2050: Psycho Island

by Williams, Phil M.

  Derek tossed the empty container with the rope across the six-foot gap. Then he tossed the MREs one by one to Gavin, who handed the MREs to Summer. She placed the MREs into the plastic recycling bin, careful not to make a sound. Once the bin was full, they lowered it to Javier, who packed the MREs into their bags. Voices in the distance stopped them in their tracks. It went quiet, and they resumed their tossing, packing, and lowering. They didn’t talk to each other at all during this process, hypersensitive to making noise. They did this six times, each one taking about five minutes.

  Once all 144 meals were delivered to Javier at the base of the wall, Derek jumped across the chasm. He took a running start but didn’t jump high enough. His foot caught the side of the wall, and he fell forward on top of the wall, his outstretched hands and his knees saving his face. Derek winced, rolled over, and sat up. He pulled up his pant legs, blood already leaking from his skinned knees.

  “You all right?” Gavin asked, whispering.

  Derek nodded and stood, his face twisted in pain.

  In the alley, Javier had packed the MREs into the four duffel bags and the four backpacks, putting roughly twenty ready-to-eat meals in each bag. Gavin hung from the fifteen-foot wall and dropped. Summer did the same, Javier and Gavin bracing Summer’s fall. Gavin supported Derek’s fall, but Summer and Javier wanted nothing to do with him. Derek grunted as his feet hit the pavement.

  Each bag was filled with roughly thirty pounds worth of MREs. Between the four of them, they had to carry 240 pounds worth of bootie. Derek, Javier, and Gavin each carried about sixty-five pounds, leaving Summer with forty-five. Everyone had a backpack on their back and a duffel bag over their chest.

  Not wanting to be seen by the guards in front, they took the alleyway to the back and took a big loop around to the river. Derek walked with a limp, but he didn’t complain. Gavin and Javier walked slightly hunched over from the weight on their backs. Summer’s shoulders and lower back ached.

  Despite the rising sun, most of the Aryans still slept. As the four crept through the park, a few Aryans stirred in their hovels and makeshift houses, but nobody sounded the alarm.

  By the time they reached the river, the night was gone, replaced by a bright morning sun. They found their canoes and tossed their bags inside. Just before they launched their canoes into the river, they heard, “Stop!” and “Get ’em!”

  Javier pushed their canoe into the river, hopping into the back as he did so. Summer was in the front, already paddling. Gavin and Derek were one boat length ahead of them. A gunshot snapped passed Summer’s ear. She bent down reflexively, her head between her knees. Then another shot. Summer flinched and bent lower.

  “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.

  92

  Naomi and the Ban

  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.

  93

  Derek and Joy and Meaning

  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.”

  They walked down the stone steps. “If we can get one person off the island with the footage, it might cause enough of an uproar for people to demand a closure and for a review of all the antisocial personality tests. It’s the only hope we have of ever getting out of here.”

  “Has anyone ever escaped?”

  “I doubt it. The Netas have electric planes, but, as far as I know, they’re shot down by the drones as soon as they’re airborne.”

  “Where’d they get the planes?”

  “I’m not sure, but they used to smuggle drugs to the US with electric planes, so I’m assuming they stored their planes at the military base. Before the army evacuated, they built an earth-sheltered complex to withstand hurricanes.”

  Derek and Roger walked through the lower section of the fort, the morning sun filtering through the gun ports. Fred and Willow were installing the snorkels on the sub.

  “How’s it coming?” Roger asked.

  Fred and Willow looked up from their work. Willow continued to work, but Fred approached.

  “We’ll have the snorkels installed today,” Fred said, wiping his hands on his shorts. “After that, we still have some work on the ballast, but I’m hopin’ she’ll be ready for a test run in three or four days. Of course, we still need the batteries.”

  “Do the Aryan’s have lithium ion batteries?” Roger asked Derek.

  “I don’t know,” Derek replied. “Wade has solar panels on his roof, and they do have some lights inside, so they must have some type of battery to store the power.”

  Roger shook his head. “They’re probably lead acid. Houses with a battery backup usually use lead acid because they’re cheaper and weight’s not an issue.”

  “If they’re lead acid, they’re prob’ly in bad shape anyway,” Fred said. “You need distilled water to maintain ’em in proper workin’ condition. To get to where we need to go, we need small lightweight, but powerful batteries. Solid state lithium ion is our only chance of gettin’ off this island.”

  Willow turned from the pontoon, a wrench in hand. “You workin’ or flappin’ your gums?”

  “Flappin’ my gums,” Fred replied with a crooked grin.

  She frowned and went back to her work.

  “What about the blockade?” Derek asked. “I know this is a submarine, but I’m sure those naval ships have sonar.”

