Cut Off

by Robertson, Edward W.

Back home, she went inside the bathroom. In the mirror, the deep tan of her face surprised her. She got out a pair of scissors and turned her head for a better view, holding the nub of her index finger out of the way of the blades.

  Alden moved into the doorway, lurking like one of the wooden moai at Sands. "Don't you think this is a little sudden?"

  She extended a lock of hair and snipped it close to the scalp. She dropped the dark strand in the trash. "This is a threat. There's no mistaking it. You know where it goes from here. If we choose to stay, we then have the choice to kneel down—or to resist a much larger group. Probably, that means we die. No one's going to care. No one's going to save us. And that means I get to them now. Before things have escalated. Before they're prepared to fight at the same level."

  "I thought you were more careful than that. More creative."

  Tristan stopped the scissors mid-cut. "What else can we do, Alden?"

  "You could at least try to make sure it was them and not some dumb teenager. What if it was a single one of them and the others don't know about it? How do you know they're all against us?"

  "Quit being rational."

  He puffed his cheeks with laughter. "What about that young guy you mentioned? Tom? He obviously likes you. Bet you could talk to him."

  Notions of romance were so far removed from her frame of mind that she stared at herself in the mirror while her brain rebooted. "I'll see. No guarantees, though." She looked at Alden sidelong. "Anyway, I need to find out where the others live."

  "Tristan!"

  She put away the scissors and assembled a kit consisting of binoculars, pen and paper, and the mirror from a makeup kit for signaling. This was probably absurd, but they didn't exactly have cell phones any more, and the last of her batteries had gone dead two years ago, meaning the walkie talkies were done, too. If she and Tom wound up needing to communicate in secret, they were going to be strictly limited to pre-Edisonian methods. To be a little less conspicuous, she left her rifle at home, but took three extra magazines for her pistol, their weight tugging on her pocket.

  It was still early and she reached Lahaina by mid-morning. She took a crooked route through the streets, sticking tight to the faces of the shops, making sure the way forward was clear before moving on. She neared Front Street and moved parallel to it from two blocks away, then installed herself in her final destination, a second-story dress shop across the street from Sands.

  An hour later, with her irritation mounting, and having come to the conclusion that not saying anything to the Guardians would be more suspicious than speaking up, she went downstairs and crossed the street. Sands' front door was open. Something rasped inside; Tom was sweeping the bar.

  "Are the others here?" she said.

  He looked up, surprised, then grinned. "What brings you in?"

  "I need to speak to the Guardians. Someone vandalized my property."

  "I'll be right back." He jogged back to the patio. She heard voices buzz, but it was too soft to make out the words. Tom was back a moment later. "Go right in."

  "Thanks," Tristan said. "Stick around. I need to talk to you."

  She walked past him to the patio. Lewis' seat was empty, but Robin and Fiona sat next to each other at the rattan table, accompanied by glasses of green-brown liquid that smelled like tea mixed with garden weeds. There was no condensation on the sides of the glasses. She still wasn't used to that.

  Robin stood halfway to meet her, concern etched into his well-tanned face. "Tom says you've been vandalized?"

  Tristan smiled wryly. "You know that shed you called me in about? Last night, someone tore it down."

  Fiona's mouth dropped open. "You're sure it was vandals?"

  "Unless a hurricane snuck through in the middle of the night."

  Robin eased himself back into his chair, blinking owlishly. "No chance it was wild animals?"

  "Not unless it was a golden retriever with a pry bar." Neither had invited her to sit, but she did anyway. "Best guess is someone heard I'd taken supplies from town, but didn't get the memo that we'd sorted it out."

  Fiona pinched her upper lip. "I don't know who would have known that. Except Carlos. He's the one who met you outside the Ace."

  "Impossible," Robin said. "Carlos would never do something like that."

  "Well, who else could it be?"

  "For all we know it was another hermit." He glanced at Tristan and grimaced. "No offense intended."

  Tristan shrugged. "It's what we are."

  "I think you put too much faith in him," Fiona said. "He was awfully eager to volunteer for town watch. I've always thought he had a dark side."

