On the Edge of Gone

by Corinne Duyvis

  I’m not meeting Samira and Nordin until later in the afternoon. This work comes first. I find I don’t even mind. “You said we had to scan the lids?”

  We scan the remaining barrels, after which Els sits me down beside her on a low platform and shows me the manifest of crates that were stored here. She highlights the missing ones. Most of them held protein bars; two held sauerkraut; three held fast-growing seeds of all kinds, including for cabbage, which Els seems most upset about.

  “That’s our main source of vitamin C.” She shakes her head. “I’ve talked to nutritionists. We need the stored food, but if we ration wisely, we can survive until we can live off our crops. But to do that . . .”

  “We need the seeds to plant those crops.”

  There’s an annoying buzz as someone operates a small crane inside. Two workers follow on foot. They examine the room, gesturing at fallen crates and the broken-open containers.

  I try to tune out the buzz, focusing on the program Els is showing me, designed to run various calculations about the crops and supplies we need. It’s more complex than I thought. All kinds of factors go into the calculations. How different populations on board need different nutrients; the odds of crop failure and success; how much more of one crop we’ll need to cover our necessary nutritional intake if a different crop fails; how many people the missing protein bars could feed and for how long.

  “I’m not running the program yet. No point, with incomplete data.” She spreads a hand to indicate the workers across the room. They’ve moved the crates aside and are righting a container. Vacuum-wrapped supplies spill out through its cracked wall.

  “Is everything waterproof?”

  “Hm? The food? No, it’s—”

  “The containers.”

  “If it had been a straightforward flood, yes. The force of the water and debris bursting in is what damaged everything.”

  I tap my thigh, my fingertips spread apart like a spider. “I get that. I mean . . . ,” I say, stalling as I put together my words. The longer it takes—the longer Els watches me so patiently—the hotter my cheeks feel, and the faster I tap. The continued noise of the crane across the room isn’t helping. And the more I focus on that, the more it’s like the words slip away. “I mean, is everything waterproof in theory?” I keep my eyes on the hand tapping my jeans. “We’ll only have to check the damaged crates. The others would have survived immersion.” I doubt I’m saying anything new. It’s embarrassing that it took me so long.

  “Exactly,” Els says. “My thinking was, we’ll register everything that’s intact for certain, but first take a closer look at what got damaged. Much of the food will have been ruined, but we may be able to recover some of the seeds. I was hoping you could do that.”

  “What?”

  “Look through the remaining barrels.”

  “Just me?” This sounds more complicated than uploading announcements.

  “You can message me if you need help, but you’ll be fine. Separate the damaged ones for us to look at later, and scan what’s intact.”

  “OK.” My gaze flicks toward the crane. I keep tensing—like little electric shocks—from that metal-groaning sound it makes. I don’t want to admit to Els that it bugs me. She barely seems to notice the crane at all. “Can it wait until they’ve finished putting everything back?”

  “All right.” Els gets to her feet. “I’m needed in a meeting. The workers will be done here by afternoon; in the meantime, how about you further explore that program I showed you? I’ll send it to your tab.”

  The lightning storm outside has become a distant blip as I follow Els through the halls, leaving the groaning crane behind. I feel oddly fluttery; I’d been able to work alone at the Way Station almost from day one, but this ship is so much bigger, so much more important. On only my second day of work, Els is trusting me to handle things on my own.

  Before I go meet Nordin and Samira, I take my scooter to visit Mom, because I promised I would.

  She’s not in the office where she’s been sleeping. Tentatively, I call out, wandering the airport with my flashlight swaying. The limp, drenched body of something that’s too big to be a cat—a fox, maybe?—lies in one hallway, and I try to ignore it. The body of the girl I see in the next hallway is harder to ignore. I pause long enough to ascertain that it’s not Mirjam, then scrub the image from my thoughts. I’m torn between rushing out and staying to make sure Mom’s OK, but she decides for me, stepping into the hall I’ve walked into. Her hair is uncovered and tangled, her eyes wide. I find myself instinctively freezing—holding back—assessing. My flashlight beam sits still on her chest. It lights up her face from below, making it harder to see her eyes right.

