by Fred Strydom
I glanced down the corridor, checked the narrow window that revealed a part of the deck, and turned back to push open the door.
The man was still on the bed beneath the white sheets, head on a flat pillow. He was a gaunt skeleton of a man with skin like leather.
In the corner of the room an old television showed nothing but static. There hadn’t been a signal in years now, not since Day Zero, and I wondered whether the television had ever shown anything besides those chaotic speckles of snow fuzzing in and out of existence.
The father’s cough went on, an endless wheezing. I approached his bedside and propped his pillow up behind his head. His thin grey hair was glued to his forehead by a film of thick sweat.
There was a glass of water on a table next to his bed. I held up his head and put it to his lips. He took a sip and released a foul sigh. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to calm his laboured breathing, then he turned his head and looked at me.
Without warning, his hand snapped out from under the sheet and grabbed my wrist. He tightened his grip and pulled, urging me to lean in. Cautiously, I did. He lifted his head off the pillow and brought his face nearer to mine.
His cracked lips opened to speak: “Run.”
Startled, I pulled back. He held his grip, but with the jerk of his arm came a new sound. The rattle of metal on metal.
I looked down at his pale and spotted hand and carefully lifted the sheet.
I shuddered. His wrist was shackled by an enormous rusted handcuff. It was attached to a rusted chain which in turn was attached to the frame of the bed.
Suddenly there was a great distance between me and every other object in the room. It was as if my mind was fleeing the scene before my body could take the chance. He wasn’t bed-bound because he was dying; he was a prisoner.
“You don’t know,” he said in a crackling whisper, “you don’t know where you really are. You don’t have a clue what’s going on here.”
I wrenched my hand from his grip, began to back up slowly towards the door. He lay limp on his bed, coughing, exhausted, frustrated. All the time I could hear his chains clanging beneath the sheets.
“He can’t know you’re in here.” Desperate gasps escaped as he spoke.
“Why are you chained?”
“Leave. Run …”
The man began to cough again, waving his hand weakly for me to go. I hurried from the room.
Bouncing back into the bright corridor, I was suddenly aware that everything I thought I knew was wrong. I was dizzy and the walls and the door leaned in on me, the way an image on a page warps one last time before flames burn it to ash.
I forced myself to stand upright, slowed my pace to a casual walk. My eyes remained wide and alert—I was on the lookout now—but my heart! My heart hammered in my chest.
I closed my eyes, breathed in deeply, then stepped out onto the wooden deck.
Anubis was standing at the rail with his back to me, holding a large dark object. He looked over his shoulder and smiled.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied.
As I approached, the object in his hand became alarmingly clear. He was holding a firearm of some sort—a big, black machine connected to a strap over his shoulder.
“Take a look,” he said. “It’s an ingenious piece of machinery, really. A thousand years ago it would only have tuh-tuh-taken one of these to win a war. It would have seemed like dark magic. The enemy would have simply surrendered out of fear. And respect. They would have bowed on their knees. They would have thought me a god.”
“And they wouldn’t have known any better,” I said. My heart was still beating madly but I kept my voice cool and even, as un-flustered as I could manage.
He held the weapon up over the rail. “You ever use one of these before?” he asked chirpily.
I shook my head. “No … You?”
“No-ope,” he said, one eye against the sight attached at the top of the weapon. He was poised for a kill, swivelling it on the rail, on the lookout for something moving in that jungle. “Always wanted to though. Always wanted to know how it would feel. Th-th-thun-der and lightning in the palms of my hands.”
I nodded.
“You see my brother?”
“I did.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Not much,” I said, a small and unnecessary lie I regretted immediately.
“Really?” Anubis said. He pulled back from the sight and glanced up at me. “That’s too bad. Sometimes he’s a real help.”
“Where’d you get that gun?”
“Where do you think?”
“Left in the jungle after your friends and family were taken?”
“Taken. Good one. I like to th-think of it as an inheritance.”
“Is it necessary?”
“Necessary?” he said, and then once more, as if he was still deciding, “Necessary. Well, take a look.” Still supporting the weapon on the edge of the rail, he moved his head away, giving me space to look through the telescopic sight. I leaned in. The sight had incredible range. It was pointed at a group of people in the distance—the so-called pirates had landed.
“I thought you said they wouldn’t get through the jungle,” I said, my eye darting from one distant person to the next. “Why the gun?”
They didn’t look like pirates. Just regular people: a couple of women, a slightly overweight man, a younger man carrying sling bags. But then, what were real pirates supposed to look like?
“Well, yes, I did say that. Yes. Except …” He turned the gun on the rail. “Look left.”
The people on the beach were opening a small crate. Somebody was pulling out what appeared to be black gas masks.