  Robin folded his arms. "I trust him further than anyone else here. Present company excluded—on most occasions."

  He smiled broadly at Fiona, who smiled right back. For the first time, Tristan noticed the bands on their ring fingers.

  "I don't see who else would have known," Fiona said. "Maybe we should take a look at the damage. We might recognize something."

  Tristan jerked her chin to the side. "There's nothing to see."

  Robin reached halfway across the table toward her. "What would you like us to do?"

  "Check with your people. Maybe it was a misunderstanding. If nothing else, be aware that someone in Lahaina might be operating behind your back."

  "We can certainly do that much. I'll let you know anything we turn up."

  Tristan nodded vaguely, then smiled at him. "I didn't realize you two were married. Before or after the plague?"

  "Before." He reached for Fiona's hand. "Seventeen years and counting."

  Fiona squeezed his hand and smiled back at Tristan. "What makes you ask?"

  "It must feel pretty special," she said. "Not many couples got past the virus together."

  "Somebody had to," Robin laughed.

  "How about Maui? Have you always lived here?"

  He pursed his mouth in thought. "We've only been in Lahaina for six months. Honolulu before that, but it's nothing but gangs now. Maui's treating us much better. Got a place right by the marina."

  Tristan smiled inwardly. "Sounds wonderful." She stood, chair scraping. "Thanks for your time. I'd better get to my repairs."

  Their condolences followed her out the door. As she had spoken with Robin and Fiona, Tom's sweeping had grown closer and closer; he was right inside the doorway, half turned, pretending not to have heard. Tristan beckoned him to come with her.

  She didn't speak until they were near the front door. "How much did you hear?"

  "Some."

  "You're good at keeping your ears open, aren't you?"

  He tilted his head, uncertain whether he was being insulted. "I happen to be around when people talk."

  "Have you heard anything about this?"

  "Around here?" He dropped his voice. "You think one of the Guardians knew about it?"

  "I think that I can't rule it out." She entered the sunshine and stopped to meet his gaze. "I'm not accusing anyone. But if you heard something, would you let me know?"

  "Seems like that would be the right thing to do."

  Tristan smiled at him. After a moment, he smiled back. She headed home. The house was empty. She headed up to the shack and found Alden working to re-secure the fencing to its posts.

  "I didn't get much," she said. "But I gave them a couple pokes. We'll see if it makes anyone squirm."

  Alden sat on a folding chair and set down his pliers. "And if it doesn't?"

  "We'll see if they're stupid enough to repeat their message."

  The flames of her anger had become hot coals: quiet, but ready to erupt if fed more fuel. She joined Alden in piecing together the wreckage of the shack, starting with the fence. She wasn't sure what she'd do to replace the plywood walls. Entreat the Guardians for replacement materials, maybe. Or try the hotels, see what they had in basements and storage.

  Two days later, before she'd had time to check the resorts, the flag on their mail box was up. The envelope was blank, but the hand
writing on the note matched what Tom had sent her before. "Lewis said something funny yesterday," it said, and then, written with a pen with a thinner point, as if Tom had decided to add it later, it gave an address. "Burn this?" it finished. "This note, I mean. Not your house."

  She memorized the address—according to her tattered map of the city, which she'd looted from the hotels, it neighbored the farm and sports fields in the arm of town that reached into the hills—and burned the paper with a flick of her lighter. She geared up and jogged down to the highway, slowing to a walk as she neared Lahaina so she wouldn't be too sweaty.

  At Sands, the doors were closed. She stepped back for a look at the windows and the balcony, but the grounds were still. The note had been unclear as to the nature of the address, but thinking it might be Tom's, and with nowhere else to try, she got on Lahainaluna and headed toward the mountain. Across the highway, a giant white smokestack climbed two hundred feet into the sky, an obelisk to the sugar industry that had died decades before the plague.

