Cut Off

by Robertson, Edward W.

  But the tug persisted.

  "Be very careful," he said. "Your man from the government may not be who he says he is. Even if he's legit, his boss is questionable. Keep your eyes open."

  The woman snorted. "We're working with the government. Our eyes have been open from the start."

  Ness smiled crookedly, clicked a signal into his metal disk, and moved to the back of the boat. As he waited, he tucked the scrap of paper copied from the crate into the gallon bag he kept on him for situations like this. Forty feet away, the sub broke the surface with its tower. Ness nodded at Sprite and cannon-balled into the South China Sea. He popped up, confirmed Sprite had followed, and swam over.

  Inside, Sebastian was waiting with towels and dry clothes. Ness stripped and dried off. Sprite mumbled something and stepped into the ramp-well to change.

  "Tell me the history of your trip," Sebastian signed.

  "Well," Ness said, "many years ago, before I was born, my mom and my dad met at—"

  Sebastian angled what passed for his brows, attempting to glower at him. "Make jokes later. Such as when I am not around."

  "One minute," Ness gestured. "Have to speak with my friend."

  After a moment, Sprite emerged from the ramp-well, toweling his black hair. "You guys really need to put a shower in here."

  "I'll show you it in a minute," Ness said. "Right now, check me if I'm missing anything. They're shipping food. Much of which sounds tropical. Which points to Vietnam or Thailand or something, right? Except the crates point to...I dunno, Colombia or Costa Rica or some shit."

  Sprite shook his head, somber. "The Philippines, dude. They speak Spanish and I bet they grow all that stuff. But it's like five hundred miles from here. Kind of a long jet ride just to drop off a few hundred pounds of food."

  Ness slapped an orange wall. "These things run on water, for the most part. If someone ever duplicates their engines, we'll have to thank the damn things for invading."

  "So is that our next trip? The Philippines?"

  "You want to come with? Twenty minutes ago, you didn't want to step foot from the sub."

  "That was before we jumped onto the back of a moving boat," Sprite said. "And discovered a wife and her husband are unwittingly doing the bidding of aliens who seem like they've gone all Mother Teresa on us. Can't blame a dude for feeling invigorated."

  "So I should let the bugs know you're in?"

  "Absolutely, man."

  Ness signed to Sebastian, relaying everything they'd learned and Sprite's take on things.

  "This matches," Sebastian said once Ness wrapped up. "We lost the jet. Before, it headed southeast."

  "Then it sounds like the Philippines is our best bet."

  Sebastian skittered off to speak to the Collective. Five minutes later, he returned, looking pleased. "We agree. Philippines. However, there is one question. Come with me."

  He headed down to the lower level and into the control room that seemed to be Number Five's permanent place of residence. Five's main screen showed a glob of islands strung out across hundreds of miles of the sea.

  "Seven thousand islands plus more," Sebastian signed. "Five asks, Which one?"

  11

  The decision left Tristan rejuvenated. Though it was an hour after dark, and not long from when they normally went to sleep, she hiked on through the mountains, meaning to put more miles between them and the alien patrols along the coast.

  She supposed she ought to feel guilty for summoning the destruction of the town. Aside from Helen and Tom, however, she hadn't liked any of them. She thought her distrust had been justified rather thoroughly when the townies came to burn down her house and, presumably, to kill her and Alden. In her ideal world, there would be more days like today, with the aliens and humans skirmishing across the world until both sides killed each other off, leaving a bare handful of survivors: those sane enough to hide away from all these games of dominance and control.

  This part of the mountains was unfamiliar to her, but the volcano was roughly conical, and if they maintained elevation around its slope, they would eventually circle around to the middle of the island. From there, they could descend and make their way across the flat saddle to the safety of Hana on the broad north face of Haleakala.

