by Nick Twist
How did I manage to get a gun onto a plane?
A surge of anger runs through my veins. I can taste revenge on my dry lips. I have a feeling that the gun will eventually help me remember. The overwhelming feeling returns. A clock is ticking in my head.
Who am I?
I slide my hand into the bottom of the fanny pack, hoping for something definite about my identity, but that’s it. Nothing else is inside.
A gun and a Kindle. What an unusual combination.
The sight of the gun is nauseating. I switch my gaze to the Kindle again, trying to get a feeling from it. Do I love reading? If it still worked, I could find out what kind of books interest me. I am betting on nonfiction. Calculating and factual books. Even better, I could have discovered my username or email. A billing address, maybe?
I have to wait to see if this thing still works after the water inside dries out.
I flip the device in my hand again. Still no stickers or—
Wait. There is something on the back. Someone has scratched the back with a sharp instrument.
Zigzags.
No, letters.
Words, actually. Messy and hard to read.
Two words? I tilt my head.
The second one is easier to read. A strange word: toot.
The Ts are angled. The second T could be the number 1.
But it’s the first word that can’t be mistaken. A word that worries me about my past more and even more.
The first word is kill.
6
Kill Toot?
Oh, that is so helpful. Thank you very much.
So the words on the back of the Kindle are as threatening as the gun itself. Who said words can’t kill?
I decide to tuck the Kindle back in and pretend I didn’t read the word kill on its back. Then I return my gaze to the gun in the other hand.
It’s not a heavy gun, I notice. It’s smaller than what I’d expect a gun to be. I need to know if it’s loaded, and I have no doubt I know how to do that. But something about it distracts me from that thought. I tilt it in my hand and inspect the outside. It’s not hard to notice it has the same zigzag on one side, from the same trembling hand, like that of a scared child.
I bring it closer to my eyes, almost afraid to bend over toward it. The same words appear: kill toot. They’re much smaller here. Much more cramped, with no space to finish the letters properly.
My heart starts racing. I don’t resist it. Let it express how fucked up and confused I am.
Did I say fucked up? Is that the kind of language I normally use?
It occurs to me that my grip has tightened on the gun. My knuckles are white, and my lower lip is curved with tension. My jaw aches from grinding my teeth. Anger and revenge coat the interiors of my soul.
I loosen up, as much as possible, tuck the gun next to the Kindle, and zip the bag. My hands are mechanical. My mind is absent. My eyes are fixated on the darkness veiling the forest ahead. Suddenly, I don’t care about the plane crash so much. The unsure feelings stirred by the words on both the gun and the Kindle have possessed my every bone.
The sound of crashing waves behind me grows louder as the sun says its last goodbyes. Staring at the pines ahead, I am stuck between two strangers: the past of an angry and misty ocean behind me, and the future of a nameless girl with a gun and a Kindle.
Girl?
I still don’t know what I look like. My hands are pale and the parts I can see from my hair are brunette. I don’t feel like a girl, though. I am definitely an older girl. Late twenties, maybe. I’ve seen shit in this life. I’m sure of that.
And I could be hallucinating. No better time for a girl to lose her mind than when no one’s around.
This is going nowhere. I step forward toward the pines. I have to find someone. Anyone. Closer to the trees, I reach to rub my aching neck and relieve some of the pain. There is something wrapped around it. A necklace.
It’s a short one. I take it off and look at it. Silver. Ordinary. Nothing special at all, but…
Finally, I think I know what my name is.
June.
The design is simple and carved, not scratched or zigzagged. It’s cheap but done professionally. Custom-made. It doesn’t strike me as something you can purchase in a store.
“June?” My name is a stranger to me.
I keep staring at the necklace for a while, then grip it and tuck it in my back pocket. I tiptoe with caution into the forest until darkness surrounds me in every direction. I am not here for the darkness; I am here for the light beyond.
I delve deeper and mentally pat myself on the shoulder. Come on, June. We can do this.
7
Inside the forest, I feel like an actress, role-playing an identity I’m not quite familiar with. I wonder if a woman with a gun should be as intimidated by the darkness as I am. The canopy of curving trees shadows my existence as my heart drums with every step into the muddy grounds.
The forest is buried six feet deep in silence. I can’t hear animals. No scurrying squirrels or singing birds. No woodpeckers in the trees. Everything is consumed by the scent of abandonment. I don’t know why, but I think I have been a friend of such a scent for years.
Plain nothingness stirs heavily in the air. It stirs layers of loneliness upon me, more than an amnesiac can handle. All I want is to meet another human being. Isolation and solitude with a gun in my hand strikes me as suicidal—again, something I might know about?
I hear something. A companion? Not an enemy, but not what I expected either. I hear a baby’s cries.
“Focus, June,” I whisper to myself. “You could be imagining this.”
The cries are faint and veiled by recurring breezes from the sea. Something about the cries reminds me of the woman I saw underwater.
I change my route, following the invisible footprints of baby’s tears. It’s hard to discern direction among the entangled tree branches. I realize that it’s not all silence. I can actually hear the faint waves of the ocean splashing in the distance. It reminds me that I can’t go back. My only hope for survival is holding on to my sanity for as long as I can.