  She crossed a mile of abandoned houses before reaching the street named on the note. Schools and government buildings faced the neighborhood. Crops and a few young trees grew in rows in the former schoolyards. She counted down to the house, a three-story beast that took up its entire lot, painted pink and surrounded by balconies. The windows were open to make use of the breeze. As she drew near, a rhythmic slapping sound filtered to the street: the unmistakable noise of sex.

  With a vague sense of guilt, she crept to a broad front window and peeked around its frame. The sun stood overhead and the room was surprisingly dim, but the motion drew her eye at once. On a thick rug in the middle of the hardwood floor, a man lay on his back, legs spread straight toward the window, affording Tristan an uncomfortably direct view of his balls. For a moment, she thought it was Tom, but the man's legs were too muscled.

  A woman bounced up and down on him, blond hair spilling down her back, which was turned to Tristan. She had tan lines around her butt. She was middle-aged but fit: Fiona. Logically, that meant the man beneath her must be Robin, but when the two leaned together to kiss, she saw it was Lewis.

  Tristan watched, telling herself but not believing she might see something useful. Tom's face flashed in her mind. Odd, since he was young for her, and not really her type, but there was something earnest and honest about him. Anyway, they didn't exactly have a lot of choices these days. She suspected the sex urge was crafty enough to adapt to what was offered to it.

  Lewis made a series of whining grunts that signaled the end of the fun. Tristan's clinical side noted he had neglected to withdraw or to wear a condom. She lingered to catch their conversation, but Lewis lay on the rug, wilting, while Fiona pulled on white shorts and a blouse. She moved toward the front door, turning to say goodbye.

  Tristan emerged from her trance and moved to the street as quickly and quietly as she could. She meant to duck into a side yard, but the door of the pink house was already clicking open. Tristan turned on her heel and headed back toward the house, pretending she had just arrived.

  Fiona walked into the street with a smug, relaxed look. Seeing Tristan, she blanked her face. "Tristan? How funny to see you here."

  Tristan made a point to look puzzled. "Is this Lewis' house? I wanted to ask him about the vandalism."

  "How funny! That's exactly what I came to do. I'm afraid he won't have much for you, but I can go ask if he has a moment to talk."

  "No need to trouble yourself." Tristan waved and walked forward before Fiona could intercede. The woman watched her, momentarily frozen, then strode away down the street. Tristan moved to the screen door and knocked.

  "Back for more?" Lewis lay on the rug with his forearm draped over his eyes. "You know you don't need to knock."

  She walked inside. "If you insist."

  He sat up, moving reflexively to cover himself. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to ask some questions. But I think I just got the answers."

  Lewis stood but made no move to dress, grinning in a way that made it clear his nudity was supposed to threaten her. To serve as an invitation and a challenge. Tristan had encountered men like that before and thought about as much of them as she did the globs of transparent slime that occasionally deposited themselves on the beach.

  He stepped closer, smelling of sweat and sex. "What exactly do you think you know?"

  "You tore down my shed."

  Lewis snorted and moved across the living room to the kitchen, half hidden by the wall cabinets. A glass clinked; he filled it with water from a jug on the counter. "I don't know anything about that."

  "Are you sure?" She lowered her gaze to his crinkling penis until he scowled and moved behind the counters. She hid her smile. "What do you think Robin will do when he learns you're banging his wife?"

  Lewis laughed and leaned his arms on the travertine counter. "What makes you think he doesn't know? You think this is Swiss Family Robinson? We got fifteen men under our umbrella and seven adult women. You do the math. To keep tensions low, we came to an agreement."

  "Whose idea was that?"

  "It's an opt-in system. Just ask Fiona. Anyway, the Panhandler proved life's too short for monogamy."

  His revelation that Robin was aware of the situation had set Tristan back on her heels, but she quickly found a pivot point. "Does Robin know that you and Fiona are making decisions behind his back? That's the fatal flaw of the triumvirate, isn't it? Two always turn on one."

  "You're bluffing."

  "You two have a physical relationship. When I spoke to the others, Fiona leapt at the chance to blame someone else." She moved toward him. "And I know someone who overheard you two talking."

