by Nick Twist
With closed eyes, I can see what happened after Hecker told me of Ashlyn’s death. It plays like a movie in my mind.
It started with me kicking one of the soldiers in the groin and pulling myself free from the other. I crouched as Hecker tried to catch me and hurried toward the forest.
All the screaming in the world could not fix the aching inside. Guilt sometimes feels like a dull, useless knife. It won’t cut, no matter how hard you want to use it to slit your wrists.
The strobing lights searching for me went crazy in every direction. I ran in curvy paths to evade them, and also because I couldn’t tell where I was heading exactly. A vague sense of the path Ashlyn had taken guided me into the darkness. But like in the movies, I ended up stumbling over her dead body.
I dropped to all fours, reaching for her, attacked by the smell of her blood. Her body was still warm, but unresponsive. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. Most of her pale face was covered in blood. It looked black in the dark, not red. She lay on her back, her legs askew, reminding me of every other woman I’d seen in the Furnace.
God, she was so young. She could have done so many things in her life. She’d been here to make money and better her life. Most of all, she’d offered to help me when she knew it would kill her. I’d been foolish bringing her into this. Selfish! What had I done?
I closed my eyes and wished to die, but then reminded myself of a daughter I was supposed to save. There was a moment when I doubted everything, even the existence of my daughter. From the beginning, none of this has made sense. My insanity would be the only plausible explanation or conclusion.
“It should have been me,” I whispered, reaching for her, and instead of giving her a proper burial, I gave her a hug goodbye.
I squeezed her to me with all my might, wondering why I loved her so much. Of course she’d helped, and she was a lovable person. But my feelings surpassed that. I really loved her. If she had been any younger, I’d have suspected that she, in some convoluted turn of events, could have been the daughter I was looking for. But I couldn’t have given birth to a girl. I would have been too young.
Or could I?
I let out a cry. Pain ran through my veins instead of blood. Part was because of Ashlyn’s death. Part was for my confusion. I’d come to a point where I prayed this all would be a dream, so I could just wake up from it in the morning.
I could hear the soldiers arriving again. This time I was too tired to fight. Ashlyn gave one last cough, spitting blood on me. I shrieked. I’d thought she was gone.
I held her closer, thinking she had a chance to make it. “Help!” I shouted, wishfully asking for a savior on this godforsaken island.
But Ashlyn didn’t look like she’d make it. She knew she was dying. I could see it in the empty look in her eyes. She’d given up, and in some wicked way, she seemed to like it. She wanted to leave this island, even if the afterlife was her only solace. Ashlyn had only returned briefly to tell me something.
I lowered my head and pressed my ear to her lips. She talked in sputters and staccato. I think she said: “You were right about the babies.”
Then she fell back, staring into the side of life we’ll all stare at eventually, once and for all. Then Hecker silenced me with the butt of his machine gun on my skull.
Now, as I turn the water off and get out of the shower, I can’t help thinking about my purpose in all of this. Drying off, I remind myself we all need a purpose in life. Mine is finding my daughter. And it’s not because of the yellow note I received about a man called Manfred Toot that I am supposed to kill. It’s because I know that I have a daughter.
If I were in conversation with a stranger, they’d ask me how I know. All the logic in the world will not give me the right answers. The only thing I know is what I feel. A mother always knows. And when I held Ashlyn in my arms, the feeling came down on me like lightning. Amnesiac or not, I do have a daughter, and she is in great danger.
My only hope to find her will be to find the Crib. The Furnace isn’t the Crib. It just can’t be.
And then comes the swastika part. Could this island be some sort of a Nazi camp, one no one has ever heard about? One that has been kept secret for more than seventy years? It shouldn’t make sense, but it is my only plausible explanation. I have little historical knowledge about the world seventy years ago. Meredith would have more answers, I guess. She has been here since World War II. Ward Four was built in World War II. So the island is that old.
