The Islands at the End of the World

by Austin Aslan

  I stare as if seeing him for the first time. He’s in charge now. I look at the pistol.

  “Don’t touch,” he orders. “Not for you.”

  I resist the urge to step back. He has nothing to worry about. I see that man’s head explode outward, painting the sail red. Four rapid, hollow pops—nothing like in the movies. A man is erased.

  “Why did God break the rules, Dad?”

  Dad places the gun on the coffee table. I follow him into the bedroom, where he rummages through the closet, emerging with a holster and a belt. He runs the belt through his trouser loops and the holster and then tightens the belt all the way to the final hole. “I still don’t know how to answer that. But I owe you a response, don’t I?”

  We go back to the living room and sit. “There’s a couple easy outs. One is to say ‘There is no God.’ Another is ‘This was always His plan; we’ve always known about Revelation and we were supposed to be prepared.’ But both try to fit a square peg into a round hole, yeah?”

  I shake my head, clueless.

  Dad rubs his rough chin. “Think of it like a scientist. When I design an experiment, I make guesses based on my best understanding. When what I’m studying does something unexpected, I conclude that my assumptions were wrong. I don’t just give up on science altogether.”

  “Dad, I’m lost.”

  “The world has changed, right? Our understanding of a loving God is being challenged by new variables. But what are we supposed to do, reject the entire notion of God, just because the new scenario doesn’t match what we anticipated? Or do we decide to keep exploring? Keep asking new questions to understand something we still have a lot to learn about?”

  “I think I get it.”

  “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? I’m angry. But it’s my very nature as a scientist that keeps me from rushing to convenient conclusions.”

  “Well, what about the other thing you said? Meltdown. What if this is the Apocalypse? Judgment Day? And other Christians had it right the whole time? You were just too proud a scientist to take the Bible literally?”

  Dad laughs. “Ever thought of being a trial lawyer? Your cross-examinations are tough.”

  Yes. But that future is gone.

  Dad takes my hands. “I just think that if you rush to that conclusion, you’re guilty of confirmation bias. When you really want an experiment to give certain results, you tend to ignore evidence that might invalidate your conclusion.

  “I’ve witnessed nothing to suggest the miraculous. Why should I ignore the possibility that we’re responsible? I’d be missing out on some powerful lessons if I absolved humanity.”

  “How are we responsible for this?”

  “Easy. Don’t forget, the only thing that has happened here is a power outage. A hundred years ago this thing’s arrival would have resulted in a global hiccup. We became too reliant on an unsustainable resource. Right?”

  “Well, why didn’t God stop it from happening, even if it’s not His fault?”

  Dad shrugs. “God is acting as He always has, you know? Why didn’t He stop hurricanes from killing people, famine in Africa, the Holocaust? Acts of terrorism? God has always let bad things run their course. His response to this disaster actually reinforces our current understanding. All the more reason not to let this shake your faith.”

  “Well, I’m still mad.”

  “You should be angry. You have every right to be. I am.”

  I let my head sink onto Dad’s shoulder. He pulls me close, says, “In the back of my mind, I always wonder if there’s really a deity out there. God. Gods. Akua. But my faith is a comfort to me, just as your Hawaiian heritage is a comfort to you. It’s a comfort to believe that there’s an afterlife that we’ll go to. That there’s a place my parents are, even though they’re gone from here. If I reject that whole system now, in the very moment when I need comforting the most, what else do I have?”

  “We have each other.”

  Dad nods. “I hope so. I hope to God you’re right.”

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s not concerned that I’d ever ditch him. He’s coming to grips with something that I’ve been refusing to consider.

  He’s scared that Mom and Kai are gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  We nap late into the afternoon on opposite sides of a king-sized pillow-top mattress covered in soft linens. We could have our own rooms, but we need to be together.

  I dream.

  I stand inside a big plant nursery on the outskirts of Hilo. Several hundred different species of orchids are on display along narrow counters, an elaborate garden project turned tourist trap. I wander the aisles, looking for the Emerald Orchid among the potted plants.

