Authors: Tom Wright
“There’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’m going.”
I grabbed Sonny by the back of the head and pulled him toward me.
“Listen,” I said through gritted teeth. “I know this island well. I don’t need your help. I don’t know what I’ll find, but I do know that they need you more than I do. I appreciate what you want to do, but it’s not right. You guys go down and get Brenda and the kids and then beat ass back up here. I’ll be waiting, and then we’ll all be back together. Jeff knows where to go. They can’t sail the boat by themselves and protect themselves at the same time. I can walk alone.”
I looked at him as a brother might look at his beloved sibling. I let out a sigh, relaxed, and then spoke calmly. “Sonny, seriously, I want you to stay with them more than I want your help. Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“But…”
“I’ll kick your ass if I have to!” I yelled. “Seriously!” I punched him solidly in the chest.
He almost laughed. “You’re in no condition to fight me.”
“But I will, and then what condition will I be in? Will I be in a condition to find Kate and the kids? Do you want that on your head?”
Jill began to cry.
“That’s it!” I said harshly. “This is bullshit. We don’t have time for this. You are not going, and that’s final.”
Sonny looked at Jeff and then Jill. Neither had any clue what to say or do. Finally, Sonny relented. “Fine.”
“Listen,” I said, to all of them. “You are the finest people I have ever known. I love you all. You are like family to me. Do what you have to and come back. We need each other. We can get through this, damn it! Let’s go.” I turned away, partly to avoid bursting into tears.
“Why don’t we all go?” Jill asked.
“No way! You can’t expect Jeff to put off his…”
“Now wait a minute!” Jeff cut in. “Don’t speak for me.”
“Shut up! All of you. I almost got us killed in the storm, and there is no way I’m letting you do this. I don’t need any of you. Just let me off this fucking boat!”
They all stared at me, stunned and hurt.
“I don’t mean that. Come on. We know what the plan was, now let’s stick to it. I’m fine. I’ve thought through every option over the last two months, and this is the only way.”
“All right,” said Jeff. “But we’re going to wait and watch just off shore. If we see any trouble, we’re coming back in.”
“Fine, but I’ll be out of here and up over the ridge in ten minutes. There won’t be anything to see.”
They all moved in for one last group hug. Jill buried the side of her face in my cheek, and her silent tears trickled down my jaw and onto my neck where they cooled in the wind.
Sonny watched the depth over the bow as Jeff eased the RY up to the old dock. Jill scanned the surrounding homes with the binoculars as I prepared to jump ship. The pilings were still strong and in good shape, but the cracked and weathered decking clung intermittently to the few joists that remained. It didn’t look safe at all, but there was no other place to disembark.
We bumped against the dock in a place where no decking existed. Jeff gunned the motor and boat lurched forward to a safer place. I jumped over the side and onto the dock. I felt the boards strain under my weight, and I stumbled forward as my sea legs tried to compensate for a pitch that no longer existed.
The weight of my pack counterbalanced my stumble and allowed me to stay on the dock.
I heard Jill yell that they all loved me and to be safe, but I was too focused on my balance to respond. I heard the motor purr heartily as the RY labored back into the waves and away from Whidbey Island. As I looked up, all three of them watched me, focused selflessly not on their own peril, but on mine.
I leaped from board to board without much thought as to whether they would hold. I reached the old building at the beginning of the dock and jumped over to a concrete wall that ran along the edge. I ran the length of the building and jumped.
At 2:06 PM on day 55 I landed on the western shore of Whidbey Island, Washington.
I fell forward on my elbows, and my face hit the sand. I held there for just a moment, digging my fingers into the sand and feeling the earth. In that split second, all my efforts and troubles and pain and fatigue ran through my body and poured onto the beach and vanished. I made it.
19
WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON
I stood, and suddenly the stark solitude and my own vulnerability hit me fully. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my pistol. I held it with both hands, close to my shoulder, and pointed up. I sidled up to the building and peered around the corner like some sort of FBI special agent.
I scanned the buildings, and nothing moved. Nothing fluttered in the wind or skipped down the street as might be expected in such a stiff breeze. All loose objects had probably settled into shelter long ago.
With my senses unexpectedly heightened, my ears tuned into the sound of a snaphook on a flagpole halyard banging against its aluminum pole. The hollow sound clanged rhythmically with my heartbeat. Suddenly, I became aware of everything. I heard every sound, felt every vibration, and noticed the slightest movement. I was surprised by the ease with which my body rose to a state of such awareness. Everything felt different and dangerous.
My eyes stopped on a conspicuously small brick building at the end of the boat launch. It had been painted with the ubiquitous tan of the Washington State Parks, and the edges of its aquamarine colored metal roof had already begun the process of oxidation that, without intervention, would unequivocally lead to the building’s demise. The building had only two doors, one marked men and the other marked woman. I paused momentarily to consider the oddity of the use of the plural word men and the singular word woman. Between the two doors stood an empty fire extinguisher case, its contents stolen.
