The Detainee

by Peter Liney

  Lena’s had to break out the last of her canned food. Even allowing for what people brought with them, I reckon we haven’t got much more than a week or so. The garden’s almost stripped bare already. On the other hand, our stockpile of armaments is growing by the day. Homemade explosives, Molotovs, a handful of machetes, clubs and various other sundry weapons (mostly adapted tools Jimmy reluctantly allowed us to take from his workshop). Not exactly high tech, but it still makes you feel good to see it all stacked up there.

  The only thing for me is, I don’t care for any of it. Maybe it says a lot about the new me, but these days there’s something about a machete I find just too personal. It only has one function, to cleave, slice, stab, and inflict as much physical damage as possible, and I don’t want that anymore. I decided to make myself something I feel more comfortable with: a length of heavy metal pipe, with a block of wood in one end and a blade embedded in the other. I guess it sounds a bit odd, but it gives me options that a machete can’t. A little on the heavy side, maybe. Arturo can barely lift it. Six months ago, it would’ve had me puffing. But do you know something? While I been working out with that thing, whirling it around, thrashing it back and forth, something’s started to reawaken in me. Maybe it’s the actual feeling, maybe it’s just the memory, but I got this notion of being formidable again, of being able to stand in everyone’s way, and that nothing and no one, is going to move me.

  ’Course, the frustration is, will I get the chance to prove it? The weather’s set fair, without the slightest hint of fog, and already people are starting to get on edge. Pacing up and down to the entrance, peering out, frightened the enemy are going to begin their search of the Old City before we get a chance to go down into the Camp.

  Delilah had a bit of a spat with one of the old soldiers; someone she had a problem with from the Village. The kids got a little too boisterous and got shouted at in terms that make you realize this is still an extremely fragile alliance. But the person worrying me the most is Lena. With each day she’s been withdrawing, as if she was no longer sure she wanted any part of this. I’ve asked her a couple of times what the problem is and she’s reassured me there ain’t one, but I get the feeling that I just picked the wrong moment.

  One night, lying in bed, the hands of the clock finally hit the mark and she said one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me. Only later did I realize it wasn’t quite what I first imagined.

  “You know something?” she whispered. “Lying in your arms is the only place I feel comfortable.”

  I squeezed her. “Me too.”

  There was a long pause in which, at some point, I realized the weight of silence was doubling by the second. “How am I going to cope, Clancy?”

  “What d’ya mean?”

  “I’ve fallen over twice in the last couple of days.”

  I half chuckled, half grunted, remembering how she’d been thrown off by someone shifting the pots and pans and went sprawling over them.

  “This isn’t my home anymore,” she told me.

  And finally I saw what was getting to her. She was comfortable only in my arms cuz it was the one place she knew hadn’t changed. Everywhere else there were new people, their possessions, all manner of things, getting ready to trap her. It was sucking on her confidence. Outside she expected to have to live with such problems, but this was her base, her security, the certainty from which she stretched out.

  “It’s okay,” she eventually said with a sigh, as if she thought I had worries enough. “I just got to get used to the idea of leaving this place.”

  I kissed her on the forehead. “Maybe you won’t have to?”

  “We’re not doing this so we can come back. You know that as well as I do.”

  I hugged her so hard, like I was trying to tell her that no matter where we were, I was always going to have my arms around her.

  It’s shit to admit but, the truth is, I don’t know how this is going to turn out any more than she does. I’ve been promising everyone a new life, but really, what do I know? If we do manage to get rid of De Grew and his Wastelords—and that’s got to be the biggest “if” since our ancestors flippered their way out of the ocean—and they aren’t running the Island anymore, I haven’t got a clue what’s going to replace them. Just a blind faith that, whatever it is, it’s gotta be better than what we have now.

  The following afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore. We been going crazy cooped up down here. I slipped out to get a better look at the incoming weather, finding myself a spot down in the square, sitting atop a pile of rubble, watching the sun descend slowly through yet another unpromising sky. Below it, getting ready to catch that flaming ball, waited the Mainland, the City stretching all the way up the coast till it gives way to a distant smudge of something else. We haven’t given a thought to what they might do. Plainly the rumors are true: De Grew is in league with the Mainland, but how far does it go? These “helpers” or “advisers” or whatever they are come over every day, but then go back at night. So at least we don’t have to worry about meeting them in the Camp. But what’s going to happen afterward? That’s one of the things about punishment satellites: they never dispense retrospective justice. If they don’t get you at the time, that’s it. There ain’t the programming, or maybe the manpower, to do it later. But maybe this is different?

  I was just sitting there, trying to weave strands of cloud, or hints of haze, into the beginnings of a fog, when I saw a group of Wastelords emerging out of the ruins. I rolled to my side and fell back behind a pile of rubble, waiting there a few seconds, then peering back over. There must’ve been eight or nine of them. None that I’d come across before but equally as threatening. And a kid, too. A boy, no bigger than Arturo. They were all grouped around him, shouting at the little guy, and though I couldn’t make out what was being said, I could hear him crying.