I keep following the baby cries, but then a louder sound takes over. An engine. A vehicle. I hear the clear blare of a horn. Instantly, I change routes and start running in its direction.
Panting, I follow the new sound. Even better—this isn’t just sound. I glimpse pools of light, cutting through the dense trees.
Closer, the beams of light thicken. Hope is welcoming in its arms.
“Come on, June,” I tell myself. “We can do this.”
After reaching the edge of the forest, I stop. Dozens of men are talking outside. Only men. More sounds of engines, too. Panting, I carefully take a peek out, watching from behind a thick tree. The scene takes a few seconds to sink in. I am looking at a vast habitat of trailer-like houses with military men walking all around.
Parting branches, I now see the vehicles. Not just one. The place is swarming with Jeeps driven by soldiers. A military base.
One soldier frantically radios his superiors in English. In the Jeep closest to the forest, soldiers are talking about some rescue mission. I can’t make out the details of their conversation, but I come to understand that not all of them are Americans. There is a notable diversity of ethnicities. Their uniform isn’t of the American military. It’s a dull shade of grey with no insignia. I can’t even see an American flag anywhere.
I wonder if I have been trained to think this way. Normally, a girl would cry for help and show herself, right?
But I need help. I need to drink and eat and get medical care. I need a connection to the outside world to learn about my plane crash and who I am. Fuck it. I part a few more branches and step forward, about to call for help.
But then my feet stiffen. They disobey me, as if they know something that I don’t. Something in me doesn’t want the soldiers to see the fanny pack. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t know how to explain it.
My specu
lations are interrupted by a Jeep driving my way. Light blinds my eyes. They have spotted me while I’m still holding the bag.
8
“We found one!” The soldier next to the driver points in my direction. “There, right behind the pines.”
I am not sure whether it’s instinct or planning, but I gently drop the gun and bag behind me then step forward with my hands up. The Jeep screeches to a halt. Soldiers hop out as rain suddenly pours down on me.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” a soldier asks. He looks concerned. He can’t be the enemy. I look silly with my hands up, like I’ve done something wrong. “She’s shivering. Bring me a blanket!”
I didn’t know I was shivering. In fact, my teeth are chattering. I lower my hands, and the soldiers wrap me up in a blanket. I close my eyes and enjoy its warmth for a moment, realizing how much I’d kill for sleep right now.
“Did you survive the plane crash, ma’am?” the young soldier asks, rubbing his hand over my blanket.
“What?” I grimace.
“The plane.” He points up. “We saw it crash into the ocean but couldn’t get to it due to the bad weather.”
I nod. I prefer not to talk much now, not sure of myself or how I’d be treated if my true identity were revealed—whoever I turn out to be. I wish I’d buried the bag, not just dropped it behind me.
“Are there others?” the soldier asks, lowering his head, trying to look me in the eyes.
I shy away. Eyes are windows to the soul. What if his stare reaches too deep and exposes me?
“Others?” I shrug. “I think I heard a baby crying in the forest.”
“That’s impossible. She’s in shock,” another soldier says. “We should get her to Ward Nine. Interrogate her later.”
“Did you see the baby yourself?” the kinder soldier says.
“I—I’m not sure.”
“I told you she’s in shock!”
“It’s okay.” The soldier pats me on the shoulder. “You’re a brave girl.” He guides me to his Jeep. “Boys! We have a survivor.”
“How did she survive?” the skeptical one asks. He has a diagonal scar across his right cheek. “Did she swim in such a raging ocean? She's a woman, for God’s sake.”
“Shut up, Hecker,” the other soldier says, helping me sit. “I know women who could kick your armored butt so hard you’d need to visit a proctologist for the rest of your life.”
The other soldiers laugh.
I sit in the back of the Jeep. Hecker asks the soldier if he should drive. It turns out his name is Ryan. Two other soldiers squeeze me like a sandwich in the back seat. The Jeep staggers up a hill toward wherever this Ward Nine is. Hecker’s driving is reckless. I feel like I am going to vomit.
“You have a name, miss?” Ryan turns back to me from the passenger seat.
“June.” I spit the name out instantly. I pull out my necklace and show it to him, as if I need proof my name is June. Something tells me I shouldn’t tell them about my amnesia.
“She doesn’t look like a June to me.” Hecker glares at me in the mirror. My heart sinks into my feet, but he ends up pointing at the cloudy sky above. I want to ask what time of year it is, but it would expose my situation.
I look up as rain starts to pour heavily. For a moment, I’m afraid I will drown in it, as if death isn’t done with me, as if it’s going to hunt me down until it kills me, like everyone else on the plane.
9
“Hang on, June,” Ryan shouts, hanging tight to the Jeep’s door. “I’ll take care of you.”
I mouth a silent thank you and nod in appreciation. With the two silent soldiers on both sides, and the heavy rain, it’s impossible to take another look around.
“You’re American?” Hecker asks, gripping the wheel.
“Yes.” I am not sure, but my accent and instinct suggest it.
