I’ll never forget seeing Faitasiga Rock for the first time.
A blazing pink dawn had just broken over the horizon and I spotted it, a tiny black speck in the distance, jutting up from the water’s surface like a giant middle finger. I angled toward it and it grew and grew, impossibly tall, a stone monolith in the middle of the Pacific.
When I was close enough and could see it properly, I couldn’t breathe. There was a small, fingernail-shaped stretch of beach, a few lone palm trees swaying in the wind, and the smoothest, flattest rock face I’d ever seen, climbing straight up, thousands of feet of it, just waiting to be conquered.
I moored the boat at the edge of the beach and climbed out, trying to take in the enormity of the rock in front of me. Even with my head tilted all the way back, I couldn’t see the top of the thing. And there were no handholds or fissures that I could see. I couldn’t wait to get started.
It took me most of the morning just to find anything I could use to get off the sand. Turned out there was a small seam on the face toward the end of the beach that you’d completely miss unless you were really looking for it. And I really was. So I started my ascent.
It was hard. Oh man, was it hard. But every time I thought I’d reached a spot where I simply couldn’t continue, I’d find a tiny crack or a little outcropping and use it to keep going. But it was hard.
I was probably 500 feet up when I came to a completely empty patch. I mean, there was nothing. The rock face was as smooth as a baby’s ass and as blank as a new canvas. I must have hung there for half an hour, scouring for something to grab, something to use, but my luck had run out. There was simply no way to keep going. On that route, anyway.
I took a look over my shoulder and saw an amazing scene. The sky was a cloudless periwinkle blue. The sun sparkled off the ocean’s surface and lit the white sand so brightly I could hardly stand to look at it. Even the boat, sitting crookedly at the spot where the water met the sand, looked like it had been cut out of a magazine and pasted there. At that moment, I hadn’t decided whether or not I was going to attempt the climb at another spot, so if I was going to capture the beauty of that moment, I needed to take a selfie.
I lined up the perfect shot, smiled my biggest smile . . . and fell.
It was terror. Terror the likes of which I’ve never known. I’d just barely registered that I was no longer hanging on the rock, no longer clinging to anything at all and that the cliff face was speeding past me and the salt air whipping past me when I was enveloped in a rush of long leaves. I’d hit one of the palm trees, which had slowed me down a bit, but I still hit the sand hard.
I remember when I first arrived here, I was surprised at how smooth the sand was. Usually you see debris, blowdown, shells, all sorts of stuff. But there was none of that. There was only a single stone, about the size of your fist, and I only noticed it because that was the only thing that broke up the perfect sandscape. One single stone. And I managed to land on it. I’m fairly certain that’s what broke my back.
I suppose, if I’m accentuating the positive, at least I’m not in any pain. I can’t feel anything below my shoulders. I also can’t move my head, so I can’t see if anything’s broken or mangled. All I can see is this one specific patch of sky above me. Could be worse. I could have landed face down.
Fortunately, my phone landed in the sand somewhere near me. Like I said, I can’t turn my head to look, but it’s close enough to hear my voice, so at least there’s that.
And . . . that’s my story. Which I suppose is all pretty moot unless someone finds my phone someday. And that’s pretty unlikely, given everyone’s attitude toward this place. But I guess in the interest of battery conservation, I’ll wrap up for now. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Well, my phone can’t connect to anyone or anything, so I can’t get a weather forecast, but I don’t need my app to know there’s a thunderstorm coming. I can hear the distant rumble, and out of my peripheral vision I can see the flashes of lightning. This should be interesting. At least I’ll have something to wet my whistle, which at this point, is pretty fucking dry. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Well that was fun.
The first few drops did, indeed, wet my whistle, and then the next million or so very nearly drowned me.
My mouth filled too fast, and since I can’t turn my head, I spit the rainwater out but it just filled right back up again. When I closed my mouth, the rain went right up my nose. I feel like I’ve been waterboarded. Let’s not do that again anytime soon, okay?
Oh, by the way, it may be obvious, but my phone survived that storm. I really must let the HardCase company know that they make a quality product. Maybe I’ll write a review. If I ever get out of here.
Right, yes, speaking of my phone, it now has 49 percent battery life remaining. Less than half. Don’t know what I’m going to do when there’s no one and nothing left to talk to. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Where am I? Oh . . . right. I’m paralyzed on a beach. That’s why I can’t move anything. I think I’ve got a really bad sunburn. And I’m so thirsty. Didn’t it rain not too long ago? I can’t see if any storm clouds are on the horizon. I’ve only got this little patch of blue sky. There’s a small white cloud moving from left to right across my field of vision. It looks a little like a turtle. I guess I’ll watch that for a while.
Oh, and for anyone keeping score at home, there’s 23 percent power remaining. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Where’s the . . . ? I thought . . . I heard my dad calling me. I thought it was time to get up for school. But Dad’s dead. Right? Dad’s dead?
It was . . . I was just thinking of Thanksgiving. I was back home with Mom and Ashley and it . . . it was Thanksgiving morning. I could smell the turkey and Mom’s fresh-baked rolls cooking in the oven. I was . . . hugging Ashley tight. My arms still worked and I felt her wrapped tight around my neck. I was whole and . . . happy.