So are the soldiers here Nazis? Can’t be. There are no Nazis anymore, right? Neo-Nazis, maybe. But what would they be doing on this island? Does this have anything to do with the sect Major Red talked about? If so, how do I fit into all of this? And what the hell is this island for?
A knock on my bathroom door interrupts my thoughts.
“Miss June,” some soldier says. “Major Red will see you now.”
Still naked, I tell him I will be ready in a few. I hear him leave, then stare at my reflection in the mirror again. The girl staring back at me knows what I am about to say. She agrees, nodding. She knows that whatever darkness I suspect is inside me has to come out now. If I can use a gun, then I’ll have to use it. If I can be threatening like I was with Ashlyn in the bathroom, then I will. If I want to find my daughter and save her, I have a feeling I will have to kill someone in the process. No wonder I came here with a gun.
50
Mercy Medical Center, New York
James Floyd listened to Dixon’s update about the plane that crashed in the Atlantic yesterday. The man apologized for not finding the plane sooner but blamed it on the horrible weather.
“Actually, there is a possibility of a coming hurricane,” Dixon explained. “So I was thinking maybe the rescue team should wait a few hours.”
“And lose the chance of saving the lives on the plane?” Floyd said. He didn’t like Dixon much, but that had nothing to do with the job. “Of course not.”
“I don’t think anyone can survive this, if you ask me,” Dixon argued.
“No one thought Poon Lim would survive the South Atlantic for 133 days on a log made of wood,” Floyd said.
Poon Lim was a legend to everyone in the NTSB, a true miracle. He was a Chinese sailor who survived alone in the South Atlantic while working as a second steward on the British merchant ship SS Ben Lomond when it was sunk by a German U-boat on November 23, 1945.
“Poon Lim was an exception,” Dixon said. “Miracles don’t happen every day.”
“Miracles always happen,” Floyd said, losing some of the authority in his voice. He held his wife’s hand tighter.
“How about my men?” Dixon asked. “They could die saving the passengers.”
“It’s their job. They didn’t sign up and get the appropriate training for shits and giggles.”
Dixon kept silent. Floyd didn’t mind. He had been sharing silence with his wife for three years now. A precious silence.
“Floyd,” Dixon said, “the probability of finding survivors is less than one percent. It’s not worth it. I’m not saying we’re packing up. I’m only asking for a few more hours on hold.”
“Dixon,” Floyd said, then stood silent for a few heartbeats. “You’re fired.”
“What?” Dixon’s rage was instant. “You can’t do that. You’re FBI, not the NTSB. The only reason why you’re involved is to see if the plane crash was a terrorist attack.”
“I think you’d be surprised to learn that I care about survivors more than discovering if it’s a terrorist attack,” Floyd said. “Lives first, conclusions second. If you don’t cooperate now, I will make sure my report mentions it.”
Dixon’s rough breathing crackled in the speaker. “Yes, sir. We’re on our way to the plane crash right now.”
“Full squad. Divers, ROVs, and choppers,” Floyd said. “I want a full list of everybody you find. Survivor or not.”
“Of course.”
“An accurate list, Dixon. No fuckups like with TWA and 9/11.” Floyd
remembered those days. The FBI and NTSB had messed up the names on the list and caused a lot of pain for the passengers’ families. He didn’t want that to happen again. He knew from experience that saving one soul would make all the families happy, even those who’d lost their loved ones. The magic of hope, of saving lives, was like no other.
Putting the phone aside, Floyd pulled his wife’s hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “Normally, I would only care to know if the plane crash was a terrorist attack,” he told her, hoping she really did hear him. “But I know you’d want to save survivors first, even if it’s just one.”
51
Major Red greets me at the door. He looks surprisingly concerned. He takes my hand between his two clammy burned palms and says, “I am so sorry, Miss June. So sorry about Ashlyn. It was a mistake.”