  Kai darts between the aisles and ducks beneath one of the counters. I chase him, but he’s gone. Mom’s on the far side of a table, an orchid resting above her ear. She’s talking to me, but I can’t hear the words. A tita from school stands in my way, a pistol gripped in her hand. She raises the pistol at me. “Stay away, haole.”

  I take a step backward, but freeze. No. I won’t run. I clench my fists and stride toward the girl.

  She flees.

  Kai and Grandpa are next to Mom. They race toward the gift shop. I chase them, but I can’t reach the end of the orchid aisle. No matter how fast I sprint, the gift shop only grows farther away.

  * * *

  It’s early evening. The dream rests on my chest like a lead X-ray apron. I nudge Dad awake.

  “Bad dream.”

  “I’m right here, Lei.” He puts his hand on my arm.

  Later, Dad ventures outside and finds a drum of rainwater in the backyard. No more toilet tank. I know those tanks have clean water, but still. We drink as much rainwater as we can, and fill our water bottles. I finally brush my hair. We wash up—yes!—and I shave my legs—double yes! We collect the dried contents of our packs from the backyard clothesline. I change into new clothes. A small thing that has a big impact. I even smile when I look in the mirror.

  I should just cut my hair; it’ll be way easier. I open drawers, searching for scissors. I find a pair, turn back to the mirror and put them down. I have my mom’s hair. I drape it over my shoulder and run it through my hands. Silky, velvety black hair. It’ll be a rat’s nest before too long, but I can’t cut it.

  I braid it tightly. Cornrows would be even better. Mom would have done them well, but I’m not going to bother asking Dad. There’s a new tube of lip gloss in one of the drawers. The color is called “Kiss.” A light pink, almost natural. Perfect. I try it on and smile. I tuck the tube into my pocket.

  I can’t shake the image of Mom talking with no sound; of me, sprinting to catch my family.

  “I’ll get home. Nothing will stop me,” I say aloud.

  I escape to the chancellor’s study, where I pore over shelves of books like I’m Kai in a candy store. A good book will distract me. After I redo my nails—I’m getting bored with spearmint, but oh well—I settle into reading a novel that I started at home, hunched over a quivering candle flame. The hours melt away, just like in the olden days, when candles were things you only used for nice dinners and fragrance.

  * * *

  Before dawn we eat a breakfast of crackers and waxed Brie. Dad shaves his feral beard. With just enough light to see by, we switch all of our food and the potassium iodide into the backpacks and put everything else in the suitcases. The packs also hold a few changes of clothes, our two-person tent, and essentials like my medicine.

  I pop my morning pill. Twenty-nine left.

  The packs are incredibly heavy, but if we have to ditch the suitcases, we won’t lose the food.

  We pore over a large map of Hawai`i and examine the terrain between us and our family. I can’t believe that we flew here from Hilo in forty minutes while I listened to music with my eyes closed.

  Dad says, “Looks like Moloka`i is about thirty miles away from Kailua Beach Park. The park is only an hour’s walk from here. Moloka`i should always be visible once we’r
e on the water.”

  “And then Moloka`i to Maui. Ten miles? A cinch.”

  “I hope so. Then we have to get through Maui. Launch for the Big Island from Hana. Another thirty miles on the water. But first, Hana. Don’t forget: eastern Maui is a ten-thousand-foot-high volcano. Better to skirt the coast on a boat.”

  As Dad is talking and pointing at the map, I rub my eyes. It sounds like we’re planning an old British expedition to discover the mouth of the Nile, or something.

  An urgent knocking at the door. We share an uncertain glance. The knocking continues. We’ve shuttered all the front windows, but I can see a pair of eyes through the remaining gaps. They know we’re in here.

  “You’re not safe here. They’re coming!” a man shouts. “Please, John, hurry.”

  Dad moves to stand flat against the door but doesn’t open it. He holds the gun tightly in his hand. “Who’s coming? Who are you?”

  “It’s Haku. I saw you in the garden last night. They’re sweeping the block. If they find you, they kill you.”

  Dad unlocks the door and holds it open just far enough to peer out. “Which way are they going?”

  “Who are you?” Haku asks, startled. He takes a step back. He’s an older fellow—Hawaiian—with wire-frame glasses and gray hair.