  It was tough going. There were few natural trails. Their feet slipped in red mud, rotting leaves, grass slick with mist. At points, the undergrowth choked so thickly they had to detour or backtrack. Twice, they were stymied by ravines that would have been hard to climb down by day, let alone in the dead of night. At the third such gorge, they stopped for the night, retreating to a level patch of ground beneath a tree. They scraped it clear and used their spare clothes for bedding. Tristan was thirsty and starving and she ate a third of what she'd brought in her pack. She would need her strength.

  Alden stuffed his water bottle back into his pack. "What a crazy day."

  "It needed a serious straitjacket," Tristan laughed.

  "Electroshock."

  "A little paper cup full of pills. And at the end, it yanks a water fountain out of the floor and throws it through a window."

  "I don't get it," Alden said.

  "From an old movie about crazy people." She stared up into the undersides of the leaves. "Maybe once we're settled, I'll try to learn basic wiring. I've seen solar panels around. What if we could watch movies again?"

  "Well, I know one thing," he laughed. "It would be a lot easier for me to get a date."

  She laughed, too, although there was something very sad about that.

  In the morning, things felt different. Uneasy. She was no longer certain that hiking to an unfamiliar jungle and attempting to make a life in the shadow of the aliens was at all wise. She thought they were letting their fear of the unknown (the other islands) restrict their thinking in ways that might be dangerous. It was a complete lack of that fear that had allowed them to reach Hawaii in the first place. She didn't know how things had progressed (or, more likely, regressed) on the mainland, but given what she'd seen there, she knew leaving had been the right choice. It felt like it might be time to make another such choice.

  Yet she had been in situations like this often enough to know that her creeping negativity was likely a trick of the morning. When the glow of the idea has worn off and all that's left ahead of you is a bad road and a lot of work. On top of that, she was sweaty and grimy and stiff. Hard to feel good about any idea when your body wouldn't let you.

  They ate canned pasta and green beans, drinking the thick juice the beans had been steeping in. To the south, the jet whined through the sky. They had already made a big dent in their food and water and they would have to be disciplined to make it last the two or three days she thought it would take to get to Hana. At least she had a water filter in her pack. The mountains were lush enough there was always a stream somewhere.

  They headed out. The land sloped down to the west; they had a long ways to go to make it around the curve of the highlands. After a few minutes of trudging, with her limbs stiff and her shoulder aching where she'd been flung on it by the bombing of the shack, she had the sudden recall of the time they'd gone to the airport in Kahului to see if there was anything to scrounge from the restaurants and abandoned luggage. They had come back laden with paper plates, ground coffee from the Starbucks, and a great deal of clothes, but what Tristan had valued most was the view she saw from the covered walkway along the terminals.

  Across the plain that contained the town, the western mountains stood in a heap, tall and verdant. The range resembled a C with its points pinched together. Between those points, a steep valley cut into the heart of the mountains. On the spot, she dubbed it the Secret Valley. She had always meant to hike into it and see it for herself, but it had faded from mind.

  What it implied, though, was that they didn't have to swing around the entire range. If they turned due east, they ought to come, in time, to that same valley; if they could get down to it, they would save themselves miles of travel through uneven te
rrain.

  She explained the idea to Alden. "We might run into something we can't cross and have to turn all the way back around. But I think we can do it. These aren't the Himalayas."

  He turned to look upslope at the mountains behind the trees. "But what if there's jungle yetis?"

  "Then we can enlist them to fight the aliens."

  With the ocean glittering behind them, it was easy to keep an eastern course. She hiked up through the dense woods. The air was cool and it felt good to get her blood stirring. A major ridge rose to their right. Tristan set a course to keep it aligned to their side, hoping it would hold straight all the way across. She heard the splash of water and followed it to a quick stream slicing through slick clay and rocks. They stopped there to rest, air out their feet, and refill their bottles. Alden spotted a guava tree, scaled it, and cut down a bundle of round, green fruits. They ate them on the spot and carried on.

