Shortcuts

by Grant Stone

  ‘Hey! Hey there! Can you hear me?’ she screams over the sound of the storm. She pushes her hair out of her face. ‘I’m coming. Hold on.’

  Using her boot, she breaks a branch underfoot, clearing the way so she can skirt around to the other side of the vehicle, then yanks on the passenger door, which, to her surprise, opens easily.

  Oh thank god.

  Climbing into the cab, she brushes away the glass on the seat with a dripping sleeve, then scoots over and gently pulls the man backwards by his sweatshirt.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ But he can’t hear her because he’s dead, a branch buried deep in his eye socket. Mika jumps back, relieved when the man slumps forward again, the grisly eye no longer looking at her blankly.

  What have I done?

  Leaning back in the passenger seat, Mika lets the rain wash down her face. Then she bursts into tears.

  Chapter Two

  Soft stroking at her hair startles Mika from her sobs. She twists in her seat and peers into the face of a child. The kid pulls its hand back, cowering. But even shied away, Mika can see that the force of the crash has caused the five-point safety harness to draws lines of blood along both sides of the child’s neck.

  A boy or a girl? Mika can’t tell the child’s gender from its appearance.

  ‘Oh Maui, save me,’ she breathes. ‘Are you all right?’ There’s a slight bob of its head. Straw hair pokes out in all directions from underneath a black beanie, as if it has recently had a bad haircut. The clothes are not the child’s. What kid would choose to wear so much black?

  ‘It smells funny,’ the child says.

  At first, Mika thinks the child is referring to the stink of body odour permeating the stale air inside the vehicle. But then she smells it too: the sharp acidic smell of a sparking battery pack.

  ‘Come on, sweetie, I have to get you out of here,’ Mika says, as calmly as her voice will allow. Leaning over the seat, she unsnaps the harness, and tucks her hands under the child’s armpits to pull it forward between the front seats. ‘Don’t look.’

  Despite the warning, the child turns to look at the driver.

  ‘I’m sorry about your papa. It was an accident. I...’

  Two small hands gently push Mika out into the rain.

  Outside, the wind has picked up, whipping debris from the accident into tiny tornadoes that swirl threateningly around them. The ferocity of the weather has emptied the streets of life. The child looks into the whirling sky and smiles. Long lashes and soft features.

  A girl.

  She lifts her arms above her head, palms outstretched. Blood trickles from welts at her neck, several blue bruises evident on her pale skin. Mika needs to get her medical attention. And not just for her injuries. That smile, her reaction, the kid’s got to be in shock – she’s just seen her father’s head turned into a kebab on a stray branch...

  Suddenly, the broken transport sends an electrical arc into the sky. Like a backwards lightning strike, its fingers search for contact in the metal architecture of the old bridge overhead, now clearly visible.

  ‘Quick, before it reaches my waka!’

  Mika grabs the child and drags her to Torua, climbing up and slamming the hatch door behind them.

  She thrusts the girl into the back of the vehicle, near the hatch to the lower living level. Then, leaping into the pilot seat, she starts the engine and, backing Torua away from the tangle of arcing metal, pulls out into the roadway.

  Away from the danger, and inside Torua, Mika immediately feels safer. The waka was a gift from her people, all their aroha and wairua carved into its sturdy construction. Not able to accompany her on this journey, they’d done everything in their power to give her the best chance of arriving safely on the land they’d long since cut all contact with. This vehicle is her lifeline, her support when she is far from her whānau, and from Huia. When her mission is complete, Torua will carry Mika back to her island home.

  Mika peers through the windscreen. The local residents have finally taken heed of the weather warning because there are fewer cars on the road. Or perhaps they’re there, only Mika can’t see them.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to find someone who’ll take care of you,’ she calls over her shoulder as she punches at the keypad of her outdated GPS, looking for the nearest medical centre. The GPS’ voice, programmed to sound like her kuia, is rich and soothing, easing some of the panic racing in Mika’s veins. She caused a man’s death today. She should really go to the authorities and report the accident, except that would mean delays. Immigration didn’t register her entry, so they could turn her back. Send her home. Even without that complication, she’s missed her meeting with the guide. Her mission is jeopardised. Mika hasn’t got time for complications. Huia hasn’t got time. But Mika can’t just leave the kid.

