The Islands at the End of the World

by Austin Aslan

  “Dad,” I whisper, using my voice to try and calm him down. “It’s okay.” But is it? We’ve done a good job of rationing this food. It would be ridiculous to lose it.

  The officer nods to the private and steps between Dad and the table. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Lance Corporal Billings. What’s your name?”

  “Uncle Sam. And you’re customer relations, or something?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where are my balloons and free hot dog? Do I get a raffle ticket?”

  Billings laughs. He ushers us to the side of the table. “Listen, Sam, this whole thing is crazy. We’re all adjusting. Everybody’s a little on edge.”

  “And I’m killing the mood, right?”

  “No worries. Here, I’ll walk with you over to your …”

  “… cage?”

  “… terminal. No, it’s not like that! That’s what I’m trying to say. Did you hear stories out there? Have you been trying to avoid us?”

  Dad says, “I haven’t been trying to avoid anything.”

  “What’s your name, really?”

  “Dr. Michael Milton.”

  “Okay, Dr. Milton. Can we finish inspecting your bags? We’re only checking in food and knives so fights don’t break out. You can keep everything else with you.”

  Dad loosens his death grip on the duffel. “Why would fights break out over food?” A cargo plane marked with a white star inside a blue circle roars into the sky behind us. “Is everyone starving?”

  Billings chuckles. “It’s not like that, Dr. Milton.”

  He turns to me and asks brightly, “And what’s your name, young lady?”

  I look at the ground. “Leilani.”

  “We’re going to get you two home, okay? Where are you going?”

  “Hilo.”

  “Hilo! That’s all? You folks kama`āina?”

  “Yup.” My eyes flick up to his. “Mind if we snag a quick snack from the bags first?”

  Billings holds my gaze. Finally, he gently takes the last duffel bag from Dad and gives it to the private. He turns back to us and hands us each a string cheese and several ticket stubs. “Not exactly a raffle, but hold on to it tightly. This is your bag tracker, okay?

  “Here, I’ll take you over to the interisland line.” He takes my backpack and hoists it up onto his shoulder.

  What a gentleman.

  We follow the lance corporal through the mud. “I won’t lie to you,” he says, “no one looking to get to the mainland has left yet, and interisland transport is happening slowly. But it is happening!”

  Relief washes over me in a wave.

  “You’ve gotta remember: we’re all reacting to a scenario no one ever imagined. It’s been a messy process, but we’re getting there.”

  “And what scenario is that?” I ask, biting into my stolen snack.

  Billings stops. “I call it the ‘this thing isn’t going away’ scenario. My superiors have other labels for it, but my job is to calm you folks down, not rile you up.” He smiles.

  “Wonderful,” Dad groans. “You’re so comforting.”

  “But we’re dedicated to the displaced, don’t you worry. The governor was here yesterday!” Dad gives me a who cares? expression, which I return.

  “What does the governor have to do with the Marine Corps Base?” I ask.

  Billings shrugs. “Nothing. Power play he’s sure to lose.” He pushes ahead of us.

  “That may be the first thing he’s said that I believe,” Dad says, to me.

  We arrive at the end of a very long line. It’s several people thick, and it hugs the walls of a large swimming-pool complex and wraps around the corner. My hopes of getting home today nosedive.

  Billings says, “Here you are, Dr. Milton and Leilani. Thank you for your patience and cooperation. Just remember that you’re probably in the safest place on the island right now. We’ll get you home as soon as we can.”

  “Wait a sec,” Dad says. “Really, that’s it? You have to give me something. Come on, what’s going on? What did you mean by ‘it’s not going away’?”

  “Mike, I’m not going to bullshit you. Fact is, I don’t have any facts. Your guess is as good as mine. The higher-ups don’t share. And it’s not my job to ask. My job is to keep everyone safe and maintain order so that we can all pick up where we left off once things return to normal.”

  “Please, Lance Corporal,” Dad begs.

  The officer’s expression chills. “Mike, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Billings steps away. Immediately, he’s eye level with an agitated Asian American woman, distracting her from her tirade about the mud.