I don’t want to die here. I don’t want to die. But . . . who’s going to save me?
What’s the . . . ? I’m supposed to . . . say something. Right? Oh. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Dad’s not . . . Dad’s not dead. Stupid. Mom . . . used to say . . . “Your father’s dead to me.” He kept . . . coming home with that stuff, that stuff that strippers put on. What’s . . . what’s the word? Glitter. Body glitter. Dad . . . kept coming home . . . with body glitter on his work clothes. He wound up . . . calling it . . . “divorce dust.” Heh. Hee hee hee. Voice end memo. No. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Something . . . moving. On the sand. Between me and the ocean. Can’t . . . see it properly. What is that?
Eh. Probably . . . losing my shit. When . . . did I eat last? Thanksgiving? That right?
End. End the thing. The voice memo. End voice memo.
Next voice memo:
Oh God! Oh God! Oh God help me please! No! No! No! There’s—there’s—there’s a crab! A giant fucking crab! There’s a crab on my chest! I can’t shake him off! I can’t shake him off! Get it off me! Get it the fuck off me!
Aaagh! It’s clawing me! It’s clawing my fucking face! Help me! Please! Somebody help meeeeeeeee! Aaaaaahhhh!
End of voice memos.
9.
JAIL BRAKE
It had been a perfectly calm, ordinary day at Kirkbride Minimum Security Prison. Stan Kemske, an average guy with an above-average aversion to paying taxes, was meeting with his lawyer, Fred.
“Well?” Stan had started off.
Fred sighed. “I brought your request to the judge. He denied it.”
Stan’s cheeks immediately flushed, but his voice remained steady. “Why?”
“Try and see it from his point of view, okay?” Fred said. His voice had a weariness to it that told of many similar discussions. “If he lets you out, he’s gonna have a stack of papers eight miles high with requests from everyone else i
n here.”
“Good!” Stan shouted. The guards outside the room looked over, so he lowered his voice. “Good. He should have a request from every man and woman in every prison from here to Azerbaijan. It’s inhumane, Fred.”
Fred leaned in. “Look, I agree with you, okay? I do. But what do you want them to do? Just let all the murderers and rapists out on the street?”
Stan folded his hands on the table between them and closed his eyes. “If there were a fire here, they would evacuate the prisoners. They wouldn’t let them stay here and die like rats in cages.”
“But they would put them in another prison,” Fred said. “They wouldn’t just let them go.”
“These are extenuating circumstances, Fred,” Stan said patiently. “We are all going to die in here. The world is ending, for Christ’s sake.”
“I know the world is ending, goddammit,” Fred said irritably. “We’re all going to die. What difference does it make where we are when it happens?”
The two men considered each other for a moment.
“Fred, I don’t care what we have to do or what kind of paperwork we have to file. You’ve got to get me out.”
Fred shook his head slowly. “Stan. Listen to me very carefully. It doesn’t matter what you say or what you do. They are not letting you out of here.” He let his words sink in for a minute, then stood and started gathering up some paperwork. Stan sat in his chair, stone-faced.
As Fred walked toward the door, he turned and said, “Look, don’t feel bad, okay? They’re not letting the animals out of the zoo either.”
That’s when all hell broke loose.
“Get me the warden!” Stan screamed. Fred squirmed, trying to loosen Stan’s grip around his throat to gasp some air, and the blade at his neck pierced the skin. Crimson tracks rolled down to his shirt collar.
The sight of blood seemed to change the guards’ minds. One grabbed the walkie-talkie on his shoulder.
“Sully, get the warden down to C-133 right away. We got a hostage situation.”
The other guard took a step toward the cell door, palms up in surrender. “Okay, Kemske, okay. We called the warden, he’s coming, okay? Just relax.”
Stan held tight to Fred, whose face was turning a startling shade of purple as oxygen wheezed in and out. “You should have tried harder, Fred,” Stan said distractedly. “I didn’t want it to happen this way. You should have tried harder.”
After a few tense minutes, the warden walked calmly into the room outside the visitors’ cell. He looked the situation over, took a deep breath, and sighed. In his right hand he held a document.
“Mr. Kemske? You wanted to see me?” the warden said quietly.
“Yes. I wanted to see you, warden. I didn’t want to have to do this. I’m not a violent man by nature, but I’ll do what I have to to get out of here. Now let me out, or I’ll kill him.”
The warden smiled—a small, tight smile without any humor whatsoever. As though it were just an ordinary business meeting, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his reading glasses. He brought the document he’d been holding up to eye level.
“Funny you should mention that. I’ve just received an official notice from the governor’s office,” the warden said. “All non-violent criminal offenders are to be released from incarceration immediately.”
A look of stupefied joy spread across Stan’s face. He dropped the shiv and let go of Fred, who gave him a quick, angry shove and then ran, sweaty and crimson-faced, for the cell door. One of the guards unlocked it and Fred ran through. The guard locked it again quickly.
“My e-mails?” Stan said, still in disbelief.