  The forest got so dense at times that it was hard to see the sun, let alone the ocean, but the compass in the handle of Alden's knife claimed they were still heading east. Abruptly, the ground leveled. The ridge to their right continued to climb, as did another bulge of land to their left, but at the edge of a plateau, Tristan found herself gazing down at a deep green fold. Beyond, the towns of Wailuku and Kahului rested in the sunshine. She had found the Secret Valley.

  They drank some water, then headed down. The nadir of the valley was soggy and so crushed with bamboo, ferns, flowers, and shrubs that it was wholly impassible, but by sticking to the inclines, they were able to thread their way down through the growth. Chunks of clouds drifted into the heights and were sopped up by the trees. After an hour of travel that got them less than a mile forward, they intercepted a path and picked up the pace. With the help of the trail, they quickly descended the remaining two miles. By early afternoon, they stood on a shrubby hill overlooking an empty subdivision on the edge of what had once been civilization.

  "Why don't we rest a minute," Tristan said. "See if things are as quiet as they appear."

  They sat down to eat another can of pasta, supplementing it with the guava, which wasn't quite ripe but tasted good enough after their exertion. She hadn't thought to slip a map of the island into the emergency pack she'd taken from the shack, but she knew it was about ten miles across the lowlands to the western edge of Hana. The first few miles would be through town. After that, they could either follow the road along the coast, or cut overland through the old farms. Either way, there would be less cover than she'd like.

  Twice, she heard the thrum of the jet's engines to the south, but there was no sign of aliens, and any humans living in the region looked to have gone into hiding, too. Even so, it didn't feel right.

  "Maybe we ought to wait until night," she said.

  "See something?"

  "A lot of nothing. But my instincts don't like it."

  "Well, I'd never question the instincts of a grizzled veteran like yourself."

  She reached out and flicked his nose. "We picked up water, some food. Bet there's more fruit in these yards. We'll grab a nap and move after dark like the ninjas we are."

  They crossed the field and spent a few minutes moving from yard to yard, harvesting pounds of bananas, two pineapples, and the better-looking kiwi from a sickly-looking vine. They checked out a house with broken windows and found it dusty and thick with cobwebs. Feeling paranoid, Tristan butchered the pineapple in the stifling kitchen where the chunking sound of the knife wouldn't carry. She swabbed out a bowl and carried the pieces to the lanai, which was dirty and leaf-strewn, but open to the breeze, with gauzy curtains (if crusty and grimy) they closed to prevent themselves from being seen.

  She and Alden ate, then put together makeshift beds from the crumbling cushions of the outdoor couches. Her sleep was the sort that never ran deep; every five or ten minutes, she realized she was awake, and pricked up her ears for any sound of jets or movement.

  By late afternoon, feeling fuzzy, rested, yet heavy-headed, she got up to let her senses clear. She sat on the lanai watching the sunset paint the town yellow and red. Other than the pigeons, the whitecaps off the north shore, and the leaves on the wind, there was no motion at all. It spooked her. She was glad they'd decided to wait for night.

  They ate the kiwis, which were tangy and clean-tasting despite the condition of their vine, along with some macadamia nuts and dried fish. Tristan poured a bit of water on a rag and cleaned her face and hands, pausing as she reached the nub of her right index finger. She didn't miss it in the slightest—in its absence, her middle finger had grown more dextrous, as had her left hand, too—but its absence still surprised her now and then. Given how much of her new life involved manual labor, she supposed she was lucky to have not lost any other significant bits or pieces.

  Alden woke a few minutes after sunset. He drank water, then sat around looking cranky. By the time full darkness was upon them, and she stood and raised her eyebrows, he got up without complaint and gathered his things.

  They walked from the subdivision past a cluster of local realtors, insurers, credit unions, and art shops, all of which had blue roofs. In a vacant lot next to a photography store, a chicken pecked in the darkness.

  "Those things are everywhere," Alden muttered.

