by Sara Grant
Beckett rests her against the infinity stone. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, easing himself down next to her.
Harper wrinkles her eyebrows together. ‘Seriously?’
Beckett half smiles at her sarcasm. She’s going to be OK.
‘We’ve got to stop Finch and Greta.’ Harper speaks slowly as if it pains her to say it. ‘As the Great I AM says, “Desperate times call for outrageous measures”.’
A plan is beginning to form in Beckett’s head.
Harper leans into Beckett. ‘What did you find?’
Beckett hands Harper the Great I AM’s backpack. ‘I think it’s the Great I AM’s Facebook.’ Beckett wraps an arm around Harper.
‘Beckett, what are we going to do?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ he says. ‘Let’s give Forreal and Vega something to believe in.’
Chapter Thirty-two
After we cleaned him up, Tate spent the next hour in the necessary being sick. Chaske held him upright while I placed cold compresses on his forehead. I tried not to gag each time he threw up. Even after his stomach was empty he continued to heave. Eventually he collapsed in Chaske’s arms. We tucked him in bed and took turns watching him sleep. My body itched to run away. It took every ounce of courage to stay by Tate’s side. I wasn’t cut out for this. It was too real and horrible. Hadn’t we suffered enough?
When he woke the next morning, he was exhausted but sort of fine. We let him eat a whole MRE. For a day it was as if we were almost back to our locked-underground normal. Even though I couldn’t remember how I normally acted or what I normally did. Every second my brain was consumed by one question – are we being poisoned?
Chaske and I talked about leaving this place, but we were still more scared of what was out there than in here. Then Tate got too sick for us to even consider moving him. We watched this vibrant kid age before our eyes in agonizing stages. First came the diarrhoea, then nose bleeds. Next the chills and fever. He said he felt as if his head were being ripped in two. We gave him what medication we had.
‘I don’t know what more we can do for him,’ I told Chaske less than a week later. We had stepped out into the tunnel to discuss what to do next. Tate was bedridden. He couldn’t eat or drink without getting sick. His hair fell out in fistfuls. He smelled as if he were decaying already.
‘Should we, you know . . .’ Chaske couldn’t say it but I knew. ‘He’s only going to get worse. More pain. It doesn’t seem humane to watch him suffer.’
I thought about the zombie and the weight of the gun in my hand. The trigger had clicked under the pressure of my finger and I remembered the look in the zombie’s eyes as the bullet had entered his body. How his eyes widened in surprise and then squinted in pain. Then I always saw Marissa’s face. We were both just trying to make it through this and remain human – which I knew now was impossible.
That memory made my body ache. My throat tensed. My stomach convulsed. My insides swam in a sickening swirl of guilt and anger and fear and sadness. I told myself again and again that I’d had to do it. It was him or me, but no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I knew I’d taken two lives.
I told Chaske, ‘I can’t. I know you’re right, but I can’t.’ I’d done it once in the heat of a life-or-death moment. I couldn’t pull the trigger again, even if it may be for the best. I couldn’t point the gun at Tate. I already felt as if I’d killed him by bringing him here.
‘Icie, promise me. If I ever get that bad, you’ll find the courage to put me out of my misery. You’ll do it for me, won’t you? I’m telling you it’s OK. It would be what I’d want.’
I shook my head. ‘We weren’t exposed. We’re fine. I mean we’d be sick already, right?’ but I knew it was impossible to say. I didn’t know how much exposure we’d had and what type of radioactive waste it was. Also I knew from my dad that everyone reacted to poisons differently. Tate had been so close to that radioactive gunk for so long and he’d had direct contact too.
‘I hope you’re right, but promise me. Don’t let me suffer.’
I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I buried my face in his chest. My mass of dreadlocks fell over my face. ‘It’s all my fault,’ I whispered, barely saying my confession. ‘I didn’t know. My parents couldn’t have known.’
He stroked my dreadlocks.
‘I thought we were safe,’ I said, and swallowed the thick saliva that had gathered in my mouth. ‘Why did Tate have to open that door anyway? Why couldn’t he just leave it alone? We were better off not knowing, weren’t we?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Chaske said. He brushed my hair aside so he could see my face in the soft glow of the solar lighting.