Hecker’s skeptical face changes. He squints in the mirror, taking another look at me. I remind myself that I haven’t seen a single flag on the island. Is Hecker uncomfortable with my being American, or does he not believe me?
I lower my head and pull the blanket tighter over my shoulders.
“Stop asking her questions,” Ryan says. “We agreed to get her to the ward first.”
“Major Red will want to know a lot about her,” Hecker retorts.
“Leave the major to me. I will handle him.”
“Yeah? How are you going to explain us driving her up the hill without covering her eyes?”
Ryan frowns then rubs his chin. “June,” he says. “Could I ask you a favor?”
I nod.
“Whatever happens, don’t look west until we reach Ward Nine,” Ryan says. “West would be your left side. Understood?”
“I won’t,” I say, wondering what kind of request that is. “I just need to rest and sleep.”
“Good girl,” Ryan says.
Now that we made a deal, I am curious about the west side. Should I care? This is a military base. It makes sense if they have secrets.
When we reach the ward, I see it looks like a military compound. Hecker halts the car and Ryan helps me down. There is a big sign hung above a double steel door with heavy bolts. It reads W9. The door and sign look old. I mean, like fifty-year-old construction or something.
Ryan says his goodbyes and assures me that they will take care of me inside. I’m escorted by the other two soldiers into a long hallway, crowded with busy soldiers. Same as the outside, the interior is old, like from a 1950s movie or something.
Further in, one of the soldiers guides me toward a doorless room. Apparently this is where I will be staying.
“A nurse will arrive and help you out,” he explains.
The feeling of comfort and safety relaxes me. It’s hard to believe that I made it here. I plan to sit on the bed and wait for the nurse, but the pillow tempts me. I rest my weary head on it, my body curled into a fetal position.
I see the nurse entering the room. Though it’s not a nurse. It’s a male soldier in a blue coat and Crocs. My eyes twitch as I realize I haven’t seen a single woman so far. Slowly I find myself passing out.
10
The loud blaring jolts me up and awake again.
I sit straight up on my bed. How long have I been asleep? I run my trembling hand over my sweating face and look around. It takes me a moment to collect my recent memories. A plane crash. Survival. The shore. The bag. The Kindle. The gun. The forest and the baby’s cries. The soldiers picking me up and bringing me to Ward Nine to this room without a door.
A blanket covering the opening of my room does give me a little privacy, but does not keep out the voices of the soldiers outside. I let out a long sigh and realize someone has changed me into cleaner clothes.
It’s a lime-green outfit, like a hospital gown. I don’t feel good about it, though. The thought of a male nurse changing my clothes while I was asleep does not make me comfortable.
I can still glimpse soldiers’ shadows from beneath the blanket.
I stretch my arms, and every part of my body aches. I also notice an IV is connected to my right arm. Food and drink are set on the metallic tray on a wheeled table nearby. Like Ryan promised, they are taking care of me.
I guess I shouldn’t panic about being the only girl in a kingdom of males after all. Their intention seems honest and genuine. It’s me who is paranoid about things I can’t even remember. All my worries might end up being figments of my imagination.
My feet feel a bit numb when I get off the bed and touch the floor. A few images attack my vision. I can’t make them out. They’re blurry and distant, and none of them are of a plane crash. I am hoping it’s a good sign. Maybe it’ll all come back to me soon.
“Just breathe, June,” I find myself saying. Why do I keep saying this?
Maybe there is a logical explanation for everything. Something tells me this isn’t true. I think the soldiers on this island aren’t supposed to know who I am. If I can only discover who that someone inside me is…
Which reminds me—I haven’t taken a look at myself yet.
I rip the IV out, not caring about any blood or wounds, then semi-limp to the only real door in my room. A bathroom.
Inside, I close the door behind me and enjoy the privacy. The place is narrow and small, but clean. A bathtub, a toilet, and a mirror over a sink. Just what I am looking for. I rest my hands on the edges of the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
I have black, disheveled, short hair with undercut sides. One side is slightly shorter. Super blunt lines and jagged edges. A bold cut. It comes across as a rebellious statement more than a haircut. I wear no earrings, but my ears are drilled with holes. My shoulders are narrow. I’m fairly short. Five feet five, I’m guessing. Pale white skin sucks the color from the small yellow light bulb overhead. My eyes are also pale. Blue, but pale. Some faint freckles on my face. Not many, though. Without the haircut, I’d look like my ancestors are Irish. Maybe Germans. Nothing special about me, really. If I were in a movie, I wouldn’t survive a plane crash. I’d be that helpless girl sitting next to the main door. The unlucky girl that would take a kick in the butt and then get thrown out in the air and die.
Yet my left bandaged arm does make me look badass—in a bad way. Looking at it reminds me how much it hurts, like thousands of needles and pins hurting at once. I can’t quite remember if it’d been bandaged before the soldiers found me and brought me to Ward Nine. Everything is so blurry to me.
I was also right about my age. Late twenties. Give or take.
I lean forward, looking into the mirror, wondering if a closer look would tell me the truth about myself.
“Seriously, June,” I say to my reflection, “what is the gun for? And who the heck is this toot you want to kill?”
11