by Nick Twist
“If you don’t come out now, we’ll break the door,” a nurse yells.
“If your kid was a boy, I’d ask you to call it Ryan, but it’s not,” he says. “Pray for me.”
“I will see you soon, Ryan,” I say.
“I don’t think so.” He smiles bitterly.
He is about the throw the wet gown away when his hand comes across a piece of paper. He unfolds it and reads it: “January, April, May, June, or August?”
“I found it in the Crib,” I say, twisting my head back. “I thought I imagined it.”
Ryan’s eyes moisten. He rubs the paper with the tip of his middle finger, as if caressing it.
“Do you know what it means?” I ask.
He nods with blinking eyes. I can’t interpret the look on his face. It’s as if he is saying goodbye but is so happy and sincere about it. I don’t understand how.
The nurses rap on the door harder. I can hear the sound of heavy boots outside. The soldiers.
I find myself abruptly crawling into the tunnel, fearing for my daughter’s life. The Kindle light is faint, but it’ll do. Whatever is going on with Ryan, it’s too late to discuss, though I’m dying to know what the months mean.
Farther in, I hear him shout into the tunnel behind me. He says, “It’s either August or June. You choose.”
87
Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean
Jack feared for his future wife in the ocean below. Instead of actually searching for the last girl, he swam after Irene everywhere. Irene was fierce and relentless. She would not give up. He could not stand to lose her, so he ended up being her guardian angel.
They’d been diving too deep, especially in these weather conditions. The water was cold and murky. They’d come across too many plane parts. Wreckage from the fall. More seats. No girl.
Irene took a deeper dive. Jack followed.
They’d been told the last girl is in her late twenties but hadn’t been given a picture of her. Dixon was a dick about it, challenging them, because he didn’t want them to do it. He wanted everyone to go home.
Even Jack had doubts, but he was not going to abandon the love of his life. He’d never met a braver girl. He’d never felt so connected and real like he did with Irene. He wanted to be the father of her children.
Irene turned to face him and signaled her desire to go up. Finally, Jack thought, she must have given up on the girl. He willingly complied and paddled to the surface, as slow as possible in order to balance the pressure.
On the surface, he took off his mask, “Are we done?”
“Done with the ocean.” She said.
“I don’t understand.”
“The ocean tides are taking the plane wreckage in one direction,” she pointed behind her.
“The direction of the wind, yes I saw it.” Jack shouted as a wave almost swallowed both of them.
“I have a theory.”
“No theories, Irene. We have to leave. She could not have made it.”
“Just hear me out,” she spat water. “If she had the tiniest chance for survival, let’s say she hung onto some of plane’s wreckage, she must have drifted that way.”
“Come on. She would have sunk. Most of the plane parts are underwater.”
“Most, yes, but the rest is floating all around.”
“That’s a farfetched scenario.”
“Miracles are farfetched stories, Jack,” she said. “I’m going, with or without you.”
“Going where? This isn’t a park ride. We may end up with no oxygen in the tank. We don’t have coordinates or GPS or maps for this part of the ocean. It’s outside our permitted diameter of search.”
“I know, but we might not need the oxygen tanks. I have a feeling she is on the surface, hanging onto something.”
“I have a feeling we’re going to die.”
“We won’t Jack,” she smiled like an enthusiastic child with a new toy.
“This is suicidal, Irene.”
“It’s not. Man up, hubby.” She winked.
“Did you just call me hubby.”
Her smile broadened. “If we save her, I might call you the father of my children. Come on.”
“All right.” He shouted. “Which direction again?”
“West, Jack. I think the last girl has drifted west.”
88
My knees and elbows are on fire. I can barely tolerate the pain as I keep crawling. It’s getting harder to breathe in this stink hole of a tunnel. I suspect it’s getting narrower the farther I crawl.
“Breathe, just breathe,” I say.
I try to breathe steadily with the least effort possible, which is a lot already in this claustrophobic tunnel. It feels like a long coffin.
I can’t go back. I can’t exit from the sides. There is only one way out: by reaching that light in the end. That, or I’ll die here, eaten by the rats squealing next to me.
A faint shouting occurs in the distance. It’s coming from the bathroom behind me. I’m too far in now, so I can’t make out the words. Ryan must be battling with everyone else. How come he likes me? How long have I known him? What’s his last name?
I inhale and cough dust but keep crawling ahead. My back is in pain, and I’m feeling colder. I suppose the cold means I’m nearing the end of the tunnel.
The shouting escalates. How many people are in the bathroom now? What are they saying? How is Ryan dealing with it? What is he telling them?
The light ahead dims. My heart pounds like a tribal drum in my ears. It’s easy to hear the sound of your organs in this tiny space.
Ryan said the opening at the end leads to the forest, which is dark. I tell myself it won’t be dark. I convince myself there is light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s essential to lie to oneself when shit hits the fan. A small lie, big enough to overcome a terrible moment. I try not to go deep in the rabbit hole of my mind again. I’m crawling on all fours in a real-life rabbit hole already.
Is this rabbit hole the way out to save my daughter, or is it a way out of my addiction and induced insanity?