  One of them pushed him on, gave him a real shove, like they wanted him to lead them somewhere and it hit me. Oh Jesus, that kid knows something! Somehow he got to hear about what was going on and the Wastelords found out. Now they were forcing him to show them where we were!

  As I watched them prod and push him forward, the kid reluctantly heading in the direction of the entrance, my heart was pounding so hard it felt as if it might smash out through my ribs. No! Not now! And the worst thing of all was, I couldn’t warn the others. A gang of Wastelords was advancing upon them, about to come bursting in, and there was nothing I could do.

  It was only when the kid started to take a slightly different direction, to veer away from the entrance, that I realized. What the hell was I talking about? He couldn’t know where it was. The new kids had all been led up there. He must’ve just heard a whisper, maybe indulged in some idle boasting and they thought he knew more than he did.

  Again he stopped, again they shouted at him and again he started to cry. They jostled him a bit, threw him from one to another, and he became so disoriented that when they pushed him on again, he started to lead them back the way they came. This time they completely lost their tempers. One of them shoved him to the ground. I mean, they were taking a chance with those things up there, but they obviously had a fair idea how far they could go. The little guy tried to get up, to scramble away, but another one trod on his arm, pinning him down.

  It was all I could do not to go over there and stop them. And yet, how could I? Not only would I not stand a chance, but I’d be jeopardizing everything and everyone in the tunnels. There was nothing to do but remain hidden, listening to those cries, knowing that at least they couldn’t go too far without being punished.

  There was another shout, a much angrier one—maybe they figured out that he didn’t know as much as they’d hoped—and suddenly they were going crazy at him; snarling and threatening, abusing him at the tops of their voices. The little guy was just lying there, in the middle of them, rolled up in a ball wailing and sobbing, having to soak up everything they threw at him.

  In the end they just walked away and lef
t him where he was. And d’you know something? Something that may surprise you? They hadn’t got more than thirty or forty yards before he picked himself up and chased after them. You couldn’t believe it. If it hadn’t been for the satellites, they probably would’ve killed him. First chance they get, they probably still will. But he ran after them, begging and pleading for forgiveness, just like they were his family or something.

  As soon as they were out of sight, I slipped back over to the entrance and got myself inside. I was worried to hell, but didn’t know if it was justified or not. How much could that kid conceivably know? Was he one of Gordie’s wavering recruits? Or just someone who picked up on a rumor? Whatever, I couldn’t help but feel that they had a pretty good idea where we were.

  The following morning I made sure I was the first one out of bed, immediately making my way up to the entrance. I’d had a really difficult night, unable to tell anyone, not even Lena, what I knew and not sure what it meant anyway. I mean, there must be rumors all over. At times like this, when something’s brewing, it’s only human nature. Why would anyone pay another rumor any more mind? Unless they knew exactly where we were, they were going to have to go through the Old City the same way they did the Village, inch by inch, which hopefully meant we had weeks before they’d find us. Surely there’d be a fog in that time? Surely we’d get the chance to call on them before they called on us?

  I don’t know whether I believed that or not. To be honest, I didn’t know what I expected to find when I reached the entrance. I just wanted to be able to put my, and everyone else’s, minds at rest. I didn’t even reach the top before I heard a kind of resonant thumping echoing down the tunnel, then this dull grating, the roar of an engine, a slight shaking of the ground. What the hell?

  I ran the rest of the way, falling to my knees, jamming my face to the cracks in the door, having my worst fears realized and even bettered. There was a small army advancing upon us, dozens of them spread across the horizon, with all kinds of equipment and machinery. Trucks, a couple of bulldozers, drills, picks and shovels. I guess it had all been brought over on that boat. Most of those following along behind, appearing out of the haze and dust, were Wastelords—tidying up what was being smashed down, putting some of the heavier stuff onto trucks—but again there were others and this time they were wearing uniforms.

  “Jesus, no!” I groaned, immediately realizing they were heading straight for us.

  To my left, no more than twenty or thirty meters away, a small advance guard came into view. A man and woman, both using some kind of imaging equipment, seeking out the most likely places for people to hide. When the guy turned around for a moment, I could see this writing on his back—INFINITY SPECIALS. Jeez, so Bailey was right. Infinity were involved in some way. Maybe they have a security division they hire out, that the Mainland’s put at De Grew’s disposal? Perhaps he’d got so fed up with looking for us that he’d brought in expert help? Which would explain the sudden increase in choppers.

  For several minutes I was seemingly incapable of doing anything. I just sat there watching their slow but relentless progress toward us. I didn’t want this to be true. Didn’t want to have to go down and tell the others that it was all over. And yet, the odd thing was, when I finally did force myself, when I fronted up there all pale and serious-faced, no one seemed that surprised. There was a degree of panic, of fear, but the overriding sense, especially with the old folk, was of something closer to embarrassment, of having been such fools to have dared to dream long after dreams were known to be dead.