Paralyzed by fear and apprehension, I hugged the wall. I noticed placards on the end of the building that cautioned against the use of fireworks and called the user’s attention to all manner of plant and animal life that inhabited the park.
Suddenly there was movement in my periphery. I swung the gun around and nearly shot a small crab as it skittered between rocks. I leaned back against the wall and lowered the gun. I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself down. My head throbbed.
I walked along the edge of the old marina building, stopped at the corner, and peered into the parking lot. There were no cars in the lot, and I could see across the way past several houses, where there were also no cars. I saw no sign of life, but I figured that if I had lived there, I wouldn’t want anyone to know I was there either.
Between the parking lot and the main road that led away from Bush Point, there stood an old phone booth surrounded by a patch of withering dandelions. The sign across the top said: Whidbey Telecom. The red sheet metal around the bottom of the booth remained intact, but all of the glass had since been removed, probably by rocks. On a whim, I ran to the phone booth, entered and crouched inside.
Cobwebs dangled from every corner of the booth. The phone was an old style coin-operated variety. I picked up the receiver and was stunned to hear a dial tone. I couldn’t imagine how the phones were still working with the power so obviously out, but then I remembered that was frequently the case during storms—the telephone companies had their own power generation and energized their own lines. A generator somewhere up the line must still be running, perhaps on its last ounces of fuel. Or maybe things weren’t as bad as I had feared.
I hurriedly dialed Kate’s Parents’ number from memory and heard a few clicks followed by the timeless message:
“We’re sorry. Your call can not be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try your call again.”
I wondered if I got the number wrong so I dialed the zero for the operator followed by the number for information: same message at both.
I dialed 911 and it said: “All circuits are currently busy. Please try your call again later.” Is that really the message they set up for 911, I wondered. In an emergency, I should try my call again later? What if I’m dead later?
I moved back out into the street and scurried to the next house. As I ran fully exposed in the open, I became keenly aware of my lack of training for such a thing. I had no idea how to hold the gun, and I felt very awkward running with it. I tried to mimic the action heroes I’d seen in the movies. What else could I do?
Next to the house, I looked back down Bush Point Road and saw the old light. The path to the light was roped off, and a sign read: “Private beach. No access. Photographs permitted but no trespassing please.”
I darted from house to house like a scared mouse. Suddenly, I remembered that an old school friend of Kate’s had lived down there. His name was Paul Arondsen, and his family owned a service station on the highway at the top of the hill. Their station, Arondsen Automotive, was the only station in the world, as far as I knew, that still provided full service at the same price as everyone else. Stopping at Arondsen Automotive was like time travel back to the fifties. When you pulled in and ran over the black hose on the ground a loud “ding ding” echoed through the station, and a service boy with a little white cap ran out to help you. “Filler up,” I’d say. He’d lean in to look at the gas gauge and say: “Yes sir. What’s this, a 78?” The boy scrambled to check your oil, scurried around to sample the pressure in all four tires, and furiously scrubbed the windshield as the numbered wheels on the old pump clicked by. He’d pull a red rag from his pocket to rub off the stubborn bug guts, while looking nervously at the pump. He knew how many gallons every car took—he had to because the old pump would not automatically click off. They wouldn’t take tips at Arondsen’s, but they never refused the cookies and cakes dropped off by old ladies. If you had time to go inside, there was always something delicious on the counter for the taking. I remember always feeling a little bit of nostalgic sadness as I pulled away.
I approached Paul’s house cautiously and walked around back to the garage. I peered through the dirty windows and could make out what looked like an automobile under a cloth but nothing more. I remembered that he restored old cars and thought maybe I could borrow that one.
I went to the house and looked in the back door window. The neighbors were sufficiently far away, so I knocked. After a few seconds, I knocked again. No one answered.
I tested the doorknob and found it unlocked. I cracked the door open and yelled for Paul. Nothing. I hesitated to enter anyone’s house unexpectedly. In the current state of affairs, that seemed like a good way to get shot. So I decided to leave well enough alone and went back to the garage. It was locked, but I forced the door open and walked inside. Dust fluttered about as I entered, and some sort of rodent startled me as it ran for cover.
I checked around near the door and workbench and found no keys. He had a great variety of tools which was not surprising given his occupation. The car cover was slightly askew, so I pulled it the rest of the way off and discovered a beautifully restored car. Mint condition. Not a car buff myself, I really didn’t know the make and model, but it was not a common car in my experience; definitely some sort of foreign sports car though. I opened the driver side door and got inside. I checked the ignition, glove box, and visor and found no keys. I looked under the seats but still came up empty.
From the driver’s seat, I noticed the door at the opposite end of the garage was open. I got out and walked over to investigate. The door had been forced open, and as I came around the right side of the car, I noticed a piece of rubber tubing extending out of the gas tank and lying on the floor.
