Half Lives

by Sara Grant

  I followed like a band groupie.

  ‘Tate!’ Marissa shouted with every ounce of her cheer-powered lungs. ‘Meeting up front!’

  Tate came racing by and beat all of us up to the entryway. We sat in a circle, well, square. Midnight curled up by the door. She was giving herself a tongue-bath. Her big pink tongue looked brighter against her black fur. I suddenly felt the layer of grit coating my skin.

  ‘OK,’ Marissa bounced. ‘Truth or dare?’ Her attitude, her smile, everything felt too forced. She was trying too hard to make this seem normal.

  ‘Truth,’ Tate said when no one responded.

  ‘Oh, OK,’ Marissa said and looked at the ceiling, thinking of a question. ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’

  Chaske and I twigged her verb choice – past tense – and glared at Marissa.

  ‘Um, I mean . . .’ She fake-giggled. It was screepy. ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’

  Tate didn’t notice the shift in verb tense or in the atmosphere. He didn’t hesitate. ‘Rock star, of course.’ He played a little air guitar. ‘A guitarist like the next Jimi Hendrix, or maybe a drummer like Neil Peart. My dad took me to a Rush concert and, man, could that guy wail. It was like . . .’ Tate flailed his arms like an octopus in heat, banging on an imaginary drum set. ‘He was in like some three-sixty surround-sound drummer’s trance. It was wicked.’

  ‘All right,’ Marissa said, unimpressed.

  ‘I’m taking lessons, you know. I got mad skills,’ he said with a flourish of his imaginary ride cymbal.

  My life had suddenly gone from black-and-white to 3-D. It was overwhelming to be around them, especially with Tate and Marissa being so wired. I was suddenly tired again.

  ‘OK, Chaske,’ Tate said. ‘Truth or dare?’ But he didn’t wait for Chaske to choose. ‘What were you out there? Why were you on the mountain? Where did you come from?’

  ‘Whoa there, rock star,’ Chaske said, his face flushing.

  ‘It’s truth or dare, not twenty questions, Tate,’ I said on Chaske’s behalf. I needed them to chill.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Chaske placed his hand on my leg and just as swiftly moved it.

  Marissa and Tate leaned in, eager to hear Chaske’s response and solve the mystery of this guy once and for all.

  ‘I’m nothing special. Just a guy who was at the right or wrong place at the right or wrong time, you know.’

  ‘Ah, come on, man. You’ve got to give us more than that,’ Tate said.

  ‘Your last name at least, or something,’ Marissa added.

  ‘Eastman,’ Chaske said flatly, abruptly ending the inquisition.

  Awkward.

  Tate started tapping his fingers in what I’m sure was the opening beats to ‘Wipe Out’. Marissa’s mouth twitched. I couldn’t figure out if it was a tic or if she kept starting to say something. This was all getting a bit weird.

  ‘I was graduating in a few months and I had no clue what I wanted to be,’ I blurted, unable to take the silence any longer.

  They stared at me as if I’d proclaimed myself radioactive.

  ‘I was probably going to be a doctor. Science comes really easy for me.’ Marissa shrugged. ‘Runs in the family. My mom’s a surgeon and my dad’s a shrink. What about you, Chaske?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter any more, does it?’ Chaske said. ‘Everything’s changed. All we have is the here and now.’

  That was a strangely comforting thought. My senior year was all about getting the best grades and figuring out what college to attend. Tristan was pressuring me to go all the way. None of that mattered now. I needed to survive. I may not have got an offer from Harvard, but maybe I could survive one more day and then another and another.

  ‘I say from now on we forget the shit from outside,’ Chaske continued. ‘Start over.’ His hand went to his mouth and he chewed on the jagged edge of his thumbnail. I hadn’t noticed before, but all his fingernails were bitten down to the quick. The skin around each nail was peeling and raw. When he realized what he was doing he shoved his hands under his thighs.

  He was right. It was too painful to remember everything I’d lost. I had to stop hoping that there would be some made-for-TV moment when we went outside and everything would be exactly as we’d left it. I didn’t feel like the same person I’d been a few days ago.

  ‘I mean, we’re alive. We’re safe. That’s not too bad,’ Chaske said and absent-mindedly chewed one of his nails again. ‘Now I say we play some cards.’ He pulled a pack of cards from his back pocket.