  “I brought food and eyedrops,” I say, hoping for a response. I need to hear her speak. I’m poised to run, though I know I won’t.

  “Great! I was just—Oh! Denise! What happened to your arm?” She jogs over, holding a bag that flops awkwardly against her side.

  “I fell.” I take an instinctive step back before she even reaches me. “It’s not broken or anything.”

  Is she fine? I think she’s fine. Aside from being wide, her eyes look normal. Mom is focusing all her attention on me, but not in that too-much, too-wrong way. “Are you sure? Are they looking after you? Oh, honey.”

  “They’re good. The ship doctor was very careful with me. She’s giving me . . .” I want to say painkillers, but stop myself. “. . . all the care I need.”

  “They’re good people. But they shouldn’t separate families. That’s not right.”

  “I’m working on it.” I let my flashlight drift. The airport smells worse than the last time I visited. Like rot. Like mold. Like salt. An escalator nearby only goes down a meter before ending in murky nothing-water. Another one was torn away, leaving only a hole in the ceiling. I aim back at Mom’s feet. “I got a job. Sort of.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  I wonder if we should move back to her office—this hall is too big, and we’re too small. I want to be back on the ship. But Mom is listening, and she’s not high, and I don’t want to see that girl’s body again, so I push on. “Yeah, with Els. I’m her assistant. This afternoon I looked through supplies that got damaged in the flood. I was only supposed to separate the damaged supplies from the rest and scan everything, but when I scanned them I saw which ones were seeds and which ones were stored food, so I separated all the spoiled foods from the seeds that Els said maybe they could save.” I push myself up on my tiptoes. “And! Sometimes only a compartment within the crate got damaged, because a lot of them are sealed, so the rest could still be saved, so I put all of that aside, too, and in the end there were like five different categories that I put everything in. Els was surprised. Said it wasn’t what she expected, but better.”

  I try to muffle my smile so my excitement isn’t so obvious.

  “That’s—that’s great. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Suddenly there’s not much left to muffle. “It’s not a . . . hobby. It’s a job. Els says I’m good at it.”

  “Of course. I’m proud of you.”

  “It’s a job,” I emphasize, because I’m not sure Mom understands yet. She didn’t understand my volunteering at the Way Station, but this—the Nassau—is important. “And if passengers do their jobs well, their families get moved higher on the waiting list.”

  “Waiting list?”

  “Like I said. I’m working on it.” I let my eyes flicker to Mom’s.

  “I can’t . . . It’s sweet of you, honey, so sweet, but they’re not going to choose me from a waiting list.”

  “But you’re good with people. You’re smart. You can learn whatever they need you to learn. You could be great on board if you’d—”

  I’m almost glad Mom chooses that moment to thrust her bag at me. That way I don’t have to finish the sentence. “Look,” she says, “I tried to do what you talked about. I tried to find practical supplies so they’d let me on. It’s not enough, is it? Cap
tain Van Zand was clear. I—I messed up. I know that.”

  “Yes.”

  Mom flinches at the word.

  True as it is, I still hesitate. I eye the bag. There’s damp, salt-crusted fabric inside—sheets? clothes?—and bottles of what look like cleaning supplies. “Maybe they can use the cleaning supplies? I’ll ask Max. But I promise, Mom, I’m working on it. OK? And I’m working on finding Iris, too.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Mom nods.

  I realize she doesn’t know about the scooter yet, or that I went into the city, but I no longer want to tell her. I wish I could call Dad or tell Iris. Someone who knows me. Who understands how much it means. “Let me give you some food.” I slide the backpack off my good shoulder. “I brought clean cutlery, too.”

  “Are you leaving again?”

  I crouch to pick through my bag. “I’m meeting people.”

  “OK.” Mom looks thin in the light of my flashlight, and pale despite the dirt smudged on her face. Her shadow stretches far and jagged across the broken floor. “Thanks for the food.”