“Shut up,” I tell myself.
I force my right arm into an awkward movement and pat my stomach. The love of my life is inside me. I’d do anything for her.
“Mommy is going to survive this,” I tell her, wondering what I should name her.
The sound of a bullet echoes behind me. Someone just fired a gun.
Pray for me, I remember him saying. I hope I will not have to. I hope he is still alive.
I stop crawling, frozen by the feeling of guilt. Did they kill him? Who did? Maybe Ryan shot at them to escape.
Reality cracks in and proves me wrong. Someone roars behind me. A man. Not Ryan. His voice faintly echoes in the tunnel. Goosebumps spring on my arms. It’s Major Red.
“Come back!”
I don’t know why I can’t move. That beast calling behind me. The killer of pregnant women.
Why the fuck can’t I move?
“Come back, Brooklyn!”
My limbs are cemented to the ground. I’m so pissed off at myself. What the fuck?
Crawl, June, crawl! You’re so close. So fucking close to the opening.
It baffles me why he calls me Brooklyn when he knows my name is June.
Shit, June. Why does it matter? Keep crawling. What’s stopping you?
Another shot sounds behind me. It’s inside the tunnel. Major Red is shooting at me.
It’s fight or flight now. My limbs move like a skidding rat’s. My breathing is all over the place. The tunnel’s opening is so near. I have to reach it before they reach me. Of course, they’ll be coming for me from the other side. But if I don’t reach it soon enough, I will die inside this rabbit hole.
My mind races. I’m unable to see the tunnel’s opening. Did I imagine it? I tell myself no. This is real. My daughter inside me is real.
I remember Brooklyn now. It’s the name I gave to Mindy the nurse when I was with Ashlyn.
“Come b
ack, or I’ll kill your sweetheart.”
Another shot sounds. It doesn’t echo inside the tunnel this time. I hear a faint scream. It’s Ryan.
My brain tells me I can’t do anything about it. Whether Ryan did like me—or love me—or not, he is never going to be a priority over my daughter.
I’ll pray for you, Ryan, just like you asked. I wish I knew your full name, but I will never forget you, even if I’m never going to remember my true past.
Right now, I have to crawl, if not for my life, then for the life inside me.
89
I reach the tunnel’s opening and crawl out without scanning my surroundings. My body hits the ground like a sack then rolls down a hill. It’s too dark to see. Too fast to adjust or hang on to something. The only thing slowing me down is the muddy ground.
My eyes haven’t adjusted yet. A scream escapes my lungs as I plow into a horizontal tree branch on the ground. The pain doesn’t faze me. I reach for my stomach and twist my body to rest on my back and protect my daughter.
How long have I been pregnant? My stomach isn’t showing. I don’t feel like I’m pregnant. Was I impregnated sometime in the last two days? Up in Ward Nine?
Though I should be moving, I need a moment to catch my breath. It’s only seconds before the soldiers will come for me. They must know where the tunnel leads, and even if they don’t, it’s not going to be hard to find me.
A couple of stars twinkle in the murky sky above. It’s not raining anymore, but everything around me is wet. My left arm still hurts. An irritating feeling crawls through my body, from inside out. It’s not pain. It’s something else. It’s as if I can’t stand being in my own skin. Dr. Suffolk said it was time for my dose. I guess I’m in withdrawal now. My cocaine head needs a fix.
I pat my stomach again. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”
It occurs to me to wonder who her father is, but I skip the thought. I think I know the answer but won’t—
A faint light flashes on the ground. I prop myself up and crawl back instantly, only to realize it’s my Kindle. I should leave it behind and start running, but I’m worried it won’t turn off and will lead the soldiers to my location. Crawling back, I pick it up. I’m right. The button was broken in the fall.
I can’t run with it this way. It will constantly give away my location. Best to bury it, but then I’m suddenly curious, and start scrolling through my books. It will only take a minute. What if it has answers?
The list of books is infinite. I’m apparently an avid reader. It explains how I make up stories and mix fact with fiction. The Kindle is extensively organized. Categories, collections, and folders. The collections are labeled Romance, Thriller, Erotica, and Bestsellers.
My eyes seek something that stands out.
There is a folder with authors’ names. Stephen King. Dennis Lehane. Gillian Flynn, and Yann Martel.
I don’t remember any of them, but their names seem familiar. Curious I scroll through, looking for something that stands out.
Gillian Flynn’s folder has one book, Sharp Objects.
Dennis Leanne’s folder has one book, Shutter Island.
Yann Martel’s has one book, Life of Pi.
Stephen King’s folder has one novella, the Breathing Method.
None of the titles mean anything to me, but why is there one book in each folder? Those writers must have written more.
Time is scant, but I look for more folders. I come across one that sends shiver down my spine.
What the fuck?
The author’s name just can’t be true.
A beam of light infiltrates the night. Shit, I wasted time. I have to keep on going. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Still my hands resist my wish to bury the Kindle. I have to reread that last author’s name. How is this possible? It makes no sense.
