by Sean Platt
He swallowed hard, tears stinging his eyes.
“Do you think she’s still alive?” Luis asked.
“I do,” Brent said, putting a hand on Luis’s shoulder. “I really do.”
“Goddamn, you hopeful bastard,” Luis said, trying to manage a smile.
“And you think the people on the island can help me?”
“Yes,” Brent said.
“How do you know, though?” Luis asked, entirely aware he sounded like a scared child, but unable to keep his emotions from riding off the rails.
“I feel it, just like you all felt your visions of Oct. 15 were real.”
Fair enough.
Downstairs, Jane called, “Come on, I think the ferry is about to leave.”
“Leave?” Brent shouted, “It’s not even close to 8!”
Luis closed his eyes, fighting back the tears. He wanted to believe Brent. Wanted to have faith. Wanted to take a chance and believe he wasn’t going to become a monster like Joe had. That he might see his little girl again.
Stranger things had happened.
He stood.
“Okay, let’s go.”
Sixty-Five
Callie Thompson
Oct. 18
Pensacola, Florida
Callie spent much of the day alone after Bob saved her and brought her back “home.”
She couldn’t tell for certain if he knew that she’d drugged him or not. He was acting weird, telling her he needed time to “think about shit and stuff.” Which was fine by her. She went up to her room and decided to pass time. Without power, though, she didn’t have much to do. So she went to Charlie’s room hoping he’d left behind some books or comics, anything to read, really, other than the business books which made up most of the home’s library.
She was disappointed to find that he’d taken the duffel bag which had the good books and graphic novels. She was about to leave the room when she saw a smaller blue duffel bag in the corner. She put the bag on the bed and unzipped it. Inside were a dozen or so spiral notebooks, most of which were well-worn, outsides filled with doodles and sketches of monsters, shapes, and alien landscapes. Charlie was a pretty decent artist.
She pulled out the top notebook with a green cover. The pages were filled with math problems interspersed with more doodling. The next few notebooks were also filled with schoolwork, though some pages had better drawings. One of them was an ink sketch of a girl sitting at a desk, which he’d obviously drawn during class. The way he’d drawn the girl with such detail, features soft while his other images were rough and unfinished, seemed to indicate a crush on the subject. It was like peeking into the mind of a teenage boy, something she’d never had such open access to.
She was somewhat surprised that his drawings were not all pornographic in nature. She imagined most boys who had the talent to draw, would draw all sorts of lurid stuff, both real and imagined.
Charlie was a nice kid. Callie smiled.
She heard Bob downstairs making something in the kitchen. She stuffed Charlie’s notebooks back in the bag, rushed to her room, and shoved the bag under her bed. The thought of Bob catching her looking at the spirals made her stomach turn. No doubt he’d want to check them out and likely have a good, old laugh at Charlie’s expense.
Callie had known a lot of guys like Bob in school. Insecure, usually jock types, who seemed to thrive on bullying those weaker than them. Different than them. She never understood why so many girls went for such assholes. Then again, girls acted the same way, viciously going after anyone who didn’t fit into their tightly-formed cliques. Callie had run-ins with such people until she learned to stand up for herself.
When she was in eighth grade, this girl, Brianna, decided to make it her personal mission to make Callie’s life miserable. She started spreading rumors, intentionally bumping into her, laughing, and name calling. Callie never let the bitch see her sweat, though. She did her best to ignore the girl. But at night, she often cried to her mom. Her mom always told her she was doing the right thing to ignore the abuse. Eventually, her mom said, Brianna would find someone else to pick on.
That hardly seemed like an answer to Callie, though. Even if the girl had moved on to someone else, she was still being a bully. And that her mom thought it was okay so long as Brianna wasn’t picking on her, bothered Callie.
After four months, it was apparent that Brianna wasn’t going to find a new target, though.
One day after gym, Callie went to her locker to change out of her sweaty gym clothes, and was shocked to see that someone had opened her locker and doused her clothes, her purse, and books in vinegar. They also wrote NIGGER DYKE in big, red marker across the inside of the locker.
“Geez, Callie, douche much?” Brianna said, cackling with her catty clique.
Callie wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t let Brianna have that satisfaction. She closed her locker, and began to walk away, intending to tell the gym teacher, Mrs. Parker.
And then something hit the back of her head.
She turned around to see a wad of paper on the ground.
And that was it.
Callie lost it. She ran straight at Brianna, screaming like a maniac, and shoved the girl backwards into the locker.
Brianna’s eyes were wide in disbelief.
She never expected someone to hit her, least of all, Callie. Brianna might have backed down right there, if not for the girls all gathering around them, chanting, “fight, fight, fight,” like a mob demanding blood. Callie had little doubt whose blood they wanted to see. People only rooted for the underdog in movies, not in middle school.
While part of her wanted to turn and run away, and take back the last minute of her life, another part told her she had to own the moment and do what needed to be done.
She cocked her arm back and punched Brianna in the face as hard as she could. And again, as Brianna scrambled sideways and fell to the ground.
