by B. C. Tweedt
Pluribus was a relatively new entrant into the game of mercenaries, but it was proving to be one of the most lucrative. The Fisherman had already successfully rendered three transactions with them in a matter of months. None of them yet had been children, so today would be a new experience. His conscience pestered him every now and then, but it had never pestered him when he had caught baby sharks. He’d even killed a pregnant shark before.
And this time there were eight sharks, four of them babies. When the bald man from the cruise had instructed him to take care of them quietly and quickly, he had almost killed the man on the spot. No one told him how to do his job. But he had restrained himself, blaming his impatience on his other assignment. He had been waiting for another one of his targets, an orphan boy, to show up on the island.
He’d keep his eyes open for that one, but at least now he had something to entertain him during the wait.
He followed the targets through the welcome center where store vendors hocked their cheap tourist wares – mementos, hats, baskets, dolls, bottled water, and sunscreen amongst others. His targets didn’t buy anything – they looked to be in a rush – failing to enjoy their last precious hours of life. Instead, they rushed by the local shop selling conch burgers; they skipped the face painting and the scooter rental; and they didn’t stop to breathe in the fresh ocean air.
And then they had to wait in line for a tour vehicle, along with hundreds of other anxious tourists talking nervously to one another, pointing to the shop that had already boarded up with plywood sign reading, Nassau Welcomes Everyone (Except Darryl)!
The Fisherman crushed his cigar under his shoe and lugged his rusty green tackle box toward a row of mopeds. He’d wait in line to rent one, as patient as a fisherman.
----------------
Greyson woke with a start, short of breath and terrified. His hands reached for his holster and instinctively found the snap.
“Good mo’ning,” Asher said, smiling wide. “Dad says we ‘ah almost the’ah.”
He was still on the plane. Greyson eyed Asher and tried to take deep breaths to calm down. He glanced outside and saw that the sun had come up in force. There was nothing but blue sky and blue ocean. How long had he slept?
“You w’ah having a nightma’ah.”
He was watching me sleep? He reached for a water bottle. “Was I?”
“I have them, too. Monst’ahs and zombies mostly. You d’weamin’ of zombies?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, what are you af’aid of?”
He thought to himself, still shaking off the sleep. He was afraid of lots of things. Not finding his father – or finding him dead. Plurbs. Drones. Being tortured. Losing Sydney.
“Snakes,” he said. “I hate snakes.”
“Me, too. Is your mom okay?”
Greyson stopped in the middle of rubbing his face awake. “What?”
Asher scrunched his forehead. “Your mom. You were saying somethin’ ‘bout her in your d’weam.”
Greyson’s eyes fell to his shoes. “No. She’s…she’s dead.”
“Mine, too.”
“Asher.” Dan spoke from the open cockpit. He’d been listening in.
“So’wwy, Dad.” He leaned in to whisper to Greyson. “Not supposed to talk about it.”
“Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sure you miss her a lot.”
Asher glanced at his dad and whispered quieter. “I nev’ah knew her. She died having me, but it’s not my fault.”
Trying not to show it, Greyson felt the tug at his heart. He turned from the boy and watched the clouds pass by. At least he had been able to have twelve years with both of his parents. Asher hadn’t had a single day with his mother.
“You okay?” Asher was leaning over him, trying to see his face.
Greyson faked a smile. “Yeah. It’s just soaking in, you know?”
“What? You wet yourself?”
Greyson laughed and then caught the kid’s serious face. Maybe wetting himself was a real issue for him. “Uh…no. All good. I just can’t believe we’re on our way. You guys are the best.”
Asher smiled. “Anytime! Maybe we could go to the pool lat’uh! Or I could show you a’wound the bookshop! Dad owns it.”
“That sounds great. Maybe if you give me your phone number I can get hold of you after I find my dad.”
“Sh’uwa! I know Dad’s cell phone.”
Greyson searched in his fanny pack and pulled out the Bible and pencil. “Here. Write it down. Anywhere you find space in the first few pages.”