  “Let’s go up and wait for them,” Gordie said. “Jump them as they come in.”

  “There’s too many,” I told him.

  Gordie turned to Lena, as if he hoped she might know what to do, but one look at her expression was enough to know that she thought it was over too.

  “We gotta do something!” he cried, his voice trailing off as people started to turn away.

  This eerie silence descended upon us all. I mean, what’s there to say? There’s no other way out. Okay, so we have our “weapons,” but this ain’t kids about to find their way in. This is an army comprised of well-equipped Mainlanders, plus the bloodiest, meanest survivors of the Island’s natural-selection process. Those who’ve proved more violent, more evil, than all others. Nor is there any chance of hiding in the lower tunnels. I mean, I ain’t the greatest military tactician in the world, but I know what I’d do in their place: smoke us out and pick us off as we tried to make it up to the surface.

  I think it was only then that I realized just how bad our situation was. Our sanctuary has become not just a prison but a trap. Once they get inside, the satellites can’t save us. Nothing can. They can do exactly what they like, and I’ll tell you something, I don’t even want to imagine what that might be.

  Hour after hour’s gone by. Still there’s very little movement or conversation. Everyone’s just waiting for the sound of them coming down the tunnel. We haven’t even placed a lookout up there. Not permanently. Just now and then someone’s unable to resist going up to take a peep and they return a little later, ashen-faced, like they’re about to be sick, with news that the Wastelords are getting closer. The whole living area, old folks, kids, are numb and pale with fear. Everyone’s slumped on the ground, leaning against the tunnel wall or hanging on to each other, staring up at the roof, trying to see the surface beyond.

  For a while Lena’s been trying to keep busy, dishing out her remaining supplies of hooch to those who are craving it, but eventually she found her way into my arms and we’re staying here the same as everyone else, awaiting our discovery.

  It was one helluva mixed blessing when we realized that it was dark and they’d gone, that they weren’t going to find us that day. We knew it could only be a temporary respite, that they’d be back first thing in the morning, and in some ways I think we would’ve preferred to get it over with.

  I went up to the entrance, just to see how close they’d got, how much time we’d have in the morning. It didn’t take a lot of figuring out. The remains of walls that stood only feet away were now part of a huge swath of rubble that started in the distance and stopped almost at our door. In fact, they were so close, it was as if they’d known all along where we were and just been teasing.

  I looked out as best I could, wondering if they’d left someone out there in case we tried to make a run for it. But why would they? Where the hell were we going to go?

  I was just about to turn away, to go back down and tell the others the news, when, as my eyes skimmed across the horizon, I saw something that stopped me dead. I mean, Jesus, I hadn’t even thought about it. It had been so long, none of us had. But moving in across the ocean, rearing up like some huge tidal wave, was a massive, towering wall of fog.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  An hour or so later it was all around us, like some great dull vacuum sucking out our reality. Once more the rules were to be changed. Different boundaries would exist. Those things up in the sky couldn’t watch over us anymore. Nor anyone else, for that matter. There would be no judgments from on high that night. It was up to us to create our own justice.

  At first everything went remarkably well. Our makeshift little army rapidly assembled, got itself organized, grabbed weapons, decided who would carry the explosives. Then I realized that the kids were nowhere to be seen. I was about to ask Lena where they were when I heard Bailey give a cry of protest, followed by a lot of anxious muttering from the rest of the old folk. The moment I turned around I knew why.

  It even gave me a bit of a start. Approaching along the tunnel, all dressed and made up for killing, were the kids. Gordie almost naked, his body all whited-up with huge smudges of black around his eyes; Arturo, like some dance-hall queen, long shiny red dress, blond wig, sparkly makeup with heavy boots and a safety helmet. Luxurious was wearing an old tiger-skin rug he must’ve dug out of the garbage, his face striped yellow and black—he’d even tried filing his teeth and nails into points. And Hannah .
. . Jesus, Hannah . . . was wearing theatrical makeup and a black—what do you call it?—tutu? Like she was about to perform a ballet.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, it momentarily occurring to me that these must’ve been the possessions they brought with them from the Camp.

  All of them gaped at me, like they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I demanded.

  Gordie shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Don’t you think we’ve seen enough of this?”

  They all looked at one another, still not understanding what they’d done wrong.

  “We always dress up,” Arturo whined.

  Delilah went and stared deep into his made-up face, like she couldn’t believe it was really him. “This is the way you came to the Village,” she reminded him.

  There was a long silence. No one really knew what to think or say. I mean, it’s probably the most disturbing aspect of them; the way they can be so innocent and guilty at the same time.

  Eventually, as if she’d been saving herself for this moment, as if the rarity of her words made them count that much more, Hannah spoke.

  “We know it’s different,” she reassured us.

  I sighed, as ever bemused by their behavior, their way of thinking. I mean, kids, dressed up, trick-or-treating maybe, nothing could seem more harmless. “I want you to promise me that whatever happens, when this night’s over, you’ll burn these,” I told them.