Callie fell on top of her, swinging, fists pounding into Brianna’s face, head, and chest, screaming the whole time — in part because she was enraged, but also to scare anyone else from even thinking about jumping in to help Brianna. No way could she take on a whole mob of girls.
Finally, someone did step in. Arms closed around her and pulled her off of Brianna. Callie screamed, and was going to turn around and strike out until a voice in her ear said, “Calm down!”
It was Mrs. Parker, who’d always been super-nice to Callie. She wrapped her arms around Callie until she calmed down, while the rest of the girls gathered around Brianna, who was still on the ground.
“She’s not getting up,” one of the girls said.
Another coach, Mrs. Timmons, rushed over and picked up Brianna, “We’ve gotta get her to the school nurse.”
As Mrs. Timmons carried Brianna out of the locker room, Callie realized how badly she’d hurt Brianna. The girl’s face was covered in blood as if she’d been attacked by a dog or something. And as the door closed and Callie sat transfixed by the moment, she realized everyone in the locker room was staring at her. Staring at her with a mix of fear and something else, which Callie would soon recognize as respect.
At first, Callie was afraid she’d hurt Brianna so badly that the girl might die. When she didn’t die, Callie was worried that Brianna was so embarrassed by the event that she’d spend months plotting revenge, which would lead to an ever-escalating war that would end up with someone dead. However, that didn’t happen, either. Brianna had to be on her best behavior as her parents were busy trying to sue the school and even Callie’s mom, painting Brianna as the golden child who was roughed up by a thug. There were even accusations that it was a hate crime, with Callie being the perpetrator. But too many girls had come forward and told what Brianna had written on Callie’s locker.
Nothing came of the threats, thankfully. And Brianna’s dad got a new job, so the family moved at the end of the school year.
That was the last time anyone had fucked with her like that. Sure, some petty shit h
appened, but no outright bullying.
Once Callie heard Bob go back to his “thinking room,” she grabbed another spiral notebook from Charlie’s bag, and settled into the bed. This spiral was black, no drawings on the outside, and in neater condition than the others. She opened it and her eyes widened at what she’d found — Charlie’s diary.
She closed it at first, her gut telling her not to read what she had no business reading. However, curiosity led to an inner debate over whether any real harm could come from sneaking a peek. Perhaps, she reasoned, she might gain a better understanding of him, which might help her find him. That seemed like a good reason to read, she decided.
She wasn’t being nosy, just caring.
She found herself back in the pages which were dated a year ago.
Dear Dad,
I don’t know how much longer I can take this.
Nothing is the same.
If you could see Mom now, you wouldn’t even recognize her. She used to be so vibrant and happy. She liked to do things. She liked to do things with me. But now, Bob sucks up her time and energy like some sort of black hole.
He’s a freaking vampire, sucking joy and happiness instead of blood. It’s like the lives we lived before he came along don’t exist. It’s like YOU never existed.
Sometimes, I’ll mention you at the table, and mom will get all uncomfortable like it bothers Bob, so I ought not to do it.
What the hell? She’s betraying you for BOB?!
God, Dad, if you could see him you would just laugh. He’s nothing like you. If someone looked up the antonym of you in a thesaurus, they’d see this smiling cancer of a human.
I don’t know why Mom had to marry him.
I mean, I could maybe understand if he had lots of money or something.
I like to think sometimes you can read these letters I write to you. That sometimes you can see our lives from wherever you are. But times like this, I think it’s better that you can’t see us. You can’t see what’s become of Mom.
Or how I’ve let it happen.
Love,
Charlie
Callie’s eyes filled with tears.
She stared at the window, drapes drawn tight, and wondered where Charlie was. Even though she barely got a chance to know him, she found herself missing him more as she poured through his thoughts on the pages.
She fell asleep thinking about him, and how she had to get away from Bob as soon as possible, monsters be damned.
Oct. 19
Morning
Pensacola, Florida
She woke in the morning, Bob knocking on her door and barging right in. Confused, she looked up at him, realizing too late that she’d left Charlie’s diary open on the bed. If Bob noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he was looking out her window. She slid the spiral under the blanket seconds before he turned back to her.
“Pack your shit; we’re getting out of here.”
“What?” she asked, surprised.
“I’m not waiting around for those fucking things to come back. I saw two more last night, and I’m thinking we need to find somewhere new to go before more show up.”
“But what about Charlie? What if he comes back? How will he find us?”
“Fuck Charlie,” Bob said. “He made his coffin; let him lie in it.”
“But he’s your stepson; you can’t just leave him out there to die!”
Bob glared at her, “Listen, sister, I didn’t leave him; he left us. He chose to walk out the door. The boy never thinks about anyone but himself. I’m tired of everyone actin’ like I’m the fucking bad guy here and going ‘poor Charlie’ this and ‘poor Charlie’ that. Fuck that shit. His mom is gone. I don’t need to hear that shit from another bitch.”