“See what I mean?” Anubis said. “I don’t know how, but they know about our island. They’ve come prepared. And it looks as if they have no intention of stuh-stuh-stopping for a bit of lunch. Which means, if they push right through the jungle, they’ll be here in less than an hour.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“You mean our plan. You’re a good man, Kayle. I feel that you understand me. This place. And I’d be honoured to have you at my side when those b-b-bah-bastards come crawling up the hill.” He whipped the gun off the rail and held it upright, the barrel resting on his shoulder. “We’re gonna come down on them with thunder and lightning, my friend. Light up their little lives in a hail of bullets. But first, we’ve gotta get you one of these. There’s a whole stash in the shed at the back. You can take your pick.”
I looked out towards the beach. I needed to go along with this for as long as I could before choosing the moment to make a move.
“Okay.”
The man patted me on the shoulder.
“Oh-kay! Okay, Raft Man,” he chuckled. “It’s a bit of a walk out back, but we’ll need ammunition. I’ve got bullets for Africa but damned if I know which go where. One thing’s for sure, they’re gonna think we’ve got an army at our backs!”
I looked back at the house.
“You go ahead. Grab one for me,” I said. “I don’t know anything about guns. Really. I’ll stand post. Keep an eye in case they’ve brought any surprises of their own.”
Anubis thought about it a bit, glanced towards the people on the beach, and grinned.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
I said nothing. He smiled, barely noticing the fear creeping beneath my flapping facade. He was clearly too excited to care. He hoisted his gun up and walked over the hanging bridge towards the second deck.
I waited for him to be completely out of sight before darting back into the house. As I ran I thought about what Moneta had said about Burt chasing her in the woods—how she’d feared that his large hand would land on her shoulder at any moment. I glanced behind me. There was no sign of Anubis.
I sprinted down the corridor to the old man’s room, gave one last look through the window to make sure Anubis hadn’t returned, and went inside. The old man was on his back, eyes clos
ed, breathing loudly.
I rushed to the bedside and shook him by the shoulders.
“Hey,” I said. “Wake up.”
He opened his eyes.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“Out back. Is there a key?”
The old man shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”
I glanced around the room. There was nothing else in there—at least nothing I could use to help me. The television on a wheeled trolley. A pile of magazines against the wall. A portable electric fan, unplugged, its cord wrapped around the base. Nothing else.
“Talk to me,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on. Did your son do this?”
“He’s not—”
I moved closer. “Not what?”
“He’s not my son.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes were deep in his narrow skull, a sheen of mucous rimmed his nostrils. A terrible, foetid smell came from his mouth.
“How did you get here?” he asked.
“I washed up on the beach. I was on a raft.”
“Did he tell you about his brother?”
“Yes. His twin. I met him in the cabin.”
The man sighed and closed his eyes.
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice a panicked whisper. “Listen carefully, and when I’m done, leave. Leave immediately.” His dark eyes burned. “There is no twin brother.”
“What?”
“It’s him. Only him.”
It wasn’t as if his words confirmed something I already knew, but as soon as he spoke I knew he was telling the truth. It was an outrageous notion, but it explained my unease since arriving on the island, slotted neatly into the many discomfiting gaps in the twins’ stories. But still I needed to test it. Make sure.
“He told me a story,” I said. “A story about his parents. His life. His brother’s condition. I met the man in the cabin. Why would he go through the trouble? Why would he lie?”
“He isn’t lying,” the old man said. “He just doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care to know.”
“This isn’t making any sense.”
“Please, listen,’ the old man groaned. “Parts of what he says are true. His parents … the ship. That’s what happened. But no one survived that day they came through the jungle. No one survived but him. I found him down there and I took him in. Because this is my island, not his. Always has been.”
The man lifted his head and coughed loudly.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He lay back on the pillow and took a deep, calming breath.
“I used to work for Huang Enterprises. A plant geneticist … we were weaponising organic environments for … for the military … but I left … I left the corporation a long time ago … escaped it … and I had this island made. A place to get away from a world I didn’t understand anymore! That was the idea. All I … I wanted, was somewhere safe … no fear of anyone disturbing me again. Dear God. I had no intention of deliberately harming anyone. You must believe me! I had signs … signs put up on the beach—warning signs about the fruit, the trees, the—”
“I believe you. Go on.”
He cleared his throat. “No one came further than the beach … and for a while I lived in peace up here … with my wife … my darling wife … There was no trouble at all.”
“Your wife?”
“My wife passed away … and I was left alone, resigned to living out … the remainder of my days here … that is, until that day his family came to the island—those Borrowed Gun activists on their corporate witch-hunt, looking to find and destroy people like me …”
I felt myself slide out of reality. I could see everything—the old man in bed, the walls and the television—but everything was out of sync. Unstable. Ready to spin off into space.
“But the boy. He didn’t die. He survived, and I took him in. What could I do? I had no choice. He was by himself. I was all alone. I thought I could raise him. Teach him to take care of this island … Water.”
I grabbed his mug again and held it to his lips while he took another sloppy sip. When he was done I returned the mug to the table.