  ‘Come on.’ Mika taps the screen with her nails, encouraging it to respond.

  ‘Calculating...calculating...calculating.’

  Even with the window wipers on full, Mika feel like she’s back on the water, Torua’s lights barely illuminating the way ahead. She needs the GPS but, for the moment, it’s having trouble orienting her. Probably some high buildings interfering with the triangulation. She risks a backwards glance at the girl. She’s from here; maybe she knows her way around?

  ‘Hey, why don’t you come up here and be my navigator? Careful now.’ Mutely following Mika’s instructions, the girl takes up the co-pilot seat.

  ‘Strap yourself in, honey. Until my GPS kicks in, in this pea soup, I have no idea where we’re going.’

  When her passenger has fastened herself in the harness, Mika takes a good look at her. The girl sits impassive, her hands unmoving in her lap. She has a thin nose with sharp cheekbones set high above caved-in cheeks, and bloodless blue-tinged lips. She keeps her eyes on the screen, hypnotised as it scans for their destination. Mika shivers. It’s unnerving for a child – she can’t be more than ten or twelve – to behave so mechanically. It’s true she’s just survived a horrific trauma, perhaps even seen her father die, but it’s more than that. The child has the tired, haunted, broken look of a victim of illness or neglect. That’s what it is. It’s as if long-term suffering is etched into her features. Only unlike the evocative swirls and whorls of Mika’s own tattoos, there’s no beauty in the story Mika reads on the child’s face.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Bree.’

  ‘Bree. That’s so pretty. I’m Mika—’

  ‘Tree,’ Bree comments calmly, pointing as a roadside tree begins to keel over, about to block their path.

  ‘Mahuika’s fingers!’ No time to calculate the odds, Mika shifts into high gear, the engines straining as Torua gathers speed. Mika holds her breath. There’s the sound of scraping as Torua squirts out from under the falling tree, surging forward like water squeezed from a hose pipe. They’ve avoided getting stuck in a permanent embrace between the tree and the road.

  ‘Good eye, Bree! You make a great navigator.’ Mika reaches over to pat the girl on the shoulder, but Bree flinches away at the contact.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  Finally, the GPS speaks up: ‘Exiting left in two hundred yards.’ Kuia’s firm voice drags Mika’s attention back to the road. Mika doesn’t blame Kuia for the near miss – she couldn’t have known about the tree, but it’d been a close call. Without Bree’s warning, Mika’s voyage, and her mission, might’ve ended back there on the road.

  Like a flattened possum.

  Determined to be more cautious this time, Mika eases back on the accelerator, keeping a watch on the screen as the distance reduces.

  ‘Turn left in twenty yards. Turn left now.’

  Mika turns off the main road.

  ‘Destination three hundred yards, on the right.’

  Away from the motorway, the rain lightens, but the wipers smear intermittent drops across the windscreen, making it just as difficult to see. Nearing their destination, Mika is forced to slow, and then stop. Out of nowhere, a traffi
c jam has bloomed like luminescent mushrooms after a storm. Transports are lined up in both directions, everyone heading for the well-lit parking area of the 24/7 emergency clinic. So, theirs was not the only accident. Instinctively, Mika runs through her security lockdown procedures. This many people in one place, especially those desperate for assistance, is a precursor for trouble.

  ‘It looks like there could be a bit of a wait. I’m just going to pull over and take a closer look at you myself, okay?’ Mika says. Staring straight ahead, Bree nods like someone who’s used to having no say.

  Manoeuvring out of the standstill proves less difficult than Mika expects. The waka’s bull bars intimidate less robust vehicles and, with the improved visibility, the markings on its hull single her out as an unknown quantity. These days, people tend to shy from things they don’t know.