Asher grabbed the Bible and pencil and went to work, his tongue flicking left and right as he made the numbers just right. His letters were large and he moved at a snail’s pace; and just when Greyson thought he was done, he flicked through the pages, circled something, and then finally pressed the Bible and the pencil back into Greyson’s hands. “I also circled my favorite ve’wse. You’ll have to find it. Like a scaveng’ah hunt.”
Greyson shrugged. “Sounds fun.”
Asher bit his lip as if he were debating with himself. Then his curiosity got the best of him. “What’s a ‘Payback List’?”
He’d snuck a peek.
“It’s just what I owe people. I’ll pay them back someday. I should put you guys on it for sure.” He started adding their names to the list.
Asher was still curious. “So…it’s like an IOU…or debt?”
Smart kid. “Um…sure. I guess.”
“Debt’s bad. Our gove’ment has lots of it,” the boy said, glancing at his dad. “Dad says they’re making us slaves to China ‘cuz we can nev’ah pay it all back. And that’s why all the businesses are closing and people are getting ang’wy – cuz the gove’ment’s trying to make us pay it back for them.”
Greyson smirked. He has a good memory.
“Asher…” his dad chided from the cockpit.
Asher huffed, unsure of what he did wrong. “But you don’t have as much debt as the gove’ment. You can pay it all back, yeah?”
“Maybe. I’ll try.”
“You need more money? I’ve got like fifteen doll’ahs and fo’wty th’wee cents.”
He laughed. “Whoa! Loaded. But no – most of it’s not money.”
“Then how do you pay it back?”
Greyson scrunched his brow and played with a scratch on the seatback in front of him. He thought of the 8,002 lives.
“Um…well, I guess if I owe someone something because I did something wrong…I’ll have to do something just as good to make up for it.”
“Oh.” Asher scrunched his brow just like Greyson had and rubbed a different scratch on the seat ahead of him. “But how will you know if it’s good enough?”
Greyson shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t.”
“That sucks.”
“Asher!”
Asher bowed his head. “So’wwy. Bad wo’d. Maybe I should say something good to make up for it.” He winked at Greyson.
Greyson smiled back, though the weight of what Asher had said still weighed on him. How would he know when his debt was paid? And if debt made the government a slave to China, who was he a slave to?
“What’s something good to say…?” Asher thought to himself, rubbing again at the scratch.
As he was thinking, everything changed.
The radio burst on. Nassau’s airport controller started barking orders. Dan replied calmly over and over again, but he couldn’t argue his way through it. The man was speaking so fast it was hard to catch what he said, but there was one word he caught, despite the man’s heavy accent.
Hurricane.
His eyes shot to the horizon where dark clouds loomed ominously across the sea. His heart dropped as Dan put the plane on autopilot and turned to them.
“Listen. There is heightened security because of the attack. When we land, they will check the entire plane – every passenger.”
&nb
sp; Greyson gulped. The plane shook with increasing turbulence.
“We’re going to have to turn around.”
Asher and Greyson shared a look; Greyson’s face had gone pale.
“No! We can’t go back! We’re here! He’s down there!”
“If you stay, they’ll find you. There’s nowhere to hide on this little plane.”
“There’s got to be something – another way!”
The hum of the plane was the only sound for several seconds as Dan thought to himself. Finally he spoke. “You could jump.”
“Jump?”
“No. Nevermind. I’ll take you back, we can regroup, wait out the hurricane, let security calm…”
“No! I’m done waiting. I’ll jump,” Greyson declared. Then he thought. “Wait. Do you have a parachute?”
Dan’s sigh was long and deep, his conscience drawing lines on his forehead.
When he looked into Greyson’s eyes, Dan knew what he had to do. The boy deserved a chance. “Hurry. Asher, help him put on the chute. I’ll talk you through it.”
Greyson was in a haze, caught up with the sound of wind, the image of the dark clouds, and the word jump. Asher grabbed the parachute from its place, helped him fit it over his arms, and clipped it on. It felt just like the rappelling straps at camp – or the chains that had saved him when he’d fallen from the moving truck. He shuddered at the memory.
With a flurry of words, Dan instructed him how to work it; his fingers found the ‘drogue’ handle in the back he was supposed to pull to release the chute. Dan told him how to steer the chute, how to land, and how to detach it. Greyson tried to envision all of the instructions – forcing the words into his memory.
“Asher, buckle in!” Dan yelled, turning from the cockpit. “Then, Greyson, open the side door!”
Greyson found the latch and pulled it with all his might until it finally budged; the sound that struck him was like a thousand shrieking ghosts released from a vault.
The sun poured in with the sound, blazing into Greyson’s face. One hand shielded his eyes, the other held the door latch, keeping him from falling into the portal ahead.
“We’re almost over the island!” Dan yelled. “We’ll have a short jump window! Grab some money from our bug-out bag!”
Greyson found the red bag and shuffled through the belongings. He stopped when the butt of a pistol poked through, but only hesitated for a moment. Quickly he found a wad of cash.
“How much?”
“One bundle. A thousand. Don’t be afraid to bribe someone if you need to! It’s my gift to you – all of this. You deserve a chance.”
Greyson thumbed through the cash with a blank expression. If he’d had that type of money a few weeks ago…
“Thank you!”
“And make sure to hide the chute as soon as you land!”
Greyson took one last look at the bag’s contents before he zipped it up. Passports. Several of them. “Okay!”
He returned the bag to its place and looked out the portal to the clouds wisping by. He imagined his body plummeting to the earth and the sound it would make hitting the ground.
Asher waved at him. “Bye Gray’s son! Hope you find Mr. Gray!”
Greyson blinked, still holding the latch with white knuckles. Gray’s son? Greyson. He repeated it to himself several times. Of all the years he’d been called by that name, he’d never heard it that way before.
Dad must have sucked at coming up with names as much as I do.
“Thank you,” Greyson said, giving the boy a fist pound.
Dan leaned back. “Call if you need anything! I hope your testimony changes a lot of minds about Pluribus. Now you’ve got to go!”
They shared a look. He nodded and Dan nodded back. Then, grasping the sides of the plane, he bent his knees and readied himself.
“Greyson!”
He turned to Asher.
“Your hat.”
Greyson smiled a ‘thank you’ and snapped his hat to his belt. Satisfied, he turned back to the opening and took a deep breath.
I dare you.
Giving the clouds one more look, he flung himself into them.
Chapter 50
Greyson had fallen before. He’d fallen from a bridge into a river. He’d fallen from a crashing train into a backyard. And he’d fallen for a girl who fell for someone better. Each time hurt.
But this was like all three put together – an unending free fall with a sinking desperation, a frightening loss of control, and the wind smacking his every sense. Even so, there was a time of exhilaration when he forgot his fear and told himself it would be okay. He assured himself the chute would open, he would land safely, and he would be where his dad was. He loved those few precious seconds, just floating, like he was surfing on a pillow of air, smiling and dreaming.
As the last clouds vanished around him, the island lay open below like an unwrapped package. Tiny buildings speckled the green landscape, all lining the vein-like streets that tangled their way with little organization. Greyson tried to take it all in through the tears streaming from his eyes, but it was difficult to concentrate. The sound strapped at his ears and the wind pushed his cheeks against the back of his jaws. His clothes felt like they’d rip from his skin or become a part of him. And worst of all, the hat felt like it was pulling the snap from his belt. He reached for it, but sent himself into a tailspin, tumbling through the air like he had when he’d first jumped from the plane.
Eventually he pressed the snap in stronger and turned back, spreading his legs and arms to ride the wave of air. The houses had gotten much larger. The earth seemed to rocket toward him.
Panicking, he grasped at the chute’s straps, searching for the tiny drogue handle he was supposed to pull. And then he remembered. It was in the back.
