The Islands at the End of the World

by Austin Aslan

  “Just … order something, will you?”

  “Dad, I know I wouldn’t actually be going out there. I just don’t know why you have to get all high and mighty about it.”

  “How else am I supposed to react? You’re an epileptic. Your mom and I breathe into paper bags whenever you surf. Don’t you realize that? I never should have taught you how to do it. I should have known …”

  “What?”

  “That you’d fall in love with it, just like your old man.”

  I cross my arms. “You use the same excuse for not letting me drive. Great.”

  “Lei!”

  I’m silent, staring out at the waves.

  “Come on,” he says kindly. “Let’s eat, okay?”

  I open a menu.

  There’s a note taped on the inside of the first page:

  Sorry for the inconvenience, but we must regrettably double the menu prices across the board in order to remain in operation today.

  Mahalo for your understanding,

  —Management

  Dad says, “Order anything you want, Lei. Eat up.”

  “Fine, I’ll have two of everything.”

  “I’m serious,” he says. “Meals may get scarce before things improve. Good thing we stocked up at Costco.”

  At the next table, four men in company polo shirts bark at their waiter for more chips and salsa. The waiter nods at them as he approaches us. A Hawaiian with a battered smile, he musters his best aloha.

  Dad says, “Thanks for keeping things running for yet another day. I hope those fellows are tipping you well.”

  The waiter smiles. “Mahalo, sir.”

  Dad says, “We’ll start with your biggest plate of nachos, and a liliko`i and mango margarita.”

  I order a hearty carnitas meal. We sit back and watch families play in the long string of pools. The kids are having a blast. The parents all look like they’re Bill Murray caught in Groundhog Day.

  When does a vacation in paradise start to grow old?

  Today, apparently.

  There are even more yachts anchored in the bay now, like some sort of Pacific fleet of millionaires has arrived to launch a surprise attack on Honolulu. A military helicopter buzzes low on its way toward Pearl Harbor.

  “We should try those yachters,” I say.

  “Sounds good. I hope we can figure something out without too much hassle.”

  The four men are loud enough to overhear.

  “That was no presidential bunker. He would have had a room set up to look like the Oval Office, if he were down in some compound. Did you see that curtain? Thrown up to keep us from knowing he was in a cave.”

  “Why does he get to run off to safety while we’re left to … pound mai tais on the beach?”

  They all laugh.

  “He knew it was going to happen as early as Sunday night, right? Canceled big events in Miami.”

  “What if China has some new bug they used to coordinate a satellite attack? They could have been planning it for years.”

  “Or an electromagnetic pulse. But none of that explains a tsunami.”

  “Could nuclear bombs interfere with electronics and cause an earthquake?”

  “I don’t know. That doesn’t sound right, either, though. We still have hair.”

  “There was the meteor. And lots of falling stars the past few nights. Maybe we’re going through an asteroid belt, like the Millennium Falcon.”

  “Still doesn’t explain the electronics.”

  “No. Dark matter? A black hole? Or a Stargate! Alien invasion. The green haze is spaceship exhaust.”

  “We’re not in a movie, pal. I just want to get on a plane. I’m ready to empty my pockets to one of those boats over there.”

  “And how many do you think could make it twenty-five hundred miles to the mainland without GPS?”

  “How could you miss it? Point east and go.”

  “With what fuel?” one snaps. “You going to help crew a sailboat?”

  “Sure!”

  “I’d rather take my chances with a native. Sail by the stars. If they could leave Tahiti a thousand years ago and hit Hawai`i on a canoe, my money’s on the locals.”

  Our waiter arrives at their table. He drops off another round of mai tais and chips, saying, “Better watch out. What makes you think the ‘natives’ would help you get anywhere?” He’s smiling.

  The other three rock with laughter.

  The first guy isn’t laughing. “Jesus, what is this? Where’s your manager?”

  “Probably dealing with another asshole. Get your own chips next time. They’re right over there.” He leaves, smiling.

  “Jerk!” the guy shouts.

  I share a stunned look with Dad. “Just ignore them,” he says. “Let’s move.”