So much for this car. No gas.
I went back to the house and knocked a few more times. Still no answer, so I decided to go in. The back door opened to the kitchen. As I walked in, I noticed a faint smell of death, which gave me the willies. I yelled hello a few more times, but decided that it was probably in vain.
The small kitchen was tidy, but dust had already accumulated on the surfaces, and the flowery wallpaper had started to peel at the edges and seams. I moved cautiously into the dining room and over to a table where a stack of newspapers sat neatly folded.
I resisted the urge to flip through the papers and instead moved into the living room. Like the kitchen, it was neatly arranged, but cob webs stretched from corners to anything in reach. Photos of Paul’s parents adorned the mantle and coffee tables, but I noticed a lack of children or a wife in any of the pictures. As I crossed the room, the smell became worse and seemed to be coming from upstairs. Morbidly curious, I approached the stairs and looked up.
I placed my foot on the first wooden step, and as my weight shifted forward, it creaked and groaned loudly. The hairs on my neck stood up, and I withdrew my foot. Out of fearful habit, I looked behind me and around the room. I yelled out again, and still no one answered. I put aside my fears and climbed the stairs. I had to force myself to ignore the clicking and popping and creaking of the old staircase as I ascended.
The smell increased exponentially as I reached the top of the stairs and moved down the hallway toward a closed bedroom door. Whatever or whomever created that smell was clearly in that bedroom—the other two were empty. I found the door unlocked and slowly opened it. I winced as the hinges creaked like in an old horror movie. I stepped inside, and the unmistakably raw and sharp smell of death hit me, like a sharp spike boring into my sinuses. My eyes began to water, and something like pain rose behind them. I pulled my jacket up over my mouth and nose. It hardly helped.
The old, small bedroom appeared to be the room of his childhood. Why he hadn’t moved into the master bedroom, I could not say. In the center of the far wall, a bed stood in front of the primary window. Cobwebs stretched from the ceiling and window corners to the bed posts and onto the corpse lying in the bed. Dust floated by in the air, illuminated by the filtered light.
The staircase suddenly popped behind me, and the sound echoed through the room. I froze, unable to turn to look. The old staircase rebounding from my weight, I hoped. I listened for a few seconds, and nothing happened.
I focused again on the gruesome body. I could not recognize the caved-in face, but it was almost certainly Paul. Something grew on it that reminded me of a chia pet. Suddenly, struck by a fear that I could not name, my testicles pulled up inside me. My hair stood on end again.
Why should I be afraid of a dead body? Every ounce of reason in me suggested that there was nothing there but a lump of rotting flesh. Why should I be any more wary of what lies there than a side of beef in a butcher shop? Perhaps it was what C.S. Lewis called the fear or dread of the numinous, which is not a fear of an object like a corpse but the fear that the numinous may exist. Most of us can live in denial of anything numinous. But if the corpse were to suddenly move, we would be confronted with the reality that such a thing can happen. Suddenly, it would be possible that all the noises you heard as a child really were monsters after all.
Curiously, only a human corpse inflicts such dread. If I happened upon a dead elk, my fear would be limited to the predator that may be nearby and not a worry that it would get up.
I ignored the terror and choked back my last meal and approached the thing. Even upon close up inspection, I could not identify it. My urge was to poke it to verify that it would not move, but I refrained. I went to the closet and pulled out a blanket and draped it over him. A spider scurried back up along a strand of web into the corner from which it had originated.
I looked around the room for anything useful and found his wallet on the chest of drawers. It contained Paul’s identification and over $1,000 in cash, which I took, thinking that he wouldn’t need it any more. Of course, neither would I, but I didn’t know that then, and old habits die hard. I flipped open his cell phone, and it was dead. I considered for a moment that I should say something, but then I decided that I did not know what to say except: “Good bye friend.” I feared this would not be the last time I gave someone their last rights. I took his keys and left the room.
I bounded down the stairs two at a time and hustled back through the living room. With the house cleared, I stopped briefly to scan the papers on the dining room table. I picked up the top paper, which was dated about three days after we left Kwaj, the day Paul apparently stopped getting the paper. The headline read: Virus Spreading Rapidly. Tens of Millions Feared Dead. Tip of Iceberg?
I scanned the headlines since they generally told the whole story: Suicide bombers continue to target hospitals; Explosive filled truck rams Houston MTF (Mobile Treatment Facility), detonates; 28 Daycare Centers targeted across nation, hundreds of children murdered; EU Imposes 24-Hr Curfew Over Europe; Bank run triggers lockdown; major interstate fuel lines hit, OPEC stops production, gas to $40!; Societal collapse? President considers martial law; Dow Zero?; China Takes Taiwan In Bloodbath, Says Japan Next; Peacekeepers Leave Africa, Blood Flows, Aid Stops; and on and on it went. One particular article several papers into the stack caught my attention, so I read into it: