral. I shouldn’t be so surprised. I find a brush, go to wet my hair, and then stare at the brush. I need water . Such a basic thing, just one turn of a knob away. Dip the brush in the toilet tank? No. That’s our drinking water.

I can’t even brush my hair anymore .

A dismal understanding begins to descend. Brushing my hair—it’s nothing, really. But I finally see that this disaster is going to have consequences I haven’t even dreamed of.