  We choose another table. I stare at the sea, thinking about the first Hawaiians, the ones who arrived from Tahiti, like the guy mentioned. Why did they come here? Why did they leave home? How scary the voyage must have been—and how miraculous when they found these shores.

  The waiter brings us nachos and Dad’s margarita. Dad gives him a high five and we all share a knowing smile.

  It is a good thing.

  “What?” I ask Dad.

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you say something?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  I rub my temples with my elbows propped on the table.

  “Everything cool, hon?”

  “Yeah. I’m just … I’ve been cooped up for too long.”

  “I know, hon. Maybe we can catch a giant wave all the way back to Hilo.”

  “Dad, what if they’re right? What if things never get better?”

  Dad lowers his nacho. He looks away, toward the sailboats gathered on the bay. His neck muscles are tight as harp strings.

  I belong here, and I am well. It is almost ready to come out.

  I freeze. “What’d you say?”

  Dad eyes me sternly.

  I can feel it coming, but I can’t speak to warn him. He continues as if everything is normal, but my flickering mind garbles his words. “Lei, it’s tay woo early to be tax like that. Those guys are dunk. Don’t let your imag—”

  These islands are here for me, and I crave what they will offer. It is a good thing.

  Strange trees rustle in a warm evening breeze, their shadows dancing over a mottled, black-and-white beach. Waves lap the shore, cresting gently over shelves of ropy, cooled earth. I tighten the luffing sail and push closer and closer to the land, where sleeping creatures await, oblivious to me, the newcomer, and to the transformation that sweeps behind me, the pigs and dogs and rats and breadfruit that will soon march up the dark slopes and sweep away the old world, leaving something distorted in its place.

  I have dreamt of these shores. I was born here, but I slipped away. Now I have reached the shallows, at long last, guided across the endless waters by ancient stars.

  A rumble grows beneath the land. I loosen the mainsheet, feeling the weight of the mountain’s unrest. It trembles, vomiting toxic fire. But I will not be held at bay. My destiny is laid out before me. I have fled a troubled shore countless stretches away, restless, in search of adventure. Outcast, forced to flee. Famished and ill, in need of a new land to bleed.

  I am Leilani. Spellbound, I blossom.

  CHAPTER 8

  I’m dizzy. I don’t know where I am.

  Someone’s talking to me. Who is he? What’s happening?

  Dad. I focus now. Hotel room. A seizure. Just relax, let it all come back.

  I close my eyes.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “It’s Friday night, hon. Happy May Day.”

  “Friday?” Over twenty-four hours. A new record. “Did those test meds backfire?”

  “What hasn’t, these days? Lei, here. You’ve missed a day.” He hands me a pill and a glass of water. “Great.”

  “I tried to get you to take them. Sorry. Almost drowned you.”

  “
What’s wrong with me? Weren’t you worried?”

  “Yes! You had a big one. Two, actually, I think. But your breathing and pulse were fine. What could I do?”

  “Yeah.” I can hear generators humming in the near distance.

  “You feel better now?”

  “Weird dreams. I never dream during seizures. Remind me not to sign up to be a lab rat again. I’m … What’s going on?” I swallow my medicine and wade through the fog in my mind. We’re still in a hotel room. My head hurts, and I feel nauseated. “Is everything better?”

  “Out there? No.”

  “We’re supposed to fly home tomorrow.”

  “No flights. More stuff’s on the fritz now. Whatever’s happening is getting worse. People are wising up, too. We’ve officially missed the early-bird special.”

  My seizures have ruined Dad’s plans. “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Don’t be. We’ll figure it out. In the morning. Let’s try to sleep some more. You may feel pretty rested at this point, but tomorrow we need to pick up where we left off.”

  “I love you, Dad.”

  He hugs me. “We’ll get through it, okay? Tomorrow we head home.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  One way or another, we’re going back to our family.

  * * *

  I awake in the morning with a clear mind and no nausea. Hungry. I rummage through Dad’s cache of goodies and scarf down an apple and some granola bars. Even though I’ve safely eaten this same brand for ages, I check the labels for aspartame. Dad moves quickly to pack, so I pick up my pace.

