Then I lit a match.
I turned the small flare of light and smoke around on the book of matches, which lit up with a hiss. I dropped the conflagration into an empty trash can. There was no danger of a real fire, but a book of matches puts off enough smoke to trigger a fire alarm. And in a public building like that one, when one alarm goes off, they all go off.
The child welfare woman bounded to her feet and stuck her head out the locked door to the lobby. One breath and she lost all of the cold veneer that could turn down a fifteen-year-old looking for her parents.
“I smell smoke!” She shouted it back into the office and bolted, never seeing me behind the waiting room’s silk Ficus tree. As my newest nemesis’s heels clacked out a steady fading beat, I made for the slowly closing door and slipped inside the office. The main room was empty, but there were two smaller offices at the back. I couldn’t see inside them. The allure of the manila folder sitting atop the desk overrode my sense of caution. I didn’t even need to take it. With my memory, all I really had to do was read the information and scoot.
But when I flung the folder open and saw the two faces staring back at me, each with recognizable parts of me, I froze. The image of my parents blurred, as tears filled my eyes. I tried looking at the documents below the photo, but the wet lenses of my eyes hid the information.
“Hey!” a man shouted. “You can’t be back here!” And then, like safety was an afterthought, “There’s a fire!”
I pinched the corner of the folder and ran, intending on taking everything. They would know it was me. Might even try to find me. Arrest me. It didn’t matter. If I could find my parents... Everything would be different.
But all I managed to do was spread the details of my real life across the floor. There was no time to stop for them. The only reason I escaped was because the man with the chubby beet-red face was already winded from running across half the office. He couldn’t chase me beyond the door, but he would have caught me if I stopped. I exited through the side emergency door and walked away, staring at the photo of the man and woman on the beach, oblivious to the sound of approaching emergency vehicles.
When my eyes cleared, I turned the photo over and found three words written in blue ballpoint pen that had dented the image. The penmanship was rigid. Masculine. It said, Mom, Dad and Euphemia.
Mom.
Dad.
At some point in the past, when this photo was taken, and later, when it was developed and admired, my parents took ownership of me. ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’ are personal. Had the child welfare Nazi written this, or anyone else who wasn’t my real father, it would have said ‘Mother and Father,’ or even more likely, there wouldn’t be any writing on it at all.
So why had they given me up?
No clue.
And as I open my eyes to a blue sky full of impossibly bright cumulus clouds, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, I’m beginning to think I might never find out.
I sit up with a groan, every part of me aching. My abdomen shakes as the battered muscles strain against the added weight of my go-pack, which according to the ache in my spine, I slept on all night. A flash of pain snaps to life between my eyes, spinning my vision. A high-pitched ringing fills my ears. I breathe through it, focusing on the seagull’s calls.
I once read a novel featuring genetically altered man-eating seagulls with piranha mouths. As the bird overhead makes lazy circles, gives me a casual glance and then rides a breeze toward the ocean, I’m grateful I haven’t washed up on that horrible place. Jungle debris surrounds me like a nest, piled high enough that I need to stand to see beyond it. The pain in my head returns as I stand, my vision cutting to the right over and over. The ringing in my ears becomes a rumble. After a minute of waiting, I can see the world again, but the rumble has become a strange warbling sound.
I’m a few hundred feet from the shore, which I can see, because I’m also at least fifty feet above sea level. But even if I weren’t, enough trees have been mowed down, along with all the undergrowth, that I’m pretty sure I’d have a clear view of the water, even if the land was level. The ocean beyond the island is a swirl of dark and light blue water; it’s light where the bottom is sand, dark where the bottom is earth scoured off the island. I can see some of it streaked over the beach as well.
Halfway between me and the ocean is a tall tree with a tangle of branches. It’s taller than the surrounding pines, but it has been stripped bare of at least half its leaves. I didn’t get a clear view of the tree the others escaped into during the storm, but since this one is the only one that fits the bill, I decide to check it out. The trouble is, I can see most of the branches, and I don’t see any people.