  “John’s in Hilo. I’m a professor at the U. We were just leaving. Which way?”

  “Go out the back,” he says, looking over Dad’s shoulder at me. It’s clear he’s risking a lot by rushing over to our porch. “Go right—makai. I gotta go.”

  “Who’s after us?” Dad says.

  “The Filipinos, and some others, are after whites.” Haku darts down the driveway.

  “Come on,” Dad says.

  I snatch the road atlas, roll it, and stuff it into my backpack. We yank our possessions through the dark brambles. Dad pushes our gear over a wooden fence and we scramble after it, emerging on a winding residential street. I realize that I’ve been trying to hold my breath, and I take in a lungful of air. We rush along the dim sidewalk, finally able to roll our suitcases. I’m terrified, but what else are we supposed to do? A Jeep rumbles down the nearest cross street, and we dive into someone’s yard. But who was in the Jeep? I’m not even sure who we’re running from. They can’t be everywhere, can they?

  I feel like a ghost lingering among the living—or maybe it’s the other way around. I imagine the eyes of wary monsters watching us from the shadows of every window. I’m just as frightening to them as they are to me.

  No one belongs anywhere anymore.

  It’s only a matter of time before somebody decides they have more of a right to our things than we do.

  Dad often rests his hand on the grip of his pistol, as if it brings him comfort. It just makes me more anxious.

  I look at a map of Kailua. A canal runs the entire length of the neighborhood, splitting in two about three miles from here. One branch curves south into a large pond beside hundreds of homes. The other branch darts north and dumps into Kailua Bay. If we can find someone with a boat along the canal or the pond, we can avoid boating past the Marine Corps Base before looping right toward Moloka`i.

  And if none of that pans out, we look for an outrigger canoe.

  We turn right onto the nearest canal access path, leaving the houses and their invisible spying eyes behind. We’re in a strip of unkempt grass that separates the houses from the canal. The banks of the waterway are lined with tall trees and bushes that offer more cover. Dad and I take turns darting into the bushes to steal a glimpse of the canal. Not even a kayak.

  Our prospects for escaping O`ahu are probably worse than ever. We’re twenty-three days out from the president’s severed speech, we’re on foot, and the marinas along this coast have suffered the wrath of a tsunami. Who cares if we have iodide to barter? Everyone who wanted to leave O`ahu and had a way to do it is long gone.

  There was a widower in Hilo who lost his wedding ring in the Wailuku River. He returned to the pool where it had slipped off his finger every afternoon for ten years, diving, swimming, sifting, endlessly turning over stones. He breathed his last one fall afternoon, suffering from pneumonia, and was buried next to his wife without the ring. I couldn’t understand his compulsion then. Now I do. There are some things you never give up on, no matter the odds.

  “Dad!” I call. It’s my turn to peek through the underbrush while Dad babysits the suitcases. A rickety pier juts out from a cobbled bar along the near bank of the canal. Moored to it is a fifteen-foot, center-console fishing boat with a sunshade and an outboard motor. The sort of boat tourists charter when they want to go deep-sea fishing for a couple of hours—it looks quite capable of a run between the islands. And I can see three large, red tanks of gasoline stored under the canopy beside the wheel. It’s idling, motor in the water.

  Dad appears and gasps. “This is our boat.”

  CHAPTER 19

  After shuffling onto the decrepit dock, we stand dumbfounded, as if we’ve just discovered a living, breathing dodo bird.

  Dad jolts into motion, tossing his suitcase into the boat. “Give me your bags.”

  “Dad,” I whisper. “We’re just going to take it?”

  “Do you want to go home, Lei? This is it. Now or never. Quick.”

  I hand him my suitcase. I can’t believe our luck; I can’t believe we’re five minutes away from being in the open ocean, when I was just despairing.

  But I pause.

  This is someone else’s boat. Someone nearby. They have their own plans for it. They’ve made preparations. What if they’re trying to escape from O`ahu, too, and they’ve spent days gathering the gasoline?

  “Lei, now!”

  “Maybe we can all go together.”