  ‘I can teach you Texas Hold ’em,’ Tate said.

  ‘Great,’ Chaske replied.

  ‘I’m in,’ Marissa said, bouncing a little.

  ‘Why not?’ I added.

  Tate’s lips curled into a cheeky grin. ‘Strip poker?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ Marissa said, giving him a playful slap.

  ‘Nice try, man,’ Chaske said with the faintest hint of a smile.

  ‘I ain’t dead yet,’ Tate said.

  I mentally shook off the cobwebs, slapped on a fake smile and said, ‘Quit yakking and deal.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘See everything as an opportunity for improvement.’

  – Just Saying 129

  BECKETT

  He waits for Greta at the spot they hid away. How crupid he was to think he could keep Greta secret. It was never going to end any other way. Beckett thinks he should be Saying to the Great I AM, but instead he’s begging and hoping to see Greta one more time.

  And then she’s standing in front of him. He almost can’t believe it. He thanks the Great I AM. He kisses her with a passion that makes him tremble.

  ‘Beckett.’ She tries to pull away, but his lips are on hers again. He slips his hands in the space between her shirt and shorts and feels her warm, smooth skin. His connection with the Great I AM is pure and spiritual, but this is physical and overwhelming.

  He tears himself away. He scans every inch of her. She has a smear of dirt on her cheek. He goes to rub it off but instead he traces it with his finger.

  Their lives are colliding in so many ways. He kisses her lips tenderly this time. He cups the back of her neck and holds her there, drinking in everything he will never have again.

  ‘Greta . . .’ He can’t find the words. How can he explain in a way that won’t make her hate him?

  ‘I came to warn you,’ she blurts.

  ‘What?’ She’s warning him? It doesn’t make sense.

  ‘My brothers saw something out there.’ She points to the valley below. He can tell she’s scared. And yet she’s come to warn him. His heart swells. She’s risking everything for him too.

  ‘A black creature attacked them,’ Greta continues. ‘They saw it climb this mountain.’

  The realization of what she’s saying clicks. ‘Terrorists.’ He can’t believe it. Harper is wrong. There are real Terrorists, beasties just like his ancestors believed.

  ‘What did you say?’ Greta squints at him.

  ‘Terrorists. We’ve always feared their return.’ He starts to pace. This is worse than he thought. Finch is going to attack Vega and Terrorists have returned.

  ‘No, this was some sort of monster.’

  ‘Yeah, with claws and fangs. The beasties that brought about the end of everything.’

  She studies him as if he’s a puzzle she can’t solve. ‘With these monsters running wild, I think you need to persuade your people to join with us,’ she says. ‘We can protect you.’

  They can protect us? He needs no protection other than the Great I AM. Beckett remembers Harper’s warning: Greta’s people want our Mountain. This doesn’t mean Harper was right. He won’t believe Greta has ulterior motives. She came to warn him. She wants to protect him. She risked Terrorists to come here. And even if she’s a spy, what does it matter? His people are planning to attack her home.

  He stops pacing, but his thoughts continue to go round and round. He faces her. He can’t wait any longer. ‘Greta, I
came to warn you too.’ He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to believe it’s true. He knows it will kill whatever it is that’s blossomed between them. ‘Some people in Forreal believe,’ he starts slowly, ‘someone from Vega killed a young girl from Forreal.’

  ‘We could never—’

  He’s got to tell her. He’s got to say it now or he may never be able to find the courage. ‘These people plan to attack Vega at sundown tomorrow. They know we’ve been meeting, and they think I’ve been conspiring with you.’

  ‘Oh, God, Beckett, no.’ She looks at him and then out towards Vega.

  He reaches for her, for one last embrace, but she backs away. Her eyes are locked on his but she’s shaking her head and moving farther and farther away. ‘What have we done?’

  For that, there is no answer.

  Greta turns and runs.

  And now he has lost her for good.

  Without so much as a backward glance, she’s gone. If she can so easily turn her back on him, maybe he was fooling himself that what they had was as important to her as it was to him.

  Maybe Harper was right. Maybe Greta has been using him all along.