  I hand her jars, bread, the eyedrops, and the lightweight cutlery. “You still have soap?”

  “Yeah.”

  “OK. I’ll be back tomorrow.” I gather my backpack again. “Good night.”

  “Yeah.”

  I was already walking away, but then pause. That’s not right: if I say good night, she’s supposed to say it back.

  “Denise, I . . .”

  I swing my flashlight back to her.

  “You have to smuggle me on board.” She says the words as though they’re final. “I can’t do this for much longer. There’s no one here and there’s no food and I’m alone and—I miss you and Iris. I can’t stay here.”

  “What?” This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to give her food and tell her about my job and the scooter. She was supposed to be impressed—be hopeful.

  “You have to smuggle me on board,” Mom repeats. She clutches the new supplies to her chest. “Like a stowaway. I can hide.”

  “But that’s not allowed.”

  “It’s the only way I’ll survive.”

  “It’s against the rules,” I clarify. “They’ll kick us both off. Again.”

  “Not if they don’t find out until we’re already flying. They wouldn’t just drop us out of the ship.” Now it’s Mom’s turn to get eager. Her flashlight trembles. “You’d only have to hide me for a few days! Less than a week, right? It won’t be hard. There’s so much empty space on board. They’re not running most of the cameras, either, to save power until they can generate more. Anke told me so. See? It could work.”

  “Not allowed. No. Mom, they’ll find out. They might kick me out again. It’s—it’s not how it’s supposed to—no.” I’m stuttering. The airport smell hits my nose even stronger than before, and I think, If they kick me out again, I’ll have to come back here.

  I have arguments. Good arguments, solid arguments. I can’t smuggle her on board without anyone noticing. They will kick me out, and then our last real chance is gone. There aren’t enough supplies, and bringing more people on board will only endanger the rest. Mom can’t be trusted not to get high and screw things up again. We’d have no chance of finding Iris.

  I just keep going back to the memory of sleeping on that ribbed couch in the office, my pillowcase with no pillow to wrap it around.

  I want Mom on board. But I can’t risk doing it like this.

  “If you’ll just . . .”

  She’s Mom again. No longer frail. I duck my head, pull up my shoulders, and let out a pained sound at the movement. “I don’t want to,” I say quietly.

  “Think about it. OK? I need you.”

  “I’m working on it. I told you. I’m working on it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  MY SCOOTER STUTTERS BEFORE REVVING up. For a moment, I’m almost scared Mom is coming after me, that she’ll try to convince me while I’m trapped here. Then the scooter explodes in a familiar roar-and-tremble. My hand clutches the right handlebar tight.

  I take off. Back over the airport, the fields, around the Amsterdam Forest. Amstelveen. More fields. I keep an eye out for smooth blue plastic.

  I don’t know what to tell Mom to convince her no, but I know this: where to find Samira and Nordin, and what to look for.

  Once I arrive at the AMC, it only takes a minute to circle the main hospital building and find them. As the only spark of light, they’re easy to spot. Their flashlight lies between them, illuminating their legs as they dangle over the edge of a crumbled floor. The wall that should be between them and me got ripped out.

  “Glad you came,” Samira calls.

  Their scooter bobs in the water maybe two meters below the wall Samira and Nordin sit on. Nordin slides off. Samira follows a moment later, Nordin steadying her.

  “Of course I came.” I check my tab. I’m even early; they couldn’t have been worried I’d slipped out on them.

  “You found a new coat,” Samira says.

  I tug at the ship-issued coat self-consciously. The empty sleeve swings in the wind.

  “A clean one!” Nordin says. “Lucky.”

  “Yeah, I’m . . . I’m lucky.” I can’t tell if they’re suspicious or simply curious. I should’ve seen this coming. They both wear the same clothes as yesterday, down to the scarf Samira borrowed from me, which is mostly hidden under her hood. The part that’s visible is just as dirty as the rest of her clothes.

