Austin Aslan - The Islands at the End of the World

Panting, I look for a weapon. Only bungee cords, arrow packaging, dog food, and pliers. Wrenches. I grab a big one, feeling less naked. Dad peeks into the cab. The dogs are barking madly, circling like frenzied sharks. Dad points forward and says, “Get to the other one.”

We climb onto the roof of the first truck and jump down onto the hood. The lead truck is parked near enough for us to jump between them. It’s a long jump, and the dogs snarl, but we manage.

The dogs leap and scratch at the bed of the truck, baring vicious teeth. Dad sheds his backpack, and I drop my pack with its precious iodine tablets into the bed of the truck.

“Give me that,” Dad says, wiping water off his face, and I hand him the wrench. He uses it to smash the back window of the cab, reaches inside, unlatches the sliding window, then shoves the shattered and jagged window frame to the side. “Can you fit?”

“Sure.”

I hear shouts over the pelting rain as our hunters appear around the bend. Dad motions me into the cab and I squeeze through the opening.

“What’s going to happen?” I feel panic closing in.

“Any guns in there?”

I crawl into the front seat and open the center console. CDs. A deputy badge. The glove box houses a pistol. I stare at it, then snatch it up and pass it to Dad.

He seizes the gun, whips away, turns, and fires four shots. I yelp at the sudden, piercing cracks. In the rearview mirror, I see two men fall back behind the storm-gray ridgeline.

“Go, honey!”

“What!”

Drive ? I look around for keys. This truck has a stick shift. He might as well ask me to fly us out of here.

He ducks down and peeks in the back window. “Key’s in the ignition. Just remember what Grandpa taught you. Release the brake and hold down the clutch all the way. Then give it a turn.”

Yeah, but Grandpa showed me how to drive a clutch in a parking lot . “You do it, Dad!”

“Go! They’re coming.”

The dogs won’t allow Dad to jump in the truck using a door. I see one of the men poke his head up over the hill again. Dad fires another round, and a tendril of blood explodes from the side of the man’s face. Dad groans. I scream. The shouting reaches fever pitch.

“GO!”

I spring the brake release and punch the clutch all the way to the floor. The truck begins to roll even before I crank the ignition.

Oh, my God, we just shot that guy in the face .

The truck roars to life as I try the key. Dad shouts, “Good, hon. Just keep holding the clutch down. Don’t try anything yet.”

The steering is incredibly stiff, but I pull on the wheel enough to guide the truck along the dual tire tracks in the rocky path. I can’t see anything; the windshield wipers won’t turn on. Behind me, Dad fires. I think I hear a tire blow on the truck behind us.

“Okay, try releasing the clutch slowly while giving it gas. Just a little bit, though!” I do as I’m told, and the truck lurches to a halt, falls silent. The dogs are still with us, barking and growling. I turn to see our hunters appear over the hill, shouting. Gunfire. The man with the bow pulls back another arrow.

I’m shaking. “Dad.”

Dad drops below the level of the sides of the bed. “Hold the clutch down again. Keep it down this time,” he shouts. “We need some distance before we try again.”

I push the clutch all the way in and urge the truck forward with gentle rocking in my seat. We begin to coast downhill and leave the dogs behind. I turn on the engine after we’re rolling. Another back window shatters. Something pokes into my back. I scream and twist around. An arrow point protrudes through the back of my seat.

“Leilani!”

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t stop!”

We’re going too fast, and I’m coming up on a sharp curve in the path that I can scarcely make out through the distorted windshield. In a panic I try the brake, and we jerk to a halt. Dad tumbles forward with a thud. “Dad, I can’t do this!”

“Doing great. Be gentle on the brake. Once you’re going again, let the clutch out halfway. The gears will slow you—but don’t slow down too much. We’re still in their line of sight.”

I get us moving again and then release some pressure on the clutch. We slow, and I push the clutch back in, pull hard on the wheel, and we take the turn. But the road becomes too bumpy at this speed. We’re bouncing and rocking as if we’re tumbling down a cliff. My left front tire slams into a hole. Dad’s gun fires. I regain control of the steering wheel and guide us down the road.

“Dad! You okay?”

“I’m fine. Good job.”

They’re going to kill us .

“Is that man okay?”

“I don’t know. Go.”

The engine is revving like crazy.

“Shift, hon!”

“What?”

“Lei, hold the clutch in again, use the other foot to brake. I’ll trade you now. But don’t release the clutch!”

I drift to a halt, following his instructions. He leaps to the ground and opens the driver door. He places his own left foot on the clutch and scoots into the driver’s seat while I sidle over.

“Watch the tip of that arrow.”

Dad settles into position with his back arched.

I laugh, sick to my stomach. Dad effortlessly commands the truck into motion.

Gunfire cracks behind us. I turn.

Our enemy is following. One of their wheels is flat, but they barrel over the uneven terrain steadily. The dogs trot beside the truck in drunken ecstasy. A stout figure stands in the back of the truck, pistol raised high. He fires a shot.

We accelerate. I bounce so hard that my head hits the roof and I land on my side. I latch on to the handlebar above the passenger door. A house materializes to our left; we pass one on our right. I’m beginning to hope that we’ll drive straight into Hana when we slam into something and burst a tire.

Another bullet hits the truck. Both trucks are now crawling over the lava road. A ramshackle house drifts by.

“Is there ammo in the glove box?” Dad asks as we rattle slowly forward.

I pull out a heavy box. Two hundred rounds. “Hand it over,” Dad says.

I give him the ammo and he slams on the brakes. “Okay. Run.”

“What?”

“If the road improves, they’ll gain on us. We block their truck this way.”

I eject myself back into the pouring rain. Dad winces as he whips on the pack with all the iodide. We ditch the other pack and bolt down the path. After a minute of sheer sprinting, I stutter to a halt, coughing blood. Dad pauses and reloads his handgun, spilling rounds to the ground. He fires at the dogs chasing us, felling at least three.

We race forward, and the road improves around the next bend. Dad fires once more. A dog yelps. Return fire fills me with icy terror, and I don’t turn. Side roads branch off rows of houses in every direction. The hunters whistle, calling back their dogs. We’re in some run-down neighborhood overlooking a slope that spills to the sea. A town sprawls below us, pummeled by curtains of rain. Hana ?

Window slats shut abruptly as we run by. We’ve wandered into a tropical Western shoot-out.

Dad turns down a side street, runs through a yard, and bolts up to the front door. He wipes his brow and raps on the door. “Help! Please help us!”

No response. He tries the knob, but it’s locked. A voice calls, “Go away.”

“We’re being chased. We—”

“You’re on your own. Get outta here. They’ll find you here. Go!”

Dad dashes off the porch. We race to the next house. This time a thirty-something Hawaiian woman props open her door. She ushers us inside.

“Thank you. Thank you so much—”

“Quiet, now.” We’re rushed downstairs into the kitchen. She points to a little door under the stairs, and we duck into a small storage area. Dad removes his pack and shoves it into the low space below the bottom steps. The woman holds the door open and studies us. “You better hope they don’t come to the house. If they come to the house—”