“One day something happened—there was a terrible screeching sound in the air—and after that we struggled to remember who we were. Where we were. Any of it. We heard reports—people on the radio. People calling themselves … the New Past, telling us not to worry if we didn’t remember. There were answers waiting for us. All we needed to do was make our way to the communes. I tried to steer the island to one of these communes but the boy wouldn’t let me. He said … he said the voice on the radio was telling lies.”
“What made him say that?”
“I don’t know,” the old man said, and then again, “I don’t know. By that time my memories were beginning to return … as were his. Only, for him, new memories came back—ones I was sure he hadn’t had before.”
“The brother.”
“Yes. He began to talk about a brother he hadn’t mentioned before. I thought he was telling me about a brother from back home somewhere. I didn’t realise the brother was now here. With him. In him. Until the night I saw them switch before my eyes.”
I rubbed my eyes with the palms of both my hands, struggling to grasp what I was being told. I thought about every moment I’d had with both Anubis and his alleged brother. How long had I been lost in the jungle while trying to find that cabin? Had it been long enough for him to get down there before me?
“It wasn’t long before this brother was completely real to him,” the man went on. “And then … and then things moved from bad to worse. He began to believe I … I was his father. I wouldn’t let him believe such a thing, of course—I couldn’t! That only worsened the situation. He moved between these characters more often. He saw me as a threat … I tried to explain that his brother didn’t exist … and he became paranoid. He cuffed me to the bed … took down the warning signs from the beach.”
The man coughed again. I put my head around the door and peered through the window. The young man had not yet come back. I moved back to the old man’s bedside.
“Please,” the old man said. “Turn off that television. It’s been playing constantly. It goes on and on …”
I went to the corner of the room and shut off the incessant static.
“Sometimes he thinks he was born here,” he continued. “Other times he recalls the truth. It’s all mixed up in his head.”
“What about the pirates?”
“Pirates?” The man looked me straight in the eye. “You are in his fantasy, sir. There are no pirates. You are playing a game with a very sick and dangerous boy …”
“So who are they, then?”
“They?”
“There are people making their way into the jungle as we speak. People from another island.”
The old man stared at me and his eyes brightened. “They came. Oh God, they came,” he said. “They’re trying to find me. They must find me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I sent a message on my radio a while ago … a plea for someone to find me. But no … he won’t let them. No, sir. They’re a threat. And he’ll do whatever it takes … with violence if necessary. This is his world now. His rules. And he’ll never let it go.”
I stepped away from the bed and paced the floor. I had to think. I had to make sense of my predicament and gauge the precise level of threat. I didn’t know the island; Anubis did. For all I knew, he was watching us. I had to play the fool for a while longer or I might not have a hope of getting away. I had to be patient—calm and exacting—or I’d never get the upper hand. I’d probably find myself drugged and chained like the man in the bed.
“You must be careful!” the man said, louder than was warranted. “You must!”
I put my hand swiftly across his lips then moved it away. “Keep your voice down,” I said. I grabbed the tip of the duvet and wiped his perspiring forehead. I couldn’t leave any sign that he an
d I had been talking. I went back to the television and switched it on. “Just for now,” I assured him, studying the rest of the room for signs that I had been there. “A little bit longer. Breathe slowly. Settle down. I’ll be back. But you stay quiet. Stay calm.”
Then I left the room.
The cloud on the horizon had grown into a grey wall. The wind had picked up over the ocean and the colossal grey wall tucked and tumbled into itself with speed, edging closer to the island like the ominous chariot of Zeus himself. From somewhere far away we heard the first boom of thunder.
“There they go,” Anubis said, pointing to the beach below. The group were visible now, small black specks making their journey inland, moving slowly towards us before disappearing beneath the canopies of the jungle.
Anubis stroked the chunky barrel of his weapon. “Poor sods. No idea of the shit-storm to come.”
He gave me a shotgun and I held it anxiously. He raised his own weapon, cocked it, and then laid it down on the rail carefully, stretching out his arms and finding his stance. I imagined he’d learned to hold a gun from a movie he’d once seen. It was a dramatic showing of technical flair that didn’t ring true, elbows prodding out and the stock not quite aligned with his shoulder, which was surely supposed to absorb the force of a recoil.
The most disconcerting part was his utter conviction. He knew what he needed to do and there were no conflicting voices advising him otherwise. When those people came out on our end of the jungle, having survived its strange tricks, he wouldn’t hesitate to finish them off. I could already tell.
“You know,” he said, eye against the sight, “I went down to speak to my brother and he told me that he’s seen this, all of this, in one of his d-d-dreams.” He pulled his head back from the gun and straightened his back. “He’s seen how this ends.”
And then he turned and smiled assuredly, devilishly, back at me.
“Tell me about your suh-suh-son,” he said. We’d been waiting on the deck for over an hour. The visitors had gone into the jungle but hadn’t yet come out.
All the while Anubis and I had been patiently waiting, mostly in silence, but now cracks were beginning to show in his once cool character. He was becoming impatient. Each time something rustled down in the jungle, he’d whip up his gun to take aim. Realising it was nothing, he’d drop it back on the rail and huff to himself, disappointed and frustrated.