  Of course they’d notice my coat. At least I have an excuse for wearing a different pair of jeans—they saw me take clothes from the safe, after all.

  “How’s your arm?” Samira steps onto a sturdier piece of debris. “Is there any sign of infection? Is it swelling?”

  “It’s painful,” I say truthfully. “But I think it’s fine.”

  “Let me check to make sure.”

  We’re several meters away, me hunching for heat on my scooter, but I still lean away. If she noticed the new coat, she’ll definitely notice the professional sling and the new bandages. “No. It’s fine! It’s fine.” I feel cartoonishly transparent.

  “If you’re sure.” Samira looks dubious. “I just feel responsible.”

  “Well, you are.”

  Samira freezes like I’ve struck her.

  Nordin’s head snaps up. “Hey . . .”

  “I mean . . .” I should’ve kept my mouth shut. It just seems so obvious that she’d feel responsible—she’s the one who rammed into me. We all know it. Still, I lick my lips and say, “Sorry. I don’t blame you, Samira.”

  “Sounds like you do.” Samira’s voice is soft.

  “Sorry,” I repeat. Usually, that’s enough to end these conversations. I stare at the handlebars. “Let’s just. Let’s find you food.”

  The night is derailed when we find a family that’s been sheltering in their apartment—or the remains thereof—and we give them a ride out of the drowned mess that is Amsterdam. They ask to be dropped off on the A1 highway leading east, which is raised a couple of meters above sea level.

  It won’t get them far. The viaducts will be collapsed. Even here, the highway is hard to navigate, with fallen sound barriers blocking the path, and craters and cracks in the asphalt.

  But as the three of them set off on their walk eastward, I still wish I could join them.

  • • •

  We pick up searching where we left off, and somehow, I find myself back at my apartment building, looking up at the darkness where my balcony should be.

  She’s not inside.

  I ride the scooter into the open portico and climb the wreckage of the stairs anyway. I wander my apartment, salvage surviving items from the bathroom and kitchen, let my gloved fingers brush the moldering couch.

  She’s not inside.

  I knew that, so I don’t understand why confirming it hurts like this.

  I arrive back at the ship at half past midnight, having helped Nordin and Samira to a floating—and surprisingly intact—bag of
crisps and a handful of dead-but-whole birds and rabbits.

  I used a long branch to pry at the spot where I’d nearly drowned, where I’d seen the blue barrel, and shone a flashlight into the water. No sign of it.

  I’ll keep looking tomorrow. I just don’t know what an extra day means to Iris. Her shelter must be running out of food by now. The supplies in the temporary shelters were only supposed to last a day or two, maybe three, and it’s been twice as long.

  If she’s not in the shelter . . . I’ve barely let that thought cross my mind, because if she’s not in the shelter, there’s nothing I can do.

  The scooter makes a sputtering sound as I slow it down near the ship. The engineers are working through the night again, and I spy familiar faces in the yellow glow; I smile when they joke about how they expected a broken leg or cracked skull this time, or maybe for me to have upgraded my ride again and brought back a cruise liner.

  “And tomorrow, another generation ship,” I say after a few moments, which elicits raucous laughter I’m secretly proud of.

  “Denise?”

  My levity falters when I recognize the voice.

  Matthijs stands on one of the floats tied to the ship. “That wasn’t a good sound just now.” He spins his flashlight, points it at my scooter. “Trouble with the engine?”

  I recall the way it took too long to start after leaving the airport. “Maybe, yes.”

  “I heard Tomás complain when he used your scooter this morning. Get to that ramp there—I’ll take a look.”

  “Now?” I glance at the hatch I entered through last night. I just want to disappear into my room and have a normal night’s sleep.

  “Unless you want the engine to give up when you’re out and about. Your call.”

  I steer toward the ramp, angle the scooter right, then eject the wheels.

  “Hey, wait. I’ll help.” Matthijs makes an awkward leap from the float onto the ramp. I breathe a relieved sigh. The scooter is heavy as is, and pushing it upward one-armed wasn’t something I looked forward to.