‘My parents couldn’t have known that stuff was here. Why would they send me here if that stuff was here? I mean—’
Chaske hugged me closer. ‘Icie, I saw those containers just like you did. They had no markings besides the radioactive symbol. Some company has taken advantage of this free storage facility, or maybe the government was secretly storing the stuff here. Those canisters aren’t marked with a company name or any fancy coding system. They must have been hidden here for a long time. Your parents couldn’t have known.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ I buried my face again.
‘We would all be dead already if it weren’t for you and this place,’ Chaske said.
‘Yeah, I guess,’ I murmured into his chest, my lip nudging his bare skin with each word. I kissed his chest, his neck. I held his face and kissed him hard on the lips. I wanted to feel something. I didn’t want to think about Tate any more.
‘Icie,’ Chaske said and shifted away from me. ‘I can’t. Not now. OK?’
I heard his words but I couldn’t stop. I had to make him understand. I wanted to feel what I’d felt so many nights with Chaske. I wanted that spark, that closeness. I kissed him on his cheeks. I ran my hands across his body but, instead of responding, his body tensed. I kept kissing him. He had to understand.
‘Enough, Icie,’ he said, and pinned me against the tunnel wall.
‘Chaske, stop it,’ I said, writhing underneath him.
‘Icie, please,’ he whispered, and shook me until I stopped fighting. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. I shut my eyes. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said again.
‘Yes, it is. All this . . .’ I started to cry. I hated these helpless tears. I wanted to pull my arms in and cover my face but he wouldn’t release me.
‘It’s not your fault.’ He repeated it again and again and again.
‘Then whose fault is it?’ I shouted.
‘If you want to blame someone, blame the people who made the stuff and put it here,’ he said slowly, but then the speed and intensity of the words increased. ‘Blame all the people who make things that are only designed to kill. Blame the governments for not making peace their only priority. If you want to blame someone, I guess you can blame me too. Maybe we are all to blame. We lived our lives and didn’t care about anything bigger than ourselves. We are all to blame for not speaking up, standing up, shouting, kicking and screaming, and demanding better from the world, our leaders, each other and ourselves. If we ever get out of here, let’s do a better job. When you rule the world, why don’t you preach peace and compassion and common sense?’
His fire, his passion, was contagious. And he was right.
‘Maybe I will,’ I said.
Towards the end we let Tate listen to a few tunes a day, spacing it out and talking endlessly about what song to pick. Sometimes he didn’t know who we were or where he was. He kept calling me Libby and calling Chaske Jaymo or something like that. We didn’t correct him. We let him believe we were whoever he wanted us to be. When he stopped talking, Chaske and I carried on a discussion we thought Tate would like.
Chaske and I sat on the cold rock floor on either side of Tate’s cot.
‘Best rock singer of all time?’ Chaske said, in a tone that if Tate were conscious, he would realize was too perky for Chaske. He tried so hard to keep the mood li
ght. He had this too-wide smile plastered on his face. It was kind of freepy, but I couldn’t tell him that his smile was making me anxious.
‘You mean besides Tate Chamberlain,’ I said, his name catching in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. Tate wouldn’t get his rock star dream, or any dream now.
We agreed to try to keep the mood happy for Tate, but that was nearly impossible. ‘Wha Eva’s the best rock singer, of course,’ Chaske said, sticking to our light-hearted discussion.
I cleared my throat but I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face. ‘Tate likes In Complete Faith and Fame Sake, don’t you, Tate? What was the tune you played all the time?’
‘Yeah, that “Tonight” song,’ Chaske said and started to sing: ‘“Tonight’s got promise. Promise”.’
I leaned in and whispered to Tate, ‘Chaske sure isn’t the best singer of all time.’
‘Hey!’ Chaske said. ‘I’ve got a good voice.’
Chaske and I were acting too light and fluffy – like hosts on a children’s television show.
‘We already did best drummer and best rock tune . . .’ Chaske struggled for another topic.