I find myself speechless. Not in awe, but in horror. In a state of suspicion and disgust. I’ve come here, prepared to shout and spit in his face, even look for my gun and threaten him with it. But he shows such fake sympathy? I am wondering what kind of sick game is on the table now.
In an instant, I pull my hand away. Something about his touch suddenly makes me want to throw up. A peculiar fear goosebumps all over my skin. It reminds of my dreams.
“Please sit down,” He pulls a chair out for me, not commenting on my behavior. “Would you like something to drink?” He taps me on the shoulder. I push his filthy hand away.
He doesn’t react. He isn’t angry. What the fuck is going on?
I watch him sit down behind his desk, noticing the slightly foul smell on him fade out with distance. What is that smell? Like the soldiers, it’s so familiar but I can’t seem to identify it.
“We’re burying Ashlyn tomorrow,” he says. “Though it’s forbidden, and the coming storm is our priority, we’ll have a big funeral for her outside — if the weather gets better of course.”
He makes it sound like it’s her birthday tomorrow. Silence still overwhelms me. I can easily jump over and pull the gun and put a bullet in between his eyes.
For Ashlyn.
I have enough pain and guts to do it. It only scares me to leave this world without fighting for my daughter.
Then a snowflake of a thought floats before my eyes: is it possible that Major Red is Manfred Toot?
He looks like someone I want to kill. It’s not farfetched in my book. Looking at him, I don’t see why not. He’s operating this island. He knows what it’s really about. Everyone fears him. Wearing his grey soldier’s outfit with no insignia makes me think he really is a Nazi. A neo-Nazi. Or a follower. Or admirer. Who gives a shit?
“I have the soldier who shot Ashlyn on trial,” Major Red says. “My orders were to find you both and bring you back.”
I know it’s not true because there were too many soldiers shooting at the poor girl and me.
“You see, Ashlyn was sick.” He says.
I purse my lips, and cross one leg over the other. Let’s hear more of those lies. Silence is sometimes the best trap to catch a liar.
“A lot of nurses on the island suffer from isolation,” he explains. “They go toot in the head, if you know what I mean.” He circles a forefinger in the air, around his left ear.
Did he just used the word toot to describe insanity? I blink, thinking I’ve imagined it.
“One of our doctors says it only happens to women,” he says. For the second time, I smell that stench of his hatred or disrespect for women. “Statistically, women are prone to madness more than men.”
Next thing, he’ll try to persuade me I am insane as well.
“I have always preferred male nurses, but it was Dr. Suffolk’s advice to hire women. He claims no one can understand and contain pain like women. That’s why he sent you to Ward Four and assigned Ashlyn to help you.” He lets out a condescending laugh then lights up a pipe and starts to puff. “Dr. Suffolk always points out the fact that men, with all their strength and power, could never bear giving birth to a baby. As a doctor, he thinks giving birth is the hardest thing in the world.”
I continue my silent mourning over Ashlyn.
“I suppose Ashlyn told you the consequences of being the sole survivor of a plane crash?” he says. “Cloudy thinking, delusions, and sometimes insanity. It’s true.”
“Are you saying I am insane?” The devious man pulled the words out of my mouth.
Major Red chuckles. “Of course not. You’re confused and need to rest. That’s all.”
No one confuses me as much as you do, Major Red.
“Tell you what, Major Red.” I lock eyes with him. “Let’s cut the crap. What is this island? Where is The Crib?”
52
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Major Red puts the pipe aside. “I told you the Crib is a myth, perpetuated by the crazy woman on the sixth floor. What was her name? Ah, Meredith.”
“So you’re not telling. Okay, forget about the Crib.” I stand up and ram the desk with my hand. “How about the Furnace? Are you going to deny it, too?”
“Not at all. The Furnace is real.” His face dims. “It’s some kind of a cemetery where hundreds, if not thousands, of women were buried in War World II.”
“So you admit it.”