The warden nodded. “So it would seem. Apparently the governor hadn’t considered the plight of the prisoners in his jurisdiction until you made him aware of it. I expect he’s been somewhat distracted, as have we all, what with the end times upon us.”
From the hallway beyond the visitors’ area came an echoing whoop of joy, followed by another and then dozens more as the news spread around the prison. A chorus of shouting, singing, and laughter bounced off the cinderblock walls.
“Yes!” Stan shouted, swept up in the moment. “I did it!”
“Yes,” the warden said, folding his arms. “You certainly did.”
Past the doorway walked a figure clad in an orange jumpsuit, the first of the prisoners headed to processing before release. The man turned to look in the room and saw Stan sitting there. His face lit up.
“Hey!” he shouted and gave an enthusiastic thumbs-up. “We’re out! We’re all out! Thanks, man!”
Stan gave a big thumbs-up of his own and the man moved along. He stood and walked toward the locked cell door where the warden and two guards stood on the other side.
“Well?” Stan said.
“Well what?” the warden replied.
“I’d like for one of them to unlock the door,” Stan said, nodding his head at the guards. “It’s time for me to go.”
The warden sized him up. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
The warden held up the letter. “This specifically says ‘non-violent criminal offenders.’”
Stan blinked. “So? Last time I checked, tax evasion qualified as non-violent.”
“Ah. True,” the warden said. “But assault with a deadly weapon does not.”
All of the blood drained from Stan’s face. “Assault—”
“You had poor Fred in quite the stranglehold, too,” the warden continued. “Might even call that kidnapping with intent to murder. Either way, you have several witnesses who heard you threaten to kill him. So I’m afraid . . . you’re not going anywhere.”
The warden turned and headed toward the outer door, where a long line of orange jumpsuits had formed. The guards fell in step with him.
“But,” Stan said, his voice barely a whisper. “But I was just . . . I was just trying . . .”
The guard slammed the outer door shut with a hollow clang, and bolts shifted loudly as he locked it.
10.
BRAINS AND GUTS
Romeo paced restlessly.
He knew they needed to escape, and soon. And now he had an idea about how they were supposed to do so.
He approached the bars and pressed his face against the cold metal. “Lima?” he whispered. “Are you there?”
After a few seconds, the whispered reply came back. “I’m here.”
He could picture her in his mind’s eye, her face pressed against her own bars, her lovely brown eyes searching, watching, making sure they weren’t overheard.
“I think it has to be tonight,” Romeo whispered.
“What?” she hissed. “Tonight? Romeo, that’s crazy. We don’t have a plan. We don’t have anyplace to go.”
“New York,” he replied instantly, as though he had been anticipating her protests. “To start. I have family there. They’ll help us.”
“Why didn’t you mention your family in New York before now?”
“It’s . . . a long story. Look, they’re not going to like the idea of taking us in, especially now, with what they’ve done to us, but they’re still family, and they’ll help us.”
“Okay,” Lima whispered, but she didn’t sound convinced. “That takes care of where we’re going. Now how do we get out of here?”
“Joanne,” Romeo said simply.
“Joanne?” Lima replied. “The lab tech?”
“Yeah,” Romeo said. “I’ve been talking to her a lot lately on the way to and from the sessions. She’s sympathetic. I think if we ask, she might help us.”
“She’s not going to help us. Do you have any idea how much trouble she’d be in with Doctor White if she did? After all the work he’s put in to enhance us?”
“She’ll help us,” Romeo said confidently. “I know she’ll help us. She’s due in to take our vitals at two. I’m going to ask her then.”
“Why the rush, all of a sudden?” Lima asked. “Why do we hav
e to escape tonight?”
Romeo paused.
“Romeo?”
He sighed deeply. “I overheard Joanne talking to Doctor White yesterday,” he said heavily. “White still has a ways to go with me, with enhancing my intellect, but he’s reached the end with you.”
“And what does that mean?” Lima asked anxiously. “‘Reached the end’?”
“It means his next step will be cutting your head open to see what’s what.”
Romeo heard Lima’s sharp intake of breath.
“And I have no idea when he might be planning to do that, but the sooner we get out of here, the better,” Romeo said. “So tonight.”
“All right,” Lima said shakily. “Let’s try it.”
An hour later, Joanne held up her keycard and beeped her way into the holding area. She carried a clipboard and wore a white lab coat with a stethoscope around her shoulders. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a high ponytail.
“So,” she said brightly from the other side of the bars. “How are my two favorite subjects tonight?”
“That’s all we are to you?” spat Lima. “Subjects?”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Lima,” Joanne said awkwardly. “I—”
“Lima’s just a little on edge,” Romeo said quickly. “How are you, Joanne?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Joanne said. “A little tired. These overnight shifts are tough.”
“Yeah, I can imagine,” Romeo said. “Still, at least you have the place pretty much to yourself, right? Not like during the day.”
“Oh no, this place is a zoo during the day,” Joanne laughed. “I much prefer the night shift.”
“Fewer guards then?” Romeo asked. “Less security?”
“Well,” Joanne said, her smile faltering. “Yeah.”
Hell's Nerds and Other Tales Page 10