“Excuse me?” Callie said, now glaring back at him. She no longer cared to play along with his games. Let the cards fall where they may. “What did you say?”
Bob’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she was certain he’d take a swing at her. But like the bully he was, he shrunk back from a strong response.
Instead, he smiled that bullshit smile that seemed to fool so many people for some reason, allowing him to skate through life getting away with shit no human should get away with. It was some sort of reptilian charm which seemed to work especially well with women. But not her.
“Hey, I wasn’t calling you a bitch, I was just generalizing. Didn’t realize you were so damned sensitive. Shit.”
She stared at him, not saying a word, as she tried to think what to do next. She couldn’t leave, not while Charlie was still out there. She had to find him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “I’m waiting for Charlie.”
“Hah,” Bob laughed. “You got a thing for the little geek or something?”
“It’s not like that,” she said, annoyed.
“I didn’t think so, seeing as how he’s just a boy. You need a man.”
“Like you?” she said with a sneer before she could bite her tongue.
“You didn’t seem to mind having my manhood in you.”
That was it. She was done playing nice. She got in his face.
“Make no mistakes; you fucking raped me. And if you think I forgot that little fact, think again, you pig fuck.”
Bob’s eyes flashed, anger clouding them, and flushing his face. He was frozen for a second before he swung the back of his hand and hit her square in the jaw. The pain shot through Callie like fire, and she fell to the ground.
Fuck, get up.
She rolled over as Bob circled her, “You fucking cunt.”
She spat at him and missed. He kicked her hard in her left ribcage.
“Fuck!” she screamed out.
“Bitch, you ain’t even seen rape yet. That was foreplay,” he said grabbing his cock through his jeans.
He kicked at her again, in the leg, and she balled up, trying to present as small a target as possible until she could get the advantage.
Then he was on her, arms pushing her hands above her head as he used his legs to push hers apart and roll her onto her back.
She screamed out, spitting at his face, this time connecting.
He let go of an arm and smacked her hard across her left cheek. The pain was intense, and she began to feel sick to her stomach like she was going to pass out.
“It’s time I teach you a thing or two, bitch,” Bob spat out as he grabbed at her sweatpants and started to rip at them.
Suddenly another voice in the room spoke.
They turned to the doorway to see two strangers standing there. The older of the two men was holding a baseball bat. And he spoke.
“No, I think it’s you who’ll be doing the learnin’ and luckily for you, Boricio is one fuck of a teacher, Bobby.”
Then a third person entered the room ... Charlie.
Sixty-Six
Edward Keenan
Ed woke in handcuffs, for the second time this week.
He was in a chair, arms bound behind him, staring at his reflection in a streaked mirror. The harsh neon lights mocked every line of his nearly 40 years. Behind him was a gray door, reminding Ed of a police “interview” room. Or, to use a more appropriate name, the interrogation room.
They’d caught him, which meant the world hadn’t come to a grinding halt, after all. The powers that be were still in power. And he was still important enough to capture and silence. His head was pounding. The last thing he remembered was staring out the window. And then looking up to see the girls.
Shit.
Jade! Teagan! Ken! Where are they?
He struggled in his chair, but knew that even if he managed to break free, someone would be in the room in seconds. He was being watched. He could feel eyes on the other side of the mirror.
“Where are they?!” he shouted, flaunting his anger. “What did you do with them?!”
No answer.
He closed his eyes and tried to piece together where he might be. But without knowing how long he’d been out or what time i
t was, he was lost. All he knew was the place had electricity — and interrogation rooms, which meant either a police station, or perhaps one of the agency’s government compounds, one of the secret locales scattered across the country where agents could snatch whoever they wanted, then interrogate, or torture them, if necessary, to extract information. He’d been on the other side of the mirror too many times to count. Hell, he could’ve been in this very room before and not recognize it now.
“You’ve got me. You win. Just tell me where they are and I’ll play nice and go sit in a cell and rot.”
Still no answer.
They were trying to push him. Let his fear mount, so their leverage would be greater when agents eventually came into the room. They were waiting for him to crack, to show signs of weakness they could exploit. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t give in to what they wanted. But they had Jade, Teagan, and Ken. And he was tired of fighting.
He was ready to surrender, to give them whatever they wanted. He considered breaking down and crying, but if they knew him, if they really knew him, they’d know he’d not break that quickly. They’d see it as the ruse it was, and he’d probably be stuck waiting even longer for someone to come.
So he went with reality and stared straight ahead, through the mirror, at whoever stood unseen on the other side.
“I know you’re in there,” he said with a straight face and even, if somewhat tired, tone. “You caught me. Yes, I ran when the plane went down, but I had nothing to do with the crash. Shit, I thought you guys engineered it to take me out, or hell, even extract me to use as deep cover or something. So, I’ve got to ask — what do you want from me? Just tell me and it’s yours. Want me to go along with your little story, make a public plea that I’m crazy as hell, and sure, I’d shoot more people if given a chance? Get a camera and start rolling. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, say it, cop to it, whatever. Just please, let my daughter and the other two kids go.”