Could the water have reached that high?
Maybe the wind blew them out during the night?
Maybe it’s the wrong tree?
Burning with unanswerable questions, I take one step and groan. Everything feels swollen and tight. I steady myself with a hand on the palm tree that plowed a path to safety for me, and I try to touch my toes. My extended fingers only make it to my knees. The blood rushing toward my head kicks off a fresh wave of pain, and I stand back up, steadying myself until it fades.
I’ll loosen up if I move, I decide, but I know that’s not really true. If anything, I’ll make my injuries worse. But for the first time in my life, I’d rather not be alone. There’s something about nearly being killed multiple times that gives you an appreciation for the living, whether you know them or not.
The jungle floor is even harder to walk on than it was the night before. Each step is uneven. The network of branches, brush and dead fish underfoot is as impossible to walk on as it sounds. My ankles would turn and twist with each step, if not for the thick Unity boots. I fall constantly, the impacts reminding me that I’m alive, but that death is one bad step away.
The sun, while it warms my skin, makes things even worse. It’s rising in the corner of my eye, making me squint on one side. I fall to my right more than I do to the left, as a result. It takes me fifteen minutes to make it halfway to the tree, which now looms high above me. Whatever species it is, it doesn’t look native. I glance around the half-cleared hillside and see other odd species, their twisting branches and fluttering leaves providing an interesting contrast to the broad palms bending in the morning’s breeze.
Still sopping wet, I pause to catch my breath. I attempt to assess my wounds, but the pain is so overarching that I’m not sure where to look. I’m not even sure I want to. What if I lift my shirt to find a broad purple patch that reveals internal bleeding? And if I survive that, what if it clots and shoots into my brain? I could have a stroke, and there would be no one around to help.
Get a grip.
This isn’t you.
I have felt despair before. It’s crippling. And it’s not my friend.
Compartmentalize the fear, I tell myself. The pain, too. Make those Unity psychologists proud. And if you see them again, commence face-punching retribution. Not just for my pain. Or for the fact that I nearly lost my life. But for the five kids I know for certain did. I don’t know their names, but I will never forget their upside-down, lifeless faces. It’s an offense someone needs to answer for.
Thinking of the dead reminds me of Sig.
I search the beach for signs of a second transport crash, but even our transport has been swept away by the retreating tsunami. The island behind me looks the same as it did the night before, except permanently lit by the sun. Where are you, Sig? I wonder, and I say a prayer, hoping that someone beyond oblivion is listening. I throw in Hutch for good measure, but hold out little hope for the passengers in Transport 38. It would have fallen short of the island. Even if the foam safety system saved fifty percent of them, they would have been bobbing in the ocean to be scooped up and thrashed by the tsunami.
A nearby squawking makes me think that the gathering seagulls have finally realized that the island is now covered in dead fish, but then I understand the sound. And I recognize the v
oice. Gizmo. Sounds like he’s losing his mind. Or in danger. It’s hard to tell with the warbling rumble and the ringing still plaguing my hearing. But there are definitely voices within the chaos.
With renewed effort, I scrabble through the debris, heading for the big tree. Piles of palm trunks and brush block my view and muffle the sound from the far side, but it’s clear he’s upset.
Gwen’s voice comes next. Angry. Defiant. And then pleading.
What I hear next locks my legs in place. I had nearly shouted to them, but now I hold my breath. There’s a new voice. A man. And while I don’t recognize the voice, I know the tone.
Threatening.
Sinister.
I search for a weapon, but all I find are leaves and branches either too big to wield or too fresh to break. Gwen seemed to think our go-packs were full of survival gear. Maybe there’s a knife in mine? I put the pack on the ground and gently undo the magnetic strip holding it shut. The perfect, tight seal has kept the contents dry, but I’m confused by what I find. Gray, chemical-scented foam. The kind electronics are packaged in.