  Tristan didn't know Kahului well, but the black humps of the volcanos on each side of the island made it easy to maintain her sense of direction. A side road led them to an east-west boulevard. She walked through the grass along the sidewalk, scouting each building they passed for entrances or places to hide in case of trouble. Cars sat in lots. Many of them were rusty around the edges. A few had already been eaten through in spots. The sea air was brutal on machinery. She suspected it was only a matter of time until the town burned down. If she managed to live another three or four decades, it was possible she'd outlast most of the old world.

  They passed a neighborhood of tightly-packed houses, then a downtown of box stores and chain restaurants. The boulevard hooked southeast and became the start of the Hana Highway, but Tristan stuck with the smaller road that hugged the coast. Better cover along the shore, she thought, and besides, it ran straight past the airport rather than looping around. There were few cars in the airport lot; after the Panhandler blossomed, the government had grounded all flights, closing the airports before everyone had taken ill. Palms fronted the open-air terminal.

  Past the airport, the road fed into the highway, running a few hundred feet from shore, fronted on the left by manors with pools and gardens and on the right by a grassland of sugar cane gone to seed. A golf course appeared to the left, its contours obscured by the overgrown turf. Tristan briefly considered finding a water hazard to resupply from, but it would be stagnant and awful, and this close to the beach, it would probably be brackish, too.

  Something burst from the grass beside the shoulder of the highway. Tristan went for her pistol. A yellow lab trotted toward them. Its fur was dirty but it had kept itself well-fed. Tristan relaxed. The dog flattened its ears, tail wagging, and stutter-stepped up to Alden, pushing its ribs against his leg.

  "Who are you, boy?" He laughed, patted its flank. The dog made a dog-grin and continued to press itself against him, tail slapping his knee. "Where'd you come from?"

  He scratched its ears and it tipped its chin, exposing a collar with a silver button on the front. Tristan frowned. "Looks like he's got an owner."

  Alden knelt and turned up the tag to the moonlight. "No address. It's just a button."

  A squarish patch was missing from the fur by its neck, as if a mat had been torn free by a fence. She searched for and found a small puncture, but it was nearly healed and showed no infection. "I hope Helen is okay. All those dogs."

  Alden took a quick look at the sky. Stars hung everywhere, broken up by small formations of marine clouds. "What if he's on his own?"

  "Then he's done a fine job keeping himself fat."

  "He doesn't have to be alone, though." Alden scratched its chin. It canted its head,
back leg kicking the air.

  "Don't tell me you want to take him with us."

  "Don't tell me you're happy to leave him."

  "That's not the issue." Tristan bit her lip. "He could have an owner. Mostly, now is not the time. It's another ten miles to the jungle and the road's pretty crazy from there."

  He patted the dog's ribs some more. Without looking up, he said, "That's all you care about, isn't it? Moving on."

  Her anger flared. Such an idiot. 24 hours ago, aliens had bombed out their home. They were refugees. Wherever their new home was, it was a long ways from here. They had much more to worry about than a chubby lab.

  She knew, though, that wasn't what he needed to hear. What he needed was hope.

  "You know we can't take him," she said softly. "But he's made it this far. Once we're settled and things calm down, we can come back and find out if he's got an owner. Okay? Right now, though..."

  "I know." Alden gave the lab one last scratch and stood up. "It's just nice to see a dog right now."

  He walked on. Waves washed the beach not a hundred yards away. Behind them, the dog's nails clicked on the asphalt. It was following them. Alden smiled. Tristan thought about driving it away, but that would involve yelling at it or striking it. The former would be noisy and she couldn't bring herself to perform the latter.

  Alden glanced behind them. "If he follows us all the way to Hana, I vote he gets your bed."

  "Overruled."

  He laughed to himself. A minute later, he fell back half a step and gestured at the dog, trying to be sneaky about it, but she caught it in her peripheral vision. At once, she was furious with him, but that anger quickly turned on itself: what did the dog matter? What was she mad about? All that mattered was walking forward. Dog or no dog, as long as they were moving toward the jungle, they were doing what they needed to.