  Dad stiffens and leaps back onto the deck, squeezes me tightly against his left shoulder and faces the trees. I freeze. A thirty-ish haole man watches us from the shadows of the trees on the far side of the dock. He steps forward hesitantly, eyes on the gun on Dad’s hip.

  I flashback to the boat thief’s head exploding against the white sail.

  “What’re you doin’?” He’s muscular and tall. He runs a hand over the top of his sunburnt head. His T-shirt says

  “Volcom Pipe Pro.”

  Oh, man … he’s just a surfer.

  “Get away from my boat, will ya?”

  “We need to go to Moloka`i,” Dad says, a tremble in his voice. “We’ve been trying to leave here for three weeks.”

  “Will you take us?” I ask. Dad shakes me, but I don’t care. “No one wants to steal your boat. Will you take us? We have food. We have iodide pills to stop the radiation. We’ll help you find more gas when we get there.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” The guy takes another step closer. “I’m getting goddamned sick and tired of this. Can’t come ashore without someone begging for help. Get away from my boat. Grab your stuff and move along.”

  Dad pulls the pistol from his hip. I can feel his quickened breathing. The gun wavers in his outstretched hand. The man hops backward and then steadies himself. He puts his hands up and smiles thinly. “Hey, come on, man. Don’t do this. Your daughter …”

  “Dad,” I say.

  “Shut up!” Dad shouts. The gun shakes at the end of his stiff arm. We fall silent. “Now, you can take us to Moloka`i, and then keep your boat. We’ll pay you in iodide. Or we’ll just take it. Up to you.”

  “I don’t want this to end badly any more than you do, man. Just chillax, okay?” He’s slowly advancing. “Is there … is there radiation? Where’d you hear that?”

  “Stop right there.” The surfer doesn’t listen. Dad raises the gun skyward and clicks the trigger. Nothing. The man rushes to tackle Dad. But Dad pushes the safety off with his thumb and pulls the trigger lower. A thunderous crack pounds against my ears. The bullet fires high over the surfer’s head. He stumbles backward. “Jesus Christ! All right.”

  He looks behind him and glances at the boat, deliberating. “I’ll take you. Don’t screw w
ith me, though; I need this boat. Okay?”

  “We just want to get off O`ahu.” Dad unwraps his hand from around me and wipes his brow. “I promise. Now, we’re going to get in the boat. Don’t try anything like that again, okay? Once we’re in, you can come on board.”

  “It took three days to siphon all this gas.”

  “You can sit up front,” Dad continues. “I’ll drive. I’ll have the gun trained on you all day.”

  “No worries, man. You win, all right?” The man stays back, glances nervously behind himself into the trees, and stands with his arms upraised.

  My ears are ringing fiercely. I had no idea how loud a gun is. Dad directs me onto the boat, keeping an eye on both of us. “Stay at the back,” he says. I crouch in the boat and drop my backpack.

  Dad steps into the boat and takes the console, his eyes on the surfer. He still has a shaky grip on the gun as he uses the other hand to flip the motor from neutral into reverse. The boat’s rear pulls away from the dock, and Dad steadies his free hand on the steering wheel. “Now jump onto the nose if you’re coming, and untie us.”

  The stranger carefully walks forward, hops on, and turns his back to us, glancing at the trees, stalling.

  “Now!” Dad cries.

  The surfer loosens the rope from the pier and starts to pull it in.

  Another man emerges from the trees with a heavy red gasoline tank. He drops it and reaches for his own pistol.

  “Dad! Gun!” I shout.

  The surfer yells, “Hurry!” and turns, rising, about to fling himself at Dad.

  Dad ducks, punches the throttle downward. We’re in reverse, and the surfer falls backward into the water. Gunfire echoes in my ears. I have no idea where it’s coming from.

  A bullet hole materializes next to my foot, and I yelp. Dad flips the throttle all the way forward. The boat slams to a halt, churning the water behind me white, and then accelerates forward. I grab on to a compartment to keep from tumbling out.

  The gunfire continues. Dad crouches low but never lets go of the wheel. He reaches across his body and fires blindly at the shore. I glance back as we race away. The gunfire pops continue, and I stare dumbly at the man on the shore with his arm outstretched, too confused to realize that he’s firing directly at us.