The soldiers call my name in the distance. Soon the light will spot me. I have no choice but to bury the Kindle. I wish I could take it with me.
After burying it, I decide I have to let myself free-roll down the hill to buy myself distance from the soldiers.
My body is hit by every stone and bump during the fall. I can’t feel any of it. All I’m thinking about is the author folder labeled Ashlyn Ward.
Suddenly something stops me from rolling down. It’s not a log. It’s someone’s boots. Stinky sweat attacks my nostrils. Above me stands a soldier, sneering at me.
“Oh, hello, blondie.” Hecker grins. “Where do you think you’re going?”
90
Mercy Medical Center, New York
“What happened to Ashlyn Ward?” Floyd said.
“I prefer if you sit down,” Dr. Hope said. “This one is stranger than fiction.”
Floyd picked his phone up and sat in the chair. “All ears.”
“Ashlyn lived in a small town near Long Island,” Dr. Hope began.
“That’s here.” He pointed at the window.
“Yeah, but I bet you’ve never heard of her town. A small island. One of those remote places, scattered in between bigger cities, barely a dot on the map that no one cares about. Electricity wasn’t always available, nor was water in certain times of the year. It’s hard to believe such places exist in America.”
“It’s not. I’ve seen them. It’s a disgrace they’re not talked about.”
“So you get my point,” she adjusted her glasses. “Ashlyn lived there with her sister and later with a stepbrother. Their father left when they were kids. A drug dealer. Their mother, a cocaine addict.”
“I see.”
“The mother worked double shifts. She was a nurse, but also worked in an asylum were Ashlyn’s grandmother spent some time. Eventually, her addiction pulled her down the drain. She ended up in a mental hospital, the same time the grandmother ironically left.”
“How old was Ashlyn?”
“Fourteen years old.”
“Go on.”
“Before entering the asylum, their mother re-married another man. A stranger who’d mysteriously appeared in town a few months before the wedding.”
“Drug dealer?”
“On the contrary. A strong man in exceptionally good health. He claimed he was a doctor once but lost his license because of an abortion he gave to a young girl, out of empathy.”
“Suspicious story.”
“It also seemed strange he was in possession of big amounts of money.”
“Why would a rich man come to such a small town?”
“Even stranger was the fact that he didn’t oppose their mother’s addiction, but paid for it.”
“He was hiding from the law in an off-the-grid town.”
Dr. Hope nodded.
“Usual story,” Floyd said. “I come across it every day. Small towns, let alone a small island, like you said, attract outlaws all the time.”
“It wouldn’t have been much of a story if he was just an outlaw, but I will get to that,” she said. “Remember the stepbrother I mentioned?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That was his son,” she said. “Father and son were part of some secret sect whose members hid on the island.”
“What kind of sect?”
“In the book, Ashlyn describes them as lunatics. They never had a name, but they had their own guns.”
“Custom-made?”
“Yes, but nothing heavy duty. Silver guns. I don’t remember the brand, but they had their insignia stamped on it.”
“Insignia?” Floyd had begun to dislike this story.
“A red sign they stamped on the side of the gun.” Dr. Hope’s voice weakened a little.
“What sign?”
“A swastika. A red swastika.”
“Fuck.” Floyd let out a sigh.
“Ashlyn could never explain who they were. Either neo-Nazis or just followers who hid among us.”
“Were they Germans or Americans?”
“American passports. She believed their fathers and mothers escaped Germany, pretending th
ey were Jews.”
“A plausible assumption. America is full of them. I’m shocked I’ve never heard of this story. I’ve led a few cases, catching such evil men.”
“That was one of Ashlyn’s remarks. That the evil that I’m about to tell you has never been documented or investigated.”
Floyd lowered his head. “We’re not God in the FBI. A lot of shit escapes us. Sometimes we overlook cases in favor of others.” He raised his head to meet her eyes. “I’ve been guilty of that in the past, when I underestimated the severity of Flight TWA 800 in 1996.”
“We all have our demons.”
“What did those men do to Ashlyn?”
Dr. Hope adjusted her glasses again. Words seemed heavy on her tongue. Her firm jaw line lost its strength. “They raped her.”
Floyd shrugged. The way Dr. Hope said it suggested this was only the beginning. He had nothing to contribute.
“Over and over again.”
“All of them?”
“Well, she mentioned her stepbrother was first,” she said. “She never mentioned his full name, but the boys called him Hecker.”
91
Hecker grips my ankles and pulls me across the mud. I wriggle and kick, but it has no effect on him. His heavy boots thud on the ground as I try to grab on to anything on along the way.
“Let go of me.” I spit at his back.
“Shut up, whore!”
“Where are you taking me?”
“You know where.”
I have no idea what he is talking about. My gown folds under me. I’m half-naked. My right hand reaches for the boulders on the ground, but Hecker is too fast. It’s too dark to see where he is taking me, but he’s dragging me upward, in the opposite direction from the submarine.
“Please, Hecker,” I plead. “Let me go.”
“I will, once I’m done with you.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He stops without answering me, and momentarily drops my feet. I watch him reach for his zipper. I roll over and jump to my feet.