His hands swiped behind him and he lost control again. Stupid!
He spun around twice…three times before spreading his arms again and regaining control. Now he could see the colors of vehicles. The shingles on houses.
Calm down. Calm down.
This time he reached back slowly with one hand. His fingers played along the pack, searching and searching until finally they found the handle. He grasped it and pulled it with a rush of relief.
But nothing happened. He had felt it pull away. Something had come out, but…
WHOOOOSH!
The straps yanked at his body, pulling him toward the sky above like the chute had caught on a cloud. Greyson’s breath was crushed from his lungs; his eyes spun; his limbs flopped down like gravity had suddenly taken hold, and he no longer floated – he dangled.
It took a few seconds for the world to make sense again. He looked about, blinking away the tears and feeling the blood rush back to his face. He gulped in air, but only once before he panicked.
Water tower!
He was heading straight for it.
He kicked at the air out of impulse, as if he could run; his hands pulled at the straps. Still nothing.
The wooden tower barreled toward him.
Suddenly he remembered Dan’s instruction. He found the handles that dangled above each of his shoulders.
He let out a yelp and yanked on the right handle. The chute dipped to the right and he took a hard turn. His feet whipped by the tower, leaving a shadow on the splintered wood.
He was still falling fast and gliding forward even faster; houses’ roofs slid underneath like a treadmill. Palm trees and electric lines threatened on nearly every side.
Banking left and then right, he gained control of the massive chute that canopied above. The wind was powerful from the oncoming storm, pushing him hard through the air. He had no time to think. Only to react.
Frick!
He narrowly avoided a tree, skimming the leaves on the left and then nearly pummeling a rocky bank on the right.
Yanking on both handles at once, the chute jerked him back like he had hit the brakes. A rush of wind erupted from a narrow canyon below and hit him like a wave, send
ing him higher into the air, just above another set of trees.
Finally, he saw a landing spot just past the market below, busy with people he could now see and hear, boarding up their shops and racing around – too distracted to see him – until he swooped over their heads like a giant bird of prey.
He pulled again and again at both straps, pounding the brakes. Keeping his sneakers out in front of him, he guided them toward the landing like they were his crosshairs. The wind pushed him to the side and another wave of panic hit him. His landing was a rocky fort overlooking a cliff. If he missed the landing, he’d fall off the cliff, toward the busy city where the best landing would be the highway.
He gave the left handle a pull with all his strength. The ground prepared to swallow him. He found the chute’s release.
Ground!
His feet hit the concrete and he tried to run with the chute, but the wind jerked him headlong. His shoulder hit next and he toppled toward the cliff, the parachute’s lines tangling with themselves and dragging him along. Somehow through the chaos his hand found the release.
The chute floated off the cliff and Greyson rolled after it. His body scraped at the cement; his fingernails pulled at anything – but there was nothing he could do. He closed his eyes as he flopped one last time toward the cliff.
And then he felt as if he were falling again – over the edge. His eyes swam, swirling behind his eyelids. His hands shook and his stomach reeled, but he wasn’t actually falling. He’d stopped. He felt the cement under his knees, on his fingers, on his stomach, on his cheek. He hugged it tight, still fearful that it might let him go. Opening his eyes, the cement’s pockmarks swiped across his vision like the moon was a bowling ball spinning inches from his eyes.
Stop. Stop.
He mouthed the words with forced breaths, his fingers stinging raw, still pulling at the rough cement.
I’m stopped. I’m stopped.
After several more deep breaths, he pushed himself up and blinked out over the city. His chute drifted lazily hundreds of feet above the buildings below, carrying its tangled lines below it like a jellyfish in water.
Brushing himself off and assessing the scrapes on his body, he glanced at the old, abandoned fortress he had landed on. He’d made the only flat section, an odd triangular shape jutting toward the city, like it was a pirate’s ship protecting the harbor. Below was a deck with cannons set to bombard those who threatened to invade – like he had just done.