‘And the best band of all time,’ I added. I was watching Tate slip away and all I could do was make crupid conversation.
‘Tate, how about you and I list the top ten girls we want to be stuck in a bunker with?’ Chaske asked, giving Tate a conspiratorial, but light, nudge.
‘You’ve got me,’ I interjected. ‘What more could you . . .’ But I knew if I said the rest of that sentence, I was going to lose it. I leapt to my feet and raced as fast as I could down the tunnel. I’d nearly reached the bottom before I burst into tears. That’s what it felt like. Something inside of me had ripped open and I couldn’t stop sobbing. I curled into a ball on the hard rock floor and cried. It wasn’t only for Tate but for everyone I’d lost. I’d locked Marissa and Midnight out. I didn’t know what was worse, watching Tate die or forever wondering what had happened to my parents.
I told myself to suck it up. I couldn’t be there for Mum or Dad or Lola, but I could be there for Tate. I wiped my eyes and marched right back to Tate’s bedside. I mouthed Sorry to Chaske.
‘It’s OK,’ he said.
I slid down next to him. We sat in silence for a while, listening to Tate breathe.
Each of Tate’s breaths was ragged and barely audible. Chaske and I would hold our breaths until he took another, asking each other with the raise of an eyebrow if this was it.
Tate cracked open one eye and stared at me.
‘Hi, Tate,’ I said, and forced myself to stroke his arm. After we’d scrubbed him, his skin developed thousands of scabs, almost scales. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat. I didn’t think he was contagious but I didn’t know. I never paid attention in science class. I only half listened to my father when he talked his nuclear talk. It really didn’t matter any more, did it? We were already exposed.
‘Icie?’ Tate murmured.
‘Yes. Tate, I’m right here.’
After a long while he said, ‘I’m scared.’
‘I’m sorry.’ It was all I could think of to say. What do you say to a dying twelve- or was it thirteen-year-old kid? I should have really known his age. I should have tried to get to know him better.
Tate’s eyes leaked tears. His lips trembled. I could tell it took great effort for him to speak, but he was determined. ‘I don’t want to die.’ He opened his hand to me and I held it.
I knew he needed me to say something reassuring, but what could I say? I didn’t want him to die – I didn’t want to die. Tears flooded my vision. A sob clawed at my throat but I didn’t want Tate to hear me cry. He was scared enough. He didn’t need his final hours filled with me blubbering.
‘Tate, we are right here,’ Chaske said. ‘We aren’t going to leave you.’ Chaske took Tate’s other hand. ‘I think we custom-make our own afterlife. You’ve lived longer than most everyone else out there. I think all the great rockers are up there waiting for you and you’ll get to spend eternity jamming. You were going to be . . .’ Chaske cleared his throat. ‘You are going to be the best drummer of all eternity.’ Chaske was talking in soothing tones as if everything was going to be fine. His voice wasn’t full of questions and doubt like mine was. He sounded sure. ‘It’s going to be amazing, Tate. I promise.’ Tears were streaming down Chaske’s face but his voice never faltered.
‘Icie,’ Tate whispered. I leaned in close so I could hear him. ‘My watch,’ he said, lifting his wrist less than an inch before it flopped back at his side. ‘You be the time-keeper.’
‘I couldn’t.’ Part of me didn’t want to take the watch, not only because it was admitting that his fight was nearing an end, but also because a selfish part of me wondered if it was contaminated with radioactivity. It definitely felt infused with death. But I owed it to Tate to comfort him in any small way I could.
‘Icie . . .’ Tate struggled to speak. ‘Please.’
Chaske slipped the watch off Tate’s wrist and pressed it into my hand. Tate’s body convulsed and he screamed in pain. I wanted to run but I forced myself to stay. All I could give him now was my presence.
‘It’s OK, Tate. We are right here. It’s OK,’ Chaske continued talking in a steady calming stream. Tate’s body relaxed. His fingers loosened in our grasp.