  Beckett lies stretched like a star on the hard, rocky soil. If it weren’t for the thousands of tiny pebbles digging their sharp edges into his flesh, he would feel nothing. He’s waiting for Harper as agreed. He’s been Saying to the Great I AM, but he feels abandoned – by Harper, by Greta. The Great I AM seems to have abandoned him too.

  He presses himself into the Mountain and says to the Great I AM, Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

  He feels the grit on his skin and imagines that he is becoming one with the Mountain, slowly blending and then disintegrating until the fragments of him are blown away on the hot desert air.

  Whatever. Whatever. Whatever. The Saying rolls around in Beckett’s brain but it doesn’t give him peace. The Great I AM can’t want him to stand by and watch them destroy each other. But what can he do?

  Whatever.

  The word, usually so solemn, so meaningful, now feels almost unknown on his tongue. His eyes squeeze shut tightly in frustration. What am I supposed to do?

  Beckett’s skin prickles with goose bumps, as if the temperature on the Mountain has changed. Someone is coming. He can feel it. He tries to relax and tune into every molecule around him.

  He keeps his eyes closed and says to the Great I AM, Whatever. Beckett hopes that whoever it is will simply go away. But the person keeps coming. He’s so close now that Beckett feels the heat radiating off him.

  He waits until he feels hate hover on the blade of a knife above his throat. He opens his eyes. The defining features of the figure looming above him are obscured in shadow. The silhouette materializes: a tall, lanky frame, a beak-like face and a bald head.

  Finch.

  Beckett looks him in the eyes, demanding an explanation.

  Finch clears his throat. ‘I’ve been looking for you, Beckett. You can’t hide on my Mountain.’ Beckett can feel the blade quiver in Finch’s hand. ‘You have betrayed Forreal. It is my destiny to avenge Atti’s death and kill the Terrorists once and for all. I won’t let you stop me.’ Finch’s eyes are wild.

  Beckett can almost picture it. Blood draining from his body and staining the earth below. Has the Great I AM sent Finch? Beckett wonders. Is this his destiny?

  Finch straddles Beckett’s torso, keeping the knife poised over Beckett’s throat. He kneels on Beckett’s arms and sits on his chest. Finch’s legs are like steel rods, cutting Beckett’s arms in half. Beckett whispers the Saying of Dedication.

  ‘Stop that.’ Finch presses the flat of the knife into Beckett’s neck. It stings as the blade breaks the skin. Finch tenses his grip on the knife. Beckett sees doubt in Finch’s eyes. It only lasts a split second, but Beckett interprets it as a sign from the Great I AM. He bucks Finch off and snatches the knife from him. He recognizes Forreal’s ceremonial knife, its red handle and white cross.

  Beckett kicks Finch’s legs out from under him. Now Beckett and Finch have switched places. Finch lies stunned on the ground. How dare he look up with fear in his eyes after everything he’s done? He is destroying years of peace and disobeying the Great I AM. He has wrecked everything that it has taken Beckett a lifetime to build. He has stripped Beckett of his Great-I-AM-given right to lead Forreal. He’s ruined what Beckett had with Greta. Beckett’s vision tints red. He lunges for Finch, leading with the tip of the knife. Finch rolls out of the way and the knife slashes his bicep. A teardrop of red drips down Finch’s arm. Beckett staggers back with the shock of what he’s done.

  Finch levels a kick at Beckett’s wrist, causing the knife to arc through the air. Finch scrambles for the knife. Beckett zigzags up the Mountain, dodging boulders and threading through a maze of pine trees.

  Beckett knows he can’t run forever and the Mountain’s landscape doesn’t offer many hiding places. He checks behind him. Finch is gaining on him. The knife in Finch’s hand blinks in the sun.

  Up ahead Beckett spots the Crown. The Great I AM warned that anyone who crosses the Crown would die.

  Beckett’s thoughts loop in an endless figure of eight. If he doesn’t cross the Crown, Finch will finish the job. If it is the Great I AM’s will that he die today, then let it be the Great I AM who takes his life. He accelerates and heads straight for the Crown. His Saying echoes in every footfall. Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

  He springs into the air. Branches break under his weight and he is impaled on the thicket. Hundreds of thorns pierce his body and he screams, caught in a spiderweb of pain. He crawls up the Crown. Thorns claw at his bare chest and snag his loincloth. When he reaches the top, he half dives, half falls over. The second his hands hit the ground he tucks and rolls.