I pull up, and the top layer comes off, revealing a single item. It’s a Unity Point symbol, black around the base and edges, red on top. I pull it out of the foam, feeling its weight, the hardness of its tip. I think I can use it as a weapon. It’s thin, but it feels solid enough to stab with, if need be. Then I notice it’s the same size as the badge on my chest. I place the symbol against its twin on my chest, and it snaps tight. The badge is magnetic, I think, and I leave it so I can inspect the rest of my go-pack’s contents.
The next layer contains a twisted coil of rope. I lift it out and loop it over my head and shoulder.
As the voices beyond the wall of vegetation get louder, I toss the foam layer aside and remove the next one. Inside is a pack of matches and a knife. Seven inch blade. It’s sheathed on a belt, which I remove and strap on. On the right side of the belt, opposite the sheathed blade, is an empty holster.
I glance at it for a moment, wondering why they would give me a holster.
When I remove the last layer of foam, I understand why.
There’s a gun inside the go-pack.
6
Gripping my head against a sudden stabbing pain, I stare down at the weapon. It’s black and ominous. A knife can take a life, but it’s also a tool, used more for practical, everyday living. But a gun? There is no other use for it than taking a life, deserving or not.
Why did they give me a gun? Outside of video games, I’ve never fired one. Never handled one. I have been on the receiving end of one, though. So I understand the fear that small black barrel can generate. I also remember how powerful the person holding it can appear.
I don’t want to shoot anyone. But maybe I don’t have to.
I lift the weapon out of the foam and find the reason why my go-pack weighed so much more than the others; guns are heavy. There are two magazines in the foam. I pluck out one and pocket it. I fumble with the second, but figure out how to slide it into the gun’s handle.
The voices on the far side of the debris wall reach a crescendo, everyone speaking at once, the comingling sounds more like a howling wind. Something horrible is about to happen.
I holster the gun and scramble over the piled trees, reaching the top in five strides. The sun stabs my eyes, setting off a flare of pain. The voices explode, reacting to my arrival. With a hand raised to block the sun, I look down to find Daniel, Gizmo and Mandi cowering behind Gwen. She’s wielding a branch like a long sword, holding off a man I can’t clearly see.
“Hey!” I shout at the man.
His fuzzy image resolves a little. He’s wearing a red, plaid, flannel shirt and blue jeans. There’s a shotgun in his hands, now leveled at me. His face is still a blur.
“They letting just anyone become Points now?” he says.
“Leave,” I tell him. “Now.” I’ve got my right hip turned away from the man. He can see the sheathed knife, but not the gun. This knowledge bolsters my resolve, though I’m still not sure I can kill a man.
He chuckles like a man who gets his kicks from torturing animals.
I know him.
The memory is old. But clear. It’s the man with the gun. A foster-father’s brother. My ‘uncle’ for a year.
His face resolves, hairy from not caring and red from alcohol.
“Howard?”
He grins. “Never were the sharpest tool in the drawer.”
“How did you... What...”
My head throbs with pain. Waves of sound crash through me. Howard’s rough smoker’s voice grates on me.
He breaks into song, adding a fake Southern twang to his voice. “Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave. Wearing still on his sweet yet pale face. Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave. The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.”
He cracks a chipped-tooth grin at me and raises the shotgun at Daniel.
“Stop!” I shout, and I draw the handgun, pointing it at his head, trying to keep it steady. I’m trying to keep my eyes open against the pain in my skull.
“Somebody’s darling, somebody’s pride. Who’ll tell his mother where her boy died?” Howard does a little jig and looks over the barrel of his shotgun. In a moment, he’ll say, ‘Pow!’ like he used to do to me, or he’ll really pull the trigger—like he did to his girlfriend. I have no memory of those events, but I heard about it and a mysterious lone witness, on the news before I was sent to another home, where TV was forbidden and psychologist visits were frequent.
I pull my trigger before Uncle Howard can.