I focused on Tate’s watch. In my mind I counted the ticks of the second hand. The ticks between breaths increased. I was sure each breath would be his last. I hoped it was. How horrible was that? I wanted his suffering to end, but also I knew that once he died, I would have to try to block him out like I had so many others. I wondered if Chaske was right. Was a quick death better for everyone?
Looking at Tate when whatever it was that made him alive and not just a body disappeared, I realized that there was no such thing as a good death.
We wrapped Tate in Chaske’s sleeping bag and carried him back to the end of the tunnels where light met dark. We used some of the stones Tate had removed from the secret storage area and built him a makeshift tomb.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. I took his iPod from my messenger bag. I gently placed one earbud in each ear. I dialled and selected ‘Shuffle Songs’ and hit play. It was better than a eulogy.
I could already feel myself hardening. ‘I’m sorry, Tate.’ I zipped the sleeping bag all the way up.
‘He would have died on that road without you,’ Chaske said. He tried to take my hand, but I batted it away. I was angry at him and everything.
‘I’m not sure I did him any favours by bringing him here.’
‘Tate wasn’t unhappy here,’ Chaske replied. I knew in a weird way he was right. Tate seemed to get on with it, better than the rest of us.
Chaske started humming. I recognized the tune to ‘Outta Time’ by In Complete Faith. I joined in, and we sang the words we knew.
Don’t hold on to hate.
Accept your fate.
We had time.
(Not so much time)
All you got is time.
’Till it’s gone.
I slapped an empty water jug in time to our out-of-tune and off-beat tribute. Chaske picked up one of the drumsticks Tate had fashioned from tightly twisting together the wrappers from our power bars. He wailed on Tate’s drum set. That thumping sound would forever remind me of Tate, his blue twinkling eyes and his round face surrounded by a helmet of yellow curls.
We ended with a flourish that made my hands sting. Chaske reached for me, but I walked away. I kept walking until I was at the tunnel’s entrance.
‘Where’s your gun?’ I asked him.
‘What?’ Chaske kept his distance.
‘Get your gun and let’s get this over with. You’re right. We are prolonging the inevitable.’ I rested my back against the cool metal door.
Chaske reached for me but I held my hand up like some action figure creating a force field. ‘I don’t believe all that shit you told Tate. Do you? What’s going to happen to us . . . af
ter?’
‘God, Icie, I don’t know. I’ve always felt there was something more. Not someone watching over me but a power or a force, you know. Something bigger than us. I want to believe I’ll see my mom again. But at the very worst, it’s just silence. I don’t mind silence.’
‘Do you think I’m going to hell?’ I asked. ‘For being a spoiled rotten brat who didn’t know how good she had it. For killing that . . . man. For shutting Marissa and Midnight out. For everything.’
‘The one thing I don’t believe in is hell. I believe in second chances and forgiveness.’ Chaske took me in his arms. ‘I think we’ve been punished enough, don’t you?’
I nodded. Maybe he was right. This was hell. Maybe we were the only survivors on the planet. Everything and everyone we’d ever known was dead. Suddenly I could feel the radioactive waste penetrating my skin. I scratched my arms. It was inside me and I wanted it out. I tore at my skin until I created long, thin welts and blood-red tracks on my body.
Chaske hugged me tightly, pinning my arms to my sides. I writhed in his grasp. I broke free and looked him directly in the eyes.
‘Kill me now.’
Chapter Thirty-three
‘Doubt is like awkward, certainty is like not possible.’
– Just Saying 281
FINCH
Finch feels too big for his body. His skin is oily with sweat and ash. He smells of smoke. Every breath inflates him. Every step elevates him. He finds a vantage point on his Mountain and watches Vega burn.
Finch reclines on a rock. He dreams of his Forreal homecoming. He wants to wait until sunrise, until he’s sure the Cheerleaders have returned from Vega. He wants them to wonder and worry about him. He wants the stories to circulate of his heroic acts. He hopes that some might start to despair about the future of Forreal without Finch to lead them.
He should think of a speech, something that will be quoted for generations to come. Terrorists will never threaten Forreal again. He has purged and purified. He can almost feel the warmth of Forreal’s gratitude and admiration.