  “That guy was born for this,” Dad says.

  “You should finish your tantrum now anyway.”

  “Oh, I’m hardly done.”

  “That may be the first thing you’ve said that I believe.”

  We both laugh.

  We’re on our own again, behind an elderly Hawaiian couple and exposed to the intense heat of a sickly sun. Thanks to the constant cooling presence of O`ahu’s trade winds, we survive a miserable three hours waiting to proceed through the line. We talk story with our neighbors as we constantly shift on our feet to catch the breeze.

  “Where are you folks off to?” Dad asks the couple ahead of us.

  The old man gives Dad a hard look, and then leans in close. “Lāna`i, by way of Maui.”

  “Our son’s family lives out there,” the woman adds.

  The husband scowls at her. “You gotta be more careful.”

  “With these two? Relax, Kani.” She smiles past him. “We live here, but luckily we pay some of the bills on the farm, so we can show paperwork. A ticket to ride.”

  Someone comes down the line with Dixie cups of lukewarm water, and we greedily guzzle them.

  “Keep your cup,” the soldier orders. “You won’t get another.”

  “We’re trying to get back to our family, too,” I say to the old couple. “On Hawai`i.”

  “The Big Island. Good,” the old woman says. “If this goes on, that’ll be the best place to be. Big Island’s four times bigger than O`ahu, ah? With one-tenth the population. And there are more cows and wild pigs and goats than there are people. Pressures over there will be different.”

  “You haoles better watch it,” Kani warns. “Pressures will be different for you, no doubt.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “We’re from there. Not gonna let anyone push us around.”

  “It’ll be hard,” Dad admits. “A lot of folks are going to try and spread out if things don’t return to normal. The pressures will build.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to do once we’ve gathered,” the wife says. “I’m glad we have a ticket off this island. We’re out of food. We tried everything short of thievery. There’s nothing honest left here.”

  “Oh, there’s food,” the old man says. “We just weren’t the ones to hoard it. If only this had happened twenty years ago, I’d’ve been right out there scooping it up early.”

  The woman slaps his upper arm. “Knock it off, lōlō. You’d’ve grabbed nothing but Spam and Cheetos and boxed wine, and we’d’ve died of malnutrition.”

  Finally, we arrive at the front of the line. The private asks for Dad’s driver’s license, jots down a couple of notes, scribbles out two blue name tags, and waves us through.

  “That’s it?” Dad asks.

  “Now you wait until your number block is called. Be ready to go at any moment.”

  “We just waited for three hours!”

  The soldier actually chortles. “Get used to it.”

  “In there?” Dad almost groans. “District nine?”

  The soldier nods. “We can’t have folks wandering around the base. It’s for your safety.”

  Dad glances at me and then leans in on the officer. I can hear what he’s saying, though. “Hey, my daughter has epilepsy. She’s had a couple big seizures lately. Is there …?”

  “I�
�ll make a note of it.” The soldier looks me up and down, notes my medical bracelet. “We have good medics around; don’t worry. If something happens, you’ll be taken care of.”

  He brushes us to the side and motions to the next people in line.

  “What were you after, handicapped parking?” I say.

  Dad sighs. “I don’t know, hon. Some sort of leg up, that’s all.”

  We shuffle forward along another muddy path lined with orange plastic netting and arrive at a field draped with a dozen massive camouflage tarps, under which hundreds of people are crowded, cowering from the sun.

  A low chain-link fence runs along the perimeter of the field. Stretches of it look like they’ve always been there, but some are new. Silvery-white razor wire is looped along the top—a long, stretched-out Slinky from hell. Shiny new.

  “District nine? What’s that?”

  Dad feigns shock. “I haven’t shown you District 9 yet?”

  “No.”

  Dad’s tried to introduce me to all the great science-fiction movies of his time, showing me the films and television episodes that meant so much to him growing up. I tease him that I only play along because it gets me out of doing homework, but I’ve really enjoyed the “lessons.” I almost died of embarrassment when he made me and Tami watch that old Bill and Ted movie—but it was funny. Those days now seem long ago, in a galaxy far away. And I might never have them back.