The loud crack cuts through the roar in my ears and hits the spot between my eyes like a bullet. I drop to my knees atop the awkward pile of debris.
Then I hear screaming, and I know the danger isn’t over. I shove myself up and aim toward Howard again.
Only Howard isn’t there.
Did he run away?
I search the area, but see nothing.
“Effie,” Gwen says, but I ignore her.
Howard is nowhere to be seen. How did he get away? I can see for at least a mile, and the ground is so torn up that running anywhere fast should be impossible.
He’s behind the tree, I think.
“Effie!” Gwen shouts, annoyed.
“What?” I yell back, looking down at her.
Looking down at nothing.
Gwen is gone.
Daniel, Gizmo and Mandi, too.
How...
“Effie,” Gwen says again, her voice like a ghost’s, coming from nowhere. “Ease down.”
“Where are you?” I ask, looking up at the tree, thinking they must have returned to their high hiding spot.
“You’re hallucinating,” she says, calm now.
The pain in my head spikes. I hear screaming voices. I raise the weapon toward them. Howard’s laugh mocks me.
“Effie.” It’s Gwen again. “What you’re seeing and hearing isn’t real. But the gun in your hand is. And I would prefer you not shoot me.”
“I wouldn’t shoot you,” I say.
“You might, if I looked like Howard.”
“He’s not really here?”
With a serene calmness that sounds practiced, Gwen says, “It’s just you and me.”
“The others—”
“Are safe,” she says, “though to be honest, they’re feeling a little afraid right now. Of you.”
The gun grows impossibly heavy in my hands. My arms go slack, my fingers just barely holding on to the weapon’s handle.
“I’m going to take it from your hand now,” she says. I feel her fingers, rough and gritty, slide over mine. Then the weight of the weapon leaves my hands. To my surprise, I feel its weight move to my hip. She holstered the gun.
“You didn’t take it,” I say.
“It’s your burden to bear.” I feel Gwen’s hands on my shoulders, reassuring and redirecting my body, turning me around. “It’s your job. I can add my strength to yours, but the actions you take—righ
t or wrong—can be determined only by you.”
Gwen’s face comes into view as I’m turned around. Her blonde hair is caked with mud. Her face is covered in flecks of blood. She holds up her hand, showing me her brand. “I can only offer support.”
In that moment, the roles of Base, Support and Point become a littler clearer. Since things went bad, I have been the one directing our action, naturally leading, while Gwen has been helping me. Supporting me. And Daniel, a Base, has been using his intellect to help guide my actions. Part of me loathes the idea that Unity was able to accurately separate us into these natural roles, but I also see how it worked. And it’s not that Gwen and Daniel are incapable of taking action, but they follow my lead. Unless I’m shooting at imaginary people.
Gwen’s face goes in and out of focus. Her strong hands keep me steady and upright. “Point... Is that like in the military? Being on point? Leading the way?”
“That’s one way to look at it,” she says, trying to guide me back down the debris pile. “Careful. Big step on your right.”
She buffers me as I nearly topple over and then straightens me back up. “But I think the intended analogy was that of a spear. The point.”
The red color at the top of the triangle takes on a different meaning.
“I’m...a weapon?”
“Not quite,” she says to my relief. But then she adds, “Not yet.”
Before I can reply, my vision narrows. I feel gravity’s pull, and a fresh wave of pain pummels me from the inside. Oblivion returns, and I plunge headlong into its merciful grasp.
7
My life hasn’t contained a lot of what I would call ‘traditional beauty.’ No manicured gardens. No stylish décor. No pristine landscapes. I’ve never been in a forest. Never climbed a mountain. Never been to an art museum. I’ve seen the inside of a lot of haggard homes and a few mediocre ones. In fact, the nicest place I’ve probably ever been was Brook Meadow. The building was new and they seemed to have state funding up the wazoo. Everything was clean. The lines were smooth. The architecture interesting. But I never really appreciated it.
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