  Mika powers down to hibernate mode; a state which conserves the amount of energy the waka consumes, but keeps the vehicle just a few switch flicks from full power. The engines change their tone from a deep rumble to a soft purr.

  ‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?’

  Unsnapping her own harness, Mika swivels to face the back of the bridge. Built for a crew of four, there’s plenty of space to move around and Mika’s made the most of it. At sea, she spent the majority of her time on the bridge, so the room is cluttered with books: some for reading, others for writing. Directly behind the pilot and co-pilot seats are additional consoles for the navigator and engineer, roles that Mika has mastered through instinct and guesswork. At the peak of the arch – the room is shaped like an old wooden door that has fallen to the ground – is a medical bay that also houses the emergency evacuation gear.

  ‘Would you mind if we take those clothes off? I want to see if it’s just a few cuts and bruises, or something worse.’

  Mika takes Bree’s hand and leads the girl forward. Flicking the overhead light to its brightest setting, she rummages through her medical supplies for some cotton wipes, alcohol swabs and bandages, hoping that’s all she’ll need. Besides a few basic painkillers, the kit doesn’t contain much more. Mika’s people had sent her with everything they had.

  ‘Hat first.’ Bree takes off her beanie. She holds it in her hands like a soft toy while Mika gently prods at her scalp, checking through the dirty blonde hair for signs of injury, anything that could indicate a concussion. ‘Looks good. No bumps.’ Bree’s about to return the hat to her head, but Mika stops her. ‘Let’s leave that off. At least, ‘til I’ve finished,’ she says softly.

  Cleaned up, the welts on her neck aren’t too bad: the seeping blood had made them appear deeper. And the girl’s scrubbing at the wounds had smeared blood everywhere. Mika holds her face by the chin, gently washing away the layers of grime with a damp cotton ball. Underneath, the girl’s skin feels cool, as if the chill goes right to the bone.

  ‘You’re so cold. We need to get you warmed up. How about some soup when we’re finished?’ Bree nods, the movement slight.

  Keeping up the one-sided chatter, Mika removes the rest of the girl’s clothing, estimating the time it would take for bruising to turn from black to green – longer than the time it’s taken them to travel here from the accident site. She notes the puncture marks on the insides of Bree’s elbows. There are more at the widest part of the girl’s arm near the shoulders, recent ones, contrasting darkly against the child’s pale skin, older ones camouflaged among the faint freckles and the bruising. Someone has been taking blood and administering drugs to the girl, and over a long period of time from the looks of it. But the story on her skin is confused: Mika can’t decide if the damage has been caused by an illness, or its treatment.

  ‘All done,’ Mika proclaims, cheerily. ‘Apart from these welts on your neck...’ she smoothes the gauze dressings ‘...I don’t think you were hurt in the accident, at least not badly, so maybe we won’t need to go to the medical clinic.’ The girl shivers visibly at her words. ‘Now, let’s get you into some clean clothes, and then you can help me with the soup.’

  Mika slips through the hatch to the living quarters. She passes through the galley, ignoring the first two smaller berths, and heads for the master’s quarters. Once there, she rummages through her footlocker and withdraws a long T-shirt, a pair of short trousers and a coat and, as an afterthought, a thick band of ribbon.

  Bree is waiting at the bottom of the steps, clasping her dirty clothes to her chest, the soft light down here making her appear less like a tortured waif and more like a little girl.

  ‘This is my sister’s T-shirt,’ Mika says, holding out the garments. ‘She was supposed to come with me...’ Mika shakes her head, willing away the thought. ‘Anyway. It’ll be too big for you, but if we tie it at the waist, it will do. At least you’ll be dry. I’ll give your clothes a wash when the weather clears.’

  Bree lets Mika dress her. Mika combs the girl’s hair, and ties the ribbon in place. When she’s finished, she shows Bree the mirror. Bree checks her reflection in the glass. It’s clear she likes what she sees. Smiling faintly, the girl loosens her grip on the hat.