“Admit what, Miss June? That this island was a secret Nazi concentration camp in the war? It’s true. How? I am not sure. We discovered that place a few years after we arrived. We thought this island met our needs—which I’m not obliged to tell you about. The Furnace is where they burned their prisoners. Is that what you want to know?”
“That’s it? Are you denying you have anything to do with it?”
“I don’t have to deny anything,” he sneers back at me. “Like I said, I am under no obligation to tell you anything. We’re not the horrible people you think we are.” He stands up. “The soldiers like to call the Furnace the 1001, named after the sergeant who discovered it.”
“What was that soldier’s name?”
“Sergeant Manfred Toot, a.k.a. 1001, his number in the camp, a bit similar to toot in lowercase letters.”
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
“I think it’s only nonsense because you refuse to believe it.”
“Where is this Manfred Toot now?”
Major Red laughs, looking downward and shaking his head. “Why do you think you have the right to interrogate me, when you’re most likely the suspicious egg on this island?”
I ram the desk again, in desperation for an answer this time. “Is Manfred Toot still on this island?”
“You’re such an annoying woman, Miss June. Manfred Toot’s information is classified at the moment. I will tell you nothing about him.” He raises his eyes to meet mine again. “All you need to know is that he found the bodies buried deep in dry earth. It’s like the Nazis wanted the bones to decompose as slowly as possible—maybe a sinister way to show us what they had done to our grandfathers and grandmothers.”
“You’re lying. Making a story up on the go. Most of the skeletons didn’t look old. I’m not even sure if it’s possible those bones survived that long. Seventy years? Are you kidding me?”
“Miracles happen.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why, Miss June? Haven’t you survived an unsurvivable plane crash yourself?” His gaze defies me and strips me from top to bottom again.
“That’s not the point. I know what I saw. There were clumps of flesh everywhere.”
“That was probably mud. I am told that you need to rest.”
“And the horrible burning smell?”
“That’s because I send my soldiers to burn the place from time to time, so the stench won’t reach the wards. We just discovered it last year and never had the time to do anything about it. All we did was build the wall.”
“The wall? Now I’m sure you’re making this up. The swastikas?”
“What about the swastikas? My soldiers drew them to remind us this is what Nazis did, not us.”
“You’re just messing with
my mind. You’re twisting every fact into unbelievable circumstances.”
“Coming from someone who claims she doesn’t remember who she is and has a gun in her bag.”
“Don’t start.” I wave my hands in the air. “What about the hospital gowns? They looked fresh.”
“What hospital gowns?”
“They were scattered all over the place. Lime-green hospital gowns, right next to the wristbands.”
Major Red rolls his eyes. “What wristbands?”
“I saw them in the Furnace, next to the dead women.” I point at the window, not knowing left from right. I realize I have no grasp of where I am exactly. Ashlyn must have reached the Furnace through sheer luck. “Take me there, and I will show you. Hundreds of wristbands with women’s names on them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “Let’s hypothetically say there are wristbands—why is it a problem that they have women’s names on them?”
“The skeletons are only women. Not one man has been burned in the Furnace.”
“How could you possible know that?” He isn’t asking. It’s a statement. “I can’t take this anymore. I have much more important things to take care of. My whole island is threatened by a possible hurricane, for God’s sake.”
I take a step back and slump into the chair, mad at myself. What is happening to me? Am I really mad? Is that it? The blaring sound attacks my ears again, and I am forced to cover my ears and close my eyes.
“I’ve been as nice as possible to you because Dr. Suffolk asked me to,” Major Red says. “But I am growing increasingly impatient with you. I can’t believe you’re accusing me of being a Nazi who is burning women in a gas station. In fact, you’re the one I am suspicious of. You claim you’re amnesiac, and we haven’t proven this yet. How do I know you’re not lying? If all you want is to remember who you are and go home, why are you snooping around the island, sending a poor nurse to her death? You carry no identification and I have no proof you were even on the plane. To top it off, you carry a gun. Not just any gun, but a gun with a swastika stamped on it. Who is the Nazi now?”