  “It’d be a good one to watch right around now,” Dad says. “About aliens stuck in a refugee camp in South Africa.”

  I laugh dryly. Is that what we are? Aliens on our own islands?

  We pass into the camp and search for shade. Departure announcements come about once every two hours. Each time, only a handful of people dash away with the escort. All of the announced flights are for Maui.

  I watch a truck filled with luggage pull up to a warehouse across the street, our duffels visible in the pile. Soldiers haul the luggage into the warehouse through a side door.

  As I walk the perimeter, I pass beneath a plumeria tree overhanging the fence. I freeze. I raise my hands to my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. After a moment I open them. I reach up, pluck a yellow-white plumeria blossom off the nearest branch, and tuck its stem behind my ear. I hold the flower in place for a second and drop my gaze down to the damp dirt sprinkled with countless petals, holding back tears.

  * * *

  The next group is called up. Maui, again. Dad and I have been sitting cross-legged at the edge of a tarp’s shade. He rises and jogs over to the announcer, the barbed wire doing its endless loop-de-loops between their faces.

  “Hey, when do you guys do runs to the Big Island?”

  “Whenever we need to. Please, sir, don’t hover.”

  “But we can go to Maui, too. Can we specify that we want to go to Maui?”

  The soldier shakes his head. “You have a blue tag. Big Island. You don’t want to be sitting around in Maui any more than here.”

  The sun drops toward the jagged, razor-edged slopes of the green Koolau Range, and I have never seen such a beautiful sunset. Above, thin scallops of raked clouds hover bloodred, like a ceiling consumed in flame.

  The gorgeous colors.

  I look across the fields and beyond two parking lots at another, larger makeshift camp. No wonder the trade winds smell like body odor and human waste. They must be the out-of-staters, separated from the rest of us like the lepers who used to be sent to Moloka`i.

  We’re issued two cots to set up under the open sky. Good thing there hasn’t been rain today. Someone nearby sneaks some mosquito repellant, quickly stuffing it back into their suitcase. Good idea. I share my own canister with Dad.

  Dinner is served from giant stew pots along a row of tables. People spring to the front of a mad dash that takes us by surprise. Dad and I wait half an hour for the crowd to thin. We ask about aspartame in the food, and the server rolls his eyes. An unsavory stew is poured into our Dixie cups, and we go back to our cots to eat.

  Later we lie on our cots, clothing piled beneath our heads, and watch the stars twinkle dimly behind the Emerald Orchid. Someone nearby weeps as meteors drizzle down faintly, like tear streaks, fading to spent dust far above the mountains.

  CHAPTER 13

  The next several days, we wait.

  We exercise to pass the time. I’d rather avoid the dirt and sweat from doing sit-ups and push-ups three times a day, but I play along. I think I know what Dad’s doing: training for that big canoeing adventure. Just in case it comes to that.

  The portable toilets overfill by the end of each day. We’re given a couple of squares of toilet paper every time we want to go. The food is getting worse, and water is available for shorter stretches. I’ve only taken one shower in the swimming pool’s shower rooms. The pool is useless—the tsunami filled it with sand and mud and junk.

  We write Mom a letter, and I give it to a soldier at our camp. He pulls the rolled-up letter through the chain links and assures me, “It’ll make it to Hilo eventually, but you know they can’t play post office.” He’s young, Hawaiian, and very handsome. Maybe I didn’t pick him out randomly.

  “Thanks.” I can only hope that Mom will think to visit the airport and ask if she has any letters waiting for her; she must know by now that civilians are arriving from O`ahu each day. Perhaps she goes there to look for us.

  “It’s all good,” I continue. “I understand. Gotta try, though, yeah? `Ohana.”

  Family.

  “`Ohana,” he agrees. “Where you from?”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “My mom’s native Big Islander. Dad’s from New Mexico.”

  The soldier offers me a shy smile. “Gotta name?”