  Lewis' smirk faltered. "You lied to us. You weren't building on your property. You were building in the woods. Camouflaging it."

  "Is that why you destroyed it?"

  "What are you hiding?"

  Tristan hesitated. Not on the subject of whether to tell the truth. As soon as she'd seen the two of them screwing, and pieced together the idea that they were behind the destruction of the shack, she had intended to kill him. To eliminate the threat before it could become serious.

  But that option had gone out the window as soon as Fiona had stepped out the door. She'd seen Tristan; if Lewis turned up dead, there would be no question as to the culprit. To head off the lynch mob, Tristan would either have to wipe out the town right now, which she wasn't quite prepared to do, or run away, and she wasn't too keen on that either. She could kill the both of them, but given recent events, she would probably top the list of Robin's suspects.

  Like an island materializing from the mist, a fourth way revealed itself.

  "You ever been to Haleakala? The other volcano?"

  Lewis set down his glass. "I'm a little busy for sightseeing. Got an empire to build, you know."

  "Funny you should say that," Tristan said. "The crater's full of drugs. Fields of them. Enough to fund a kingdom."

  6

  "Whoa there," Sprite said hoarsely. Ness' ring flung faint light over his face, paling it. The room beyond the doorway was as black as a cave. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

  Ness moved his thumb toward the buttons that served as the pistol's trigger. Something moved in the corner of his eye. He glanced at Sebastian, who was flailing a single tentacle.

  "What?" Ness signed with his free hand.

  "What are you doing?" Sebastian replied.

  "Eliminating the witness."

  "He moves to you like he knows you. Is he your guide? Why would you shoot your guide?"

  Ness backed up a step to better watch Sprite while continuing to pay attention to Sebastian. He signed, "Because he's seen you."

  "What's going on, buddy?" Sprite said. "I can't help but notice you've still got a gun on me. Sir."

  "Quiet your mouth," Ness said. To Sebastian, he signed, "Why not?"

  "Is his death to the service of the Way? Or to the service of us?"

  "I thought we
were the Way."

  Sebastian eyed him soberly, then gestured, "Such thinking is the best way to lose the Way."

  Ness let out a long breath through his nose. "That's cheating."

  "It is truth."

  "Work out a deal. We need to move." He lowered his pistol and put it away. Out loud, he said, "Sorry, Sprite. Caught me by surprise. Whatever you think is happening, it's not how it looks."

  "Really?" Sprite edged forward, eyeing the two aliens. "Because it looks like your little tech business has an ace in the hole."

  Behind him, the two aliens resumed their silent negotiations. Ness went to check the hallway, then ushered Sprite inside the vault and closed the door. "Guess you're with us for the moment."

  "Right. Who exactly is us?"

  "I've never seen the gladiator before tonight, if that's what you're asking."

  "Just the other guy?" Sprite's eyes darted side to side. "How exactly did you two come to be in business?"

  "Long story. And not a terribly believable one."

  Sebastian gestured for his attention, then signed, "Releasing him. Don't trust him."

  Ness nodded. He got out his gun, but kept it by his side. Sebastian went to work on the chains. Lasers flashed. Iron clanked to the floor; Ness winced at the racket. Sprite backed up until he bumped into the door. Once Sebastian had the last chain off, the gladiator flexed its limbs, forming an expansive, tree-like sphere that seemed to invade every corner of the room. Ness' elbow twitched, but he managed not to step back.

  The alien shrank on itself, touched the tips of two tentacles together—a sign of respect/honor—and exchanged more gestures with Sebastian.

  "He was betrayed," Sebastian told Ness. "Handed here by those he thought were his gutbrothers."

  "That sounds...deep," Ness signed.

  "Deep? It is treason so cold it freezes the sea."

  "That's what I mean. Why would they do that?"

  Sebastian spoke more with his counterpart. Two of his tentacles swayed in confusion. "It is part of the deal. For trade."

  "Trade? With the casino? What could they possibly want?"

  Sebastian gestured with the gladiator again. He tightened his smaller pincers to his body: a frown. "Food. Their supplies failed."