  Maybe it’s his imagination, but his skin tingles. He’s on sacred ground. He waits for the Great I AM to exact the ultimate punishment.

  Finch stops in front of the Crown, panting from the effort of the chase. ‘Beckett,’ Finch calls through the brambles, ‘you have betrayed Forreal and disobeyed the Great I AM. I am the Cheer Captain now.’

  Beckett stays silent even though his lungs beg for air. He believes that he is moments away from death – either by the force of the spirit or Finch’s hands.

  The anticipation is torture. Every cell in his body feels stretched and ready to burst.

  Finch straightens his tall, lanky frame, his body a mosaic through the twisted branches. ‘May you be at peace with the Mountain,’ Finch whispers, and sprints away.

  Beckett waits for death. He lies flat, watching the daylight fade. Tears threaten when he thinks of Greta and Harper. What will happen to them? He will watch over them if he’s able. He clings to every second of life the Great I AM allows him.

  Nothing happens.

  Not a lightning bolt or a rattlesnake, not even a breeze, disturbs him.

  And he’s relieved and devastated. He’s dedicated his life to the Mountain. He breaks the most sacred rule of the Great I AM. If death does not come . . . but he won’t let himself finish that thought.

  The air cools and the sounds of night crackle around him.

  ‘Great I AM,’ Beckett says, nearly pleads. He’s said Whatever so many times. Whatever doesn’t feel like an answer so he asks, ‘What now?’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Midnight never left my side. She was small but had started to occupy a ginormous space in my life. I’d sit and watch her for hours. I’d wonder why she’d suddenly decide to clean her back left paw. I loved the little mew sound she’d make when I woke her with a scratch under her chin. She liked to play with my gel pens. I’d twirl them above her and she’d bat at them. I’d smash up rubble to make her a litter tray at the very back of the necessary and spend hours creating cat toys from scraps of material and foil wrappers. She’d chase the foil balls I made her up and down the tunnel, but sit on them if I caught her playing. I’d almost laugh when she’d have her wacky fifteen minutes at about the same time every night. She�
�d do this hop and skip up and down the tunnel. Or she’d stare at a spot on the wall as if she were admiring a Picasso. Sometimes I’d sit and stare with her and find patterns in the dirt that could rival some of those famous abstract paintings in the National Gallery of Art. Being with Midnight was easier than being with people. She didn’t care what had happened. She adapted. She didn’t remind me of what I’d left behind. She could be happy with simple things. There were no fromplicated emotions to deal with, or mood swings. We didn’t have to make conversation. We could just be together.

  Tate incessantly made noise. He was either drumming his fingers, tapping his toes or humming. His jaw even popped when he ate. He snored and sometimes called out in his sleep. You never had to worry about him sneaking up on you. Having him around was like always having the TV on in the background. I sometimes wished Tate had a mute button.

  Chaske kept to himself. I’d glimpse him when he’d pass my room. I timed it right sometimes so I’d bump into him in the supply room and offer to split a power bar. I’d spend hours creating scenarios that consisted of him and me in the real world doing everyday stuff. He didn’t like to talk about himself. I didn’t know what kind of movies he liked or what kind of coffee he drank. Did he even drink coffee? I didn’t think he was the type for organized sports. He had that book; maybe he liked museums and art galleries. But he might have liked to make skin suits from the carcasses of dead animals for all I knew.

  And I guess it didn’t matter if he liked coffee or any of the rest of that stuff. We’d probably never have any of it again. I’d probably never see my favourite horror movies. What would remain when we resurfaced, if we resurfaced? No TV. No electricity. Running water? Even our attempts at mundane conversation seemed pointless in a way and only reinforced what we’d lost. I tried to respect his need for privacy. If I was honest, I kind of liked it. It allowed me to fantasize about who he was before: the youngest and only American MI6 agent, a boy genius who sold some dot-com for millions, a prince of some little known country. Maybe he’d run away because he’d seen some mob hit. Then I’d see those tiny slits of fingernails he had with their jagged edges. I’d catch the way he chewed them when the conversation went quiet and hide his hands when he saw me looking at them. Maybe he was an ordinary guy on a camping trip. It still didn’t explain why he had so much food or why he came to this mountain – and then there was the gun . . .