  “Leilani. And you?”

  “That’s one of my favorites. I’m Aukina.”

  “What, you straight outta cadet training or something?”

  “Ho!” He laughs and shifts the letter in his hands. “Way to see the world, ah?”

  I laugh. “Hey, you know what’s going on out there? The mainland?”

  “No. Wish I did. Communications are completely out. But talk is the whole world’s without power. Plenny problems everywhere.”

  I frown. This doesn’t come as a surprise. But hearing it out loud—it sounds really serious—really bad. Who could possibly have time to spare a thought for Hawai`i?

  “Hey,” I say. “You guys have extra medicine? I’m running low and can’t run out.”

  “What do you need?”

  I tell him my brand and the generic name.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, good luck with this, ah?” He waves my letter to Mom. “I’ll keep an eye out for a reply.”

  “Thanks.” I blush again and turn around. I return to Dad, and for a moment I wish he were Tami. We’d already be talking up that cham—our secret word for a good-looking guy. I suddenly miss her with a sharp pang of … loss.

  But it’s not forever, I tell myself.

  I kill some time by removing and reapplying my spearmint-pearl polish. I usually don’t do my fingernails, but I add them in to the mix tonight. If I can’t get rid of the dirt, at least I can hide it.

  I wonder if Private Cham over there would like spearmint pearl. I shrug. Can’t be worse than my current cellblock brown.

  We often hear gunfire across the bay. Single shots or short bursts. I think of that man’s head bursting open against the white sail. As miserable as we are in camp, the fence that surrounds us keeps the madness at bay.

  Sunday and Monday come and go. Two weeks since we last talked to Mom and Kai. It feels surreal—and painful. I’m angry all the time. Or sad. Or numb. I never just feel normal anymore.

  Tuesday. I’ve counted about fifty lucky people with blue name tags called to board a plane bound for the Big Island. Meanwhile, four new tarps have been hoisted up inside our pen, and hundreds of additional interisland travelers have arrived.

  Would we already be home if we’d
come here right away?

  I have a cot, but now Dad sleeps on the muddy ground next to me, using the canvas of our tent as a ground cloth. There were no more cots to go around, but the people in the camp redistributed the ones we do have among the women and children. It was a good moment. Started with one guy insisting that a new lady take his. She tried to refuse, but he won. Then a few more got up and did the same thing. And suddenly everyone was passing cots around, like some weird square dance without music. People were laughing, chatting with each other. It took a while for the excitement to die down. Thinking of it now, I’m reminded of Saturday-morning soccer games.

  I turn to Dad sitting beside me on the cot. “Anyone around here have a soccer ball?”

  Dad’s eyebrows go up. “Let’s find out.”

  We ask around. Finally, a soldier passes a ball over the fence. It doesn’t take long before we have a game going. Coed. All ages. People move camp and squeeze together to give us room to play. We’re on a soccer field, after all. The game gets crowded, so someone suggests teams and rotating matches. Everyone who’s not playing watches. Even the guards spectate during their patrols. Every time there’s a goal, cheers ripple through camp, inside and outside the fence.

  We play until just after dark, and we agree to do it again every evening.

  * * *

  I’ve been leaving my phone off. I turn it on now and switch off airplane mode. It finds a network and shows full bars. I dial Mom, but the call fails. Before I can shut it off, it dies. I’m certain it still had power. I sit and stare at the blank screen.

  “Dad, my phone’s fried.”

  “Weird how things are zapping out so randomly,” he muses, sitting cross-legged on the flattened tent next to the cot. “The Orchid’s … aura … must have folds and knots that miss things as it churns around out there. Like pancake batter that still has balls of dry flour even after you whisk it. It may only be a matter of time before nothing works anymore.”

  A chill runs up my back. “Well, when it goes away, though …”

  Dad shakes his head. “When the Orchid goes away, everything will still be broken. It’ll take a long time for factories to get up and running. This thing goes away right now, we’ve still entered a new era, Lei. Nothing will ever be quite the same.”