  Dad snatches the Honolulu Star-Advertiser from the door while I brush my teeth and pack. Dad laughs as he holds the paper. It’s only four pages long, like my high school newspaper.

  A full-page photo displays giant tongues of flame leaping from the ruins of a military helicopter crashed into the side of UH Manoa’s Aloha Stadium, just a couple miles from here. There are photos of gridlocked traffic, crowds at the airport, and congested gasoline-distribution plants with no gas to distribute. The articles report that there is no communication with the outside world. The National Guard and coast guard have been deployed throughout the islands. Residents have been told to remain at home to alleviate traffic and conserve resources. Oil tankers, a crippled cruise ship, and other cargo ships have trickled in, but harbors are clogging as fewer and fewer ships leave port. Tourists have swarmed the ports looking for passage; there are far too few seaworthy vessels to accommodate them all. Only a few sentences about the cruise ship that capsized near Kaua`i. Six hundred passengers. Number of survivors unknown. People in Līhu`e watched it slowly sink a mile offshore in the hours after the tsunami. The sea was too wild to attempt a rescue.

  It leaves me short of breath and speechless. But the worst part: there’s nothing in the paper about the Big Island.

  “Look at this.” Dad reads:

  WAIKĪKĪ—Amid concerns about sanitation, food shortages, power supplies, and housing, a plan to relocate tourists is in the works.

  The draft plan would send some tourists to Marine Corps Base Hawai`i at Kāne`ohe Bay and could eventually put them on navy ships headed for the West Coast.

  “The airport and many of O`ahu’s hotels and resorts simply won’t have the capacity to safely house guests for much longer,” said army spokesperson Stephen Tybert. “The hard fact is that everyone’s going to be asked to make sacrifices if this continues.”

  Waikīkī may also have to be closed if the situation progresses, officials said. Already police and military have been sent to protect O`ahu’s tourism infrastructure in the event that nonresidents are relocated.

  “Hello!” Dad says. “Let’s set up concentration camps for fifty thousand fat rednecks in Hawaiian shirts. Welcome to paradise! That’ll boost morale around here.”

  “Makes sense to me,” I say. “The natives are growing restless. That article is about making locals happy.”

  Dad pauses. “You’re right,” he says. “The governor is still thinking about votes. Screw the tourists.”

  I can feel myself glowing at Dad’s praise as I put on my last clean shirt, my favorite cami, and white cargo shorts, looped with a campy belt that I should have stopped loving when I was twelve.

  We put on our packs and share the duffels and tote bags. We file into the lobby, right into an agitated crowd. People are pacing back and forth, looking at the ground or shaking their heads, digging ruts into the filthy marble tiles. Some weep. Others are shoving each other near one of the crowded wall outlets, holding phone chargers in clenched fists.

  A door bursts open and a flock of hotel employees stampedes into the lobby.

  Guests surround them in an angry mob. Shouting fills the air. The employees march toward the main doors. Dad pulls me inside the circle of his arm. A fistfight breaks out near the grand piano. Guests kick at the bolted double doors of the restaurant, pour behind the reception counter. A vase is swept to the floor and shatters.

  I stare. A woman is shoved our way, and her flailing arm hits me in the face. My nose starts to bleed.

  “Leilani.” Dad tugs me into the open elevator and pounds the close button. The doors shut. We’re alone with a bald guy.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” I’m pinching my nose, but blood drips onto my favorite camisole.

  “Oh, man,” Dad says.

  I can’t believe this.

  “Here.” The bald guy fumbles through a pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. Loose change spills to the floor. “It’s clean. Keep it.”

  “Thanks,” I honk, holding my head back.

  “Crazy out there, eh?” he says, helping to position the kerchief on my nose. “Like we’re in some twisted game show. Smile! You’re on Cannibal Camera!”

  “People are starting to lose it.” Dad ducks to collect the man’s change. “Thanks for your help.”

