by Lee Murray
‘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 traffic 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 vehicles, 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.’
‘Why should we help you?’
The man turns his head to look at the chaos behind, then holds his hands palm-up in peace. ‘Because this blasted storm has meant I’ve had to work three shifts in a row until even basic supplies have run out. Because my own transport, parked round the back of the emergency centre, is completely blocked in and likely to remain that way until this storm blows over – probably even longer judging by that mess you left behind.’
‘Can you show us the way out?’
‘Yes.’
Mika gives him a hard stare. He doesn’t look like an axe murderer. But this storm has thrown the entire eastern seaboard into a state of emergency, and there are people who’d take advantage in a crisis.
‘What do you think, Bree?’ she says aloud. ‘Can we trust him?’
Bree tugs at Mika’s sleeve and, pulling her closer, whispers in her ear.
‘Hmm. Bree wants to know if you wouldn’t mind turning around.’
‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t bother me, if you’d rather not...’ Mika moves to restart Torua.
‘Okay, okay.’ Shrugging, he turns around, his left leg swinging out as if he has no knee, and Mika sees the letters EMT emblazoned on his jacket. At the four points of the compass, he pantomimes a little bow. ‘Is that it?’ he says, when he comes full circle.
‘Hang on, I’m conferring with a colleague up here.’
‘Yes, that’s a paramedic uniform,’ Bree whispers, her head ducked below the level of the dashboard. ‘EMT stands for Emergency Medical Technician.’
‘Well, at least that part of his story stacks up. He hasn’t shaved in a while either, which fits in with the bit about him working three shifts. Shall we give him a ride?’
The girl gazes at Mika through blonde lashes. She nods.
Mika turns back to the paramedic. ‘Where do you live?’
‘West of here, on the other side of Newark.’
‘If I drive you home can you point me to the highway out of town?’
‘Sure, where are you headed?’
‘Las Vegas.’
The paramedic grins. ‘Planning a road trip, are you? Well, you’re in luck because the I-80 is just around the corner from my place.’
‘Okay, hop in.’ Mika unlocks the door.
It takes most of the afternoon, and numerous detours into back roads and alleys, to reach Stan Aspen’s home. On the cheap side of Newark, he said. The expected dwelling never appears. Instead, the derelict buildings begin to show signs of life: the occasional door painted white, bright curtains escaping from broken windows. Mika finds it difficult to imagine lives lived so close to the edge. When Stan nods his head towards a large warehouse, Mika hesitates. The entrance is festooned in graffiti announcing the goods and services offered within; the coded language of illicit trade is not hard to decipher.
Maybe not a place for children.
‘Come in for a coffee. I owe you for the ride,’ Stan insists as he swings to the ground below. He must catch her look of alarm because he says: ‘It’s okay. It’s safe here. We’re like a family. A strange, dysfunctional family of lost souls. People here look out for each other as best they can.’
Nudging Mika, her eyes open wide, Bree whispers in her ear. She wants to see inside. Mika gives in despite her urgency to get going. Besides, the word family pulls like Maui’s hook in her heart. ‘Okay, but just for a minute.’
Inside the front doors, the world sheds its shroud of grey, revealing a carnival of colour.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Stan says, holding his arms up like a ringmaster introducing the next act. He leads them through the warehouse. Makeshift stalls form parallel lines in front of living spaces that have the appearance of found art. Mika recognises the cast-offs: pieces of timber, tin, glass and cloth, scavenged and brought here to become a part of the covered shanty town. A place for forgotten things, for the city’s forgotten people.
The banter of people buying or selling – some openly, others less so – distracts her from the oddly beautiful constructions. She holds tightly to Bree’s hand, fearful the girl will be swallowed up by the crowd. They may be here with Stan, but the wary glances tell Mika that she and Bree are newcomers, and newcomers engender mistrust. At last, near the end of the thoroughfare, Stan ducks behind a stack of caged animals, guarded by a rather smug cat and an unsmiling old woman, who sits cross-legged on a woven blanket.
‘Good trading, Grandmother.’ Mika can’t tell if it is a question or a statement, but her eyes catch the smooth exchange of something in a folded piece of paper as Stan cups the old woman’s hand in his.
‘This is me here.’ He fumbles with the lock and then swings the door open, revealing a snug and simply decorated room. He grabs a dirty T-shirt off the couch, balls it in his hands, then throws it in a corner.
‘Sorry, it’s not much. M
y wife wouldn’t come when I split the reservation after...’ Mika spots the items linking him to his home: various brightly coloured tribal blankets scattered here and there, and a couple of carved wooden bowls on the bench. Several decorative weapons, wrapped in leather thongs and decorated in feathers and beads, hang on the kitchen wall. ‘Well, it’s all I need. I’ll get the coffee on.’
Another nudge from Bree. ‘Is it safe for Bree to visit the pets?’
‘Pets?’ Stan looks confused for a moment and Mika realises the animals in the cages outside are destined for someone’s pot, not their lap. ‘Oh, the animals. Sure, just don’t let them out of their cages or you’ll end up owning them.’
Mika nods to Bree. Stan sets about pouring coffee into the filter. There are washed dishes in the drying rack, and the toaster is out on the counter, an old piece of toast still in one of the slots. Mika enviously eyes the lonely apple in the bottom of the carved bowl; it’s been a long trip and she’s missed fresh fruit.
‘Here. Catch.’ Stan tosses it to her.
‘Thanks.’ Mika takes a bite and leaves him to his coffee making. Popping her head out the front door, she checks the alley. Bree is crouched beside the cages, chatting to a puppy. Satisfied that the girl is safe, Mika returns to the living-kitchen area, her finger dragging along the thickly woven blanket draped over the couch. The indigenous design is beautiful, the lines and angles so different from the curves favoured by her own people. She knows her dad liked them too – he’d brought one of these blankets back to Aotearoa with him when he fled the United States all those years ago. She’s making a mental note to ask Stan about the story behind the pattern later, when she’s drawn to the large window, cut in half by the wall of the adjoining bedroom. The glass is so thick with dirt that Mika can barely make out the remains of the dismantled machinery outside.
Skeletons. A graveyard of dreams.
Mika nibbles the apple to its core, swallowing the seeds in pleasure, then turns back to Stan. The paramedic has switched the machine on. He leans back against the bench.