  Ten minutes later, seated opposite Bree and eating re-heated pre-prepared kūmara soup, Mika goes over her options. She’s missed the vital rendezvous with her guide – her only contact. Now, she’ll have to find her own way. But she can’t go anywhere with Bree in tow.

  ‘I should get you home, Bree. People will be worried about you. They might already be searching for you and your dad. Can you tell me where you live?’

  Bree shakes her head.

  ‘You don’t know the address?’

  Another shake.

  ‘You don’t know, or you don’t have an address?’

  ‘No house.’

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Your mother? Brothers and sisters? Where are they? I know the man in the transport this morning...’ Mika breaks off. She could kick herself for bringing up the kid’s father. Now Bree will be reliving those gruesome moments all over again.

  The child stares into her soup. She shakes her head grimly.

  ‘No other family?’

  ‘No.’ She tilts her body sideways.

  ‘What about your grandparents?’

  ‘No one.’ Bree picks up her spoon and shovels soup into her mouth, effectively closing off Mika’s questioning.

  Mika isn’t sure if Bree’s revelations have reduced or added to her problems. If Bree has no people, then Mika can safely avoid the authorities, but what’s she going to do with the kid?

  A beep interrupts her thoughts.

  ‘Alarm. I’d better head up and check on things,’ Mika tells Bree. ‘Stay here. In fact, if you’ve finished your soup, why don’t you hop into one of those beds? You look tired.’ Smiling reassuringly, Mika waits until Bree has closed the door behind her. Mika doesn’t have time to worry whether the girl will keep out of sight, but if she stays true to form then Bree will continue to do what she’s told.

  The beeping is louder and more frequent by the time Mika has lowered the floor hatch and returned to the pilot seat. Turning off the alarm, she checks the exterior sensors for a breach in security.

  ‘Now that’s not fair,’ she says under her breath. While she’s been caring for Bree, the traffic jam has turned into open road rage. Impatient or desperate for medical help, people have taken it upon themselves to reduce the competition. Through sheer size, larger transports have taken out some of the smaller ones, causing a pile-up of small vehicles on the shoulder of the road. People swarm from the transports like vigilantes. One of them probably brushed past Torua, setting off the alarm.

  Mika isn’t too worried. Her waka may look outdated, but there’s some ancient magic in its defences. Still, there’s no point sticking around, asking for trouble. She stokes the engines back to full power and searches for the clearest way out. But she’s not the only one rethinking the situation, and soon she’s hedged in on all sides.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Mika aims for a narrow gap between two smaller vehi
cles, intending to force her way between them. Through the waka’s thick armour comes the scraping of metal on metal. Mika imagines sparks flying as she increases her speed. Like a cork freed from a bottle, the pressure is released in a sudden jolt, ejecting her from the chaos.

  Damn.

  Mika’s got herself trapped in a maze of lots, abandoned mid-construction, on the other side of the mêlée. Like a blind snake, she weaves in and around half-dug foundations and discarded materials. Intent on seeking a way out, Mika doesn’t hear the return of the external sensor alarm. Not until Bree’s hand settles on her forearm.

  ‘What?’ Mika says, startled.

  ‘There’s a man outside. He wants to come in,’ Bree explains, as she retakes the co-pilot seat.

  Chapter Three

  Wearing a dark blue jumpsuit, the man is tall and broad. Rain runs down his face in rivulets and his dark hair hangs in damp tendrils, wavy as if it has recently come loose from a plait. One of his eyes is a cybernetic prosthetic. An early model, it swivels jerkily, not quite fitted properly. The erratic motion of it unnerves Mika, but she takes in the man’s narrow nose and skin, dark like polished rimu, and her unease reduces: he reminds her a little of Huia’s partner, Hoani. Leaping one-legged, the man bangs on the windscreen, waving her down.

  So, stubborn like Hoani, too.

  Mika puts Torua into hibernation and cracks opens the window.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I could do with a ride.’