  “No prob. Forget the coins, man.”

  Dad picks them up anyway and gives them to the man, who winks his appreciation. “All right, time to raid the gumball machine.”

  In the parking garage, brochures and flyers line the wall. Dad studies them and stuffs brochures into the bags of food draped over his shoulders. We hurry to our car and rush out of the garage.

  And just like that, we’re caught in moderate traffic along Ala Moana Boulevard. The sky’s a bit hazy this morning—weird for Hawai`i. But other than trash piled all around, the street looks rather normal. I can’t quite fathom how ordinary it feels.

  We sit in silence as we cross over a canal out of Waikīkī, a boat harbor to our left. It’s mostly empty, in stark contrast to a couple days ago. Still, sailboats of every type bob along the marina piers. I try to see us on one of them on the open ocean and anxiety stabs my stomach.

  “Look through those brochures,” Dad instructs me. “Find out which of the helicopter tours leave from airstrips other than Honolulu International. I’m not even going to go near there.”

  I hesitate.

  “Just do it, Lei.”

  I scan the flyers. “Two companies leave from Kalaeloa Airport. That’s past Pearl Harbor.”

  “That’s it?” Dad looks very discouraged.

  “Unless you want to brave the main airport.”

  “No. Kalaeloa.” Dad heads for the main highway.

  Up ahead, a strip mall with a grocery store swarms with looters. I gasp, sinking into my seat. Food and clothing and appliances tumble from overstuffed shopping carts, and other people quickly sweep up the items. Almost everyone is armed with sticks, bats, or machetes. Some sport shotguns. I even spy a harpoon and a fishing spear.

  Dad pushes past, eyes forward and jaw clenched. He has to drive slowly through a crowd milling in the street. My eyes are glued to the spectacle. Oddly, it looks as if everyone is having fun; lots of smiles. One guy is strumming a ukulele. I recognize an expression I’ve seen many times on Kai’s face: the triumph and wonder of getting away with something. These people seem to be looting just because they can,
rejoicing in their mischievousness.

  The crowd bangs on the outside of our car. I shrink into my seat, gripping the cushion. The love taps grow steadily more intense … and then we’re through. Dad accelerates and lets out a deep breath.

  “Wow. This is really happening,” he says.

  “They were having so much fun.”

  “Yeah, but this won’t be a game to anybody for much longer.”

  We merge onto the highway and into bumper-to-bumper traffic. Where’s everyone going? Drive three hours in any direction and you end up right where you started.

  “Dad, I’m kind of scared.”

  “Me too, honey.”

  “I really miss Kai and Mom.”

  “Me too.”

  “Grandpa.”

  “I know.”

  “But—the Big Island is more rural. So this same stuff isn’t happening over there.”

  Dad is quiet. “Right. They’re safer than we are.” Something bothers me. Safer? I figure out my worry right away. “But they don’t love haoles. If people are going nuts … It kills me to say it, but maybe we’re safer here.”

  “You’re doing it again.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking about haoles and Hilo.”

  I shrug.

  “It’s not that bad, is it? I’ve never really felt it.”

  I scoff.

  “How badly are you bullied back there, Lei?”

  I stare at him. He really doesn’t get it. It’s not his fault; I only talk to Grandpa about it. “Dad, why do you think all the other professors at the U send their kids to private school?” His answer is practiced. “They’re cop-outs. They have no faith in the public schools.…”

  “Dad. It’s because their kids beg them. To get away from the bullies.”

  “Ah.” Dad frowns. He’s quiet for a while, driving. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe talk to Grandpa about it.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Be that as it may, back to the original point: we’ll be much better off at home than here. Mom and Kai and Grandpa are fine. And we’ll be back there before we know it, okay?”

  “Yeah.” It’s home. That’s all that matters.

  As we pass the junction with the road that heads over the mountains toward Kailua and the Marine Corps Base, I spy six army buses caravanning up the green slope like a great caterpillar assaulting the world’s biggest leaf. They’re the first vehicles I’ve seen that seem to have a purpose: to move people away from Honolulu, and fast.