Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“Paddle!” Javier said.

Javier sounded like he was underwater. Everything was fuzzy.

“Paddle!” Javier said again.

Javier’s voice woke Summer from her fear-induced fugue state. She sat up and paddled like her life depended on it. Another shot rang out. Another miss. The current and their frantic paddling carried them away from danger, and the caiman prevented anyone from the riverbanks from jumping in and swimming after them.

Once they reached the main river, the angry voices were barely audible, but Summer didn’t relax until they were in the bright blue waters of the bay. Her arms and shoulders burned from the paddling. The morning sun reflected off the water and warmed her face.

She glanced around, but no soul was in sight, most of the island still asleep. Gavin and Derek were a few canoe lengths ahead of them. Gulls flew overhead. It sounded like they were laughing. Summer laughed too, thinking that the early bird really did get the worm.

Naomi stood center stage inside Matthew Knight Arena, the home of the Oregon Ducks basketball team. Despite the fact that it was still summer break, the arena was packed with over 12,000 people: a mix of locals, students, and faculty members. They still mourned the eleven lives taken by Davis Sedgewick, the now infamous school shooter and mass murderer. Another ten thousand people were outside the arena, showing their support with signs and T-shirts. Oregon, especially Portland and Eugene, had long been a hotbed of socialist support.

Naomi glanced around the arena. You could hear a pin drop. “The tragedy you endured on Monday breaks my heart. Students and faculty at the University of Oregon are here to learn and to teach, to make the world a better place. Of all the places in this great country, our schools should be a safe place for all. My heart goes out to the victims and their families and to all of you”—Naomi gestured to the crowd—“the University of Oregon community.” She paused for effect.

“When a tragedy of this magnitude occurs, most people ask the question, ‘What do we have to do to prevent this from ever happening again?’ I asked myself the same question. Unfortunately, politicians often ask a very different question. They ask, ‘What do I do to look like I’m doing something without upsetting my base and losing votes or monetary support?’ That’s the nature of politics, and that’s the nature of President Warner’s recent proposal. It’s not enough to implement stricter background checks or gun registrations or to limit magazine capacities. These laws would not have stopped this shooting, and it won’t stop the next one.

“Over the past sixty years, Democrats have overpromised and underdelivered on gun control. Apart from banning private party gun sales in 2027, what have we done? Nothing.” Naomi shook her head and took a deep breath. “Let me be clear. If I’m elected president, I will do everything in my power to pass an outright ban on all firearms.” The crowd cheered, the cheering turning into a standing ovation.

Derek sat by himself at lunch, his knees aching from hitting that wall, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t help smiling at the children. One of the women held Willow’s infant, Freddie Jr., rocking him in her arms, sitting in the shade of a tattered umbrella, like they were at a picnic. She kissed him on the top of his head. Derek ate meat loaf from his MRE, feeling good about himself for the first time since he’d lost his farm.

Coincidentally, this was also the first time since he’d lost his farm that he was able to feed people. They’d returned with 144 ready-to-eat meals. It was enough to feed everyone for about four days, if they rationed each meal, or maybe a week if they combined it with other food they’d foraged. Derek was confident that he could help them forage wild fruits and vegetables.

At another table a two-year-old, Joy, tasted candy for the first time. One of the men gave her a package of Skittles from an MRE. Tentatively, Joy took a bite, then smiled from ear to ear as the sugary treat tweaked her pleasure centers. Joy was Eliza’s child. A child of rape from what Derek had been told.

He couldn’t help but think of what Eliza was missing. Derek hadn’t seen Eliza since the vote. Her endorsement of him had turned the tide. Gavin had said she was in bed recuperating, but Derek worried that she’d never fully heal from the brutality she’d endured. His brief respite of contentment turned to guilt as he thought of his own cowardice. He may have rescued her, but the damage had already been done.

A pat on the back woke Derek from his daze. He turned and saw Roger smiling down at him.

Roger sat across from Derek and said, “Great job this morning.” The nearby tables were empty, giving them a modicum of privacy.

“Thanks,” Derek replied.

“I haven’t seen everyone this happy in a long time.”

“I’m glad I could help.”

Roger nodded, the wheels turning in his mind. “It’s an adjustment.”

“What’s an adjustment?”

“Being here on the island. Trying to find joy and meaning in this place.”

Derek took a deep breath. “I think I’m just livin’ one day at a time. Hell, one minute at a time.”

Roger smiled. “I can understand that.”

“The people here. They all antigovernment activists?”

“Some. Some are regular people who don’t like the government.”

“Isn’t that most people?”

“We were the ones who advertised it.”

Derek tilted his head. “They were arrested for their politics?”

“Not exactly. Most people were arrested for some crime. I hesitate to even call them crimes when there’s no victim. Lots of people were arrested for drug possession. One guy was arrested for killing groundhogs with a .22. It’s illegal to discharge a firearm in his county. I think a list of dissidents was compiled by NSA algorithms. When someone’s arrested, they cross-reference the list and give them a phony antisocial personality test. It’s a great way to crush dissent.”

“Not me. I belong here.” Derek looked away for a moment.

“No, you don’t.” Roger’s tone was stern.

Derek looked back at Roger. His dark eyes were unblinking. He looked like an old beach bum, but something in his weathered face made you believe.

Roger said, “You had your reasons.”

“I snapped.” Derek shook his head. “He never would’ve stopped if someone didn’t make him stop.”

Roger nodded but was quiet.

Derek glanced at the group. Just out of earshot, they still ate and talked and laughed. “Thanks for takin’ me in. I’d be dead right now if …”

“We took you in because you belong here. I’m a good judge of character.” Roger stood from the table. “I should check on the sub. Walk with me.”

Derek stood, folded up what was left of his MRE, and put it in his pocket. They walked from the courtyard into the fort, Derek with a noticeable limp.

“You okay?” Roger asked, looking at Derek’s legs.

“I smashed my knees on a concrete wall. They’re just bruised. I’ll be fine in a few days.”

“You should ask Summer to take a look.”

Derek looked down. “Not sure that’s a good idea.”

Roger wagged his head. “Sorry. I forgot.”

Derek thought about his death match with Connor. The rift that Roger forgot about. Summer will never forget .

They walked through the common area toward the stone steps.

“What’s the submarine for?” Derek asked, eager to change the subject.

“We have video of the island,” Roger said. “Old video that I took in 2044, back when a few working cameras were left. People need to know the truth. They need to know that anyone opposed to the power structure, anyone too close to the truth, is shipped here with doctored antisocial personality tests.”