  Roger said, “We think the blockade leaves when there’s a hurricane. If we can follow in the wake of the hurricane, as soon as it’s safe, the sub might make it to the Virgin Islands.”

  “How far is it to the Virgin Islands?”

  “About seventy miles.”

  Derek let out a low whistle. “And this thing can go seventy miles?”

  Roger nodded, almost imperceptibly. “With a full charge and the right batteries, we’re hopeful. We’ve done quite a bit of research and calculations to make our best estimation. Ocean currents. Prevailing winds. Distance. Likely power and speed of the sub at full throttle.”

  “But you still don’t know for sure?”

  Fred chuckled. “Ain’t nothin’ for sure in this place.”

  “Why not use a boat? It would be faster, and I bet it would use a lot less battery power.”

  “Because the satellite imaging will catch us,” Roger said. “The drones will make it back before the ships, and they’d shoot us right out of the water.”

  “What if we stole one of those electric planes?” Derek asked.

  Fred howled with laughter. “You must have a death wish.”

  Roger gave Fred a disapproving look. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that we could successfully steal a plane from the Netas, and we had a clear runway to take off. We’d probably run into the same problem as a boat. The drones would shoot us down.”

  “But a plane would be a lot faster,” Derek said. “The drones have to clear out in a hurricane too. We’d probably make it to the Virgin Islands before the drones made it back from the hurricane.”

  “The drones do better in inclement weather than those little Cessnas,” Roger continued, “and they’re much faster. By the time it’s safe to fly, the drones would probably be back or at least close by.”

  Fred said, “I tell you what. If I was runnin’ the Netas, and I didn’t care about my people dyin’, I’d paint one of them planes flat black. Then I’d take off after a hurricane with a bunch of white planes. I’d fly the black plane real low and have the white planes flyin’ over top so they could be my shields. No way the drones get ’em all.”

  94

  Jacob and the Drones

  The men of Project Freedom had launched two drones a few hours after Jacob and Rebecca had arrived at their bunker complex. Jacob and Rebecca were now in the Project Freedom command center, watching the drone footage along with Cesar and two of his underlings. The drones were on autopilot, crisscrossing the ruins of the Virgin Islands. They saw primitive farms, people gathering wild food, people hunting. Most had tan or dark skin, with rags for clothing, or little clothing at all.

  The cameras mounted on the underside of the drones zoomed in on the faces of the islanders, comparing their features with Derek’s. The drones had scanned hundreds of people on the sparsely populated island with no matches. But mostly they saw acres and acres of jungle wilderness and empty beaches.

  Of course, Rebecca thought the drones were in Puerto Rico aka the United States Penal Colony East. Rebecca had given Cesar digital pictures of Derek to upload into the facial
recognition software. The drones were capable of recognizing a face from two hundred feet in the air. The most exciting event of the day was when an islander shot one of the drones with a shotgun. The drone had been hit but not fatally. Cesar recalled the drone. The damage had been superficial, just some birdshot.

  After four hours of scouring the countryside through the eyes of the drones, Jacob said, “Maybe we should take a break.”

  “Not until we find him,” Rebecca said, her eyes glued to the screen.

  Jacob didn’t like her watching the footage. He worried that she might suspect that the footage wasn’t from Puerto Rico. At one point she had said, “This isn’t what I pictured.”

  “It doesn’t matter if we watch or not. We won’t find him. The drone will,” Jacob said.

  “He’s right,” Cesar said, interjecting. “Why don’t you two take a walk on the beach?”

  “Is it safe?” Rebecca asked.

  “If you take your friends.”

  Rob and Billy accompanied Jacob and Rebecca to the beach, wearing full battle-rattle. As Jacob and Rebecca walked on the white sandy beach, Rob and Billy followed at a polite distance, their rifles pointed at the sand. Rebecca stopped and gazed out over the bright blue water. Tiny waves lapped the shoreline.

  “He’s only seventy miles away, but he might as well be on another planet,” Rebecca said.

  Jacob took her hand. “We’ll find him.” Dead.

  95

  Summer and 1776

  Summer stood on the lower wall of the fort, forty feet up, looking at the white caps and the waves crashing against the shoreline. The ocean wind whipped through her hair. The sun was an orange orb, hanging low on the horizon. Black clouds approached from the east.

  She thought about Conner and her baby, Byron. She thought about her father. He’d disappeared, leaving only a note. She wondered if her arrest was somehow connected. She wondered if her father knew what had happened to her. Maybe Roger’s right. He’ll pilot the sub to the Virgin Islands with the video and blow the lid off this place. Maybe they’ll admit that the tests were forged. Maybe they’ll rescue us and take us home.