by Amy Cross
“You can be free here.”
I shake my head.
“Of course you can,” he continues. “As long as you abide by the rules -”
“I think you just made your point.”
“The island is for anarchists,” he adds, with extra tension in his voice. For some reason, he's really trying to dissuade me. “The island is for the dregs of society, it's mostly people with mental illnesses who want to go there, or people who think they've got a better idea about how the world should be run. It's the kind of people who, in the old days, would have set out to travel west and strike gold, free from the supposed bonds of the civilization they left behind. Crazy people, in other words.” He pauses. “There are no laws there, Iris. Anyone can do anything to anyone else, and they frequently do. People are murdered and tortured, they die in the most horrifying agony. The island isn't monitored, that's part of the deal, but the crews of delivery vessels have reported seeing... things down there.”
“What kind of things?”
“Well, the island is a big place. One crew reported seeing human bones in a clearing, arranged in some kind of ritual formation. Another crew reported hearing the most hideous screams, and seeing a river running red with bodies. These reports are unverified, of course, but I believe them. Out there, freed from the restraints of society, people regress to savagery. Without civilization, humans are monsters.”
“So why did humans create civilization in the first place?” I ask. “If we were happy as savages, why evolve?”
“A happy accident,” he replies, “but one that we must take advantage of. Please, Iris, don't throw your whole life away on some brief, romanticized urge to rebel. Be more grown-up than that.”
“And come up with a ten year plan about how to succeed?” I ask cynically.
“Well, if -”
“I've made my decision,” I continue, interrupting him, “and there's nothing you or anyone else can do to change my mind. Maybe it's a mistake, but it's my mistake.”
He sighs, before tapping at a nearby screen. “You have, indeed, lodged your intention formally. You still have a couple of days to change your mind, though, so I hope you'll use that time to think very carefully about what you really want. You'll undergo certain training programs designed to open your eyes a little and -”
“Did you save my friend?”
He turns to me.
“When soldiers went to the house,” I continue, already scared of the answer, “you said you'd ask them to let my friend Bran Edwards go. Did they?”
He pauses. “I don't have enough influence to sway these things...”
“So it was another lie.”
“I genuinely tried,” he adds. “Unfortunately, no-one listened to me. Everyone in the building was taken away and executed.”
I feel a flash of shock in my chest, but somehow the feeling is quickly subdued. It's as if some deep part of my soul has been switched off and disconnected. I guess my mind is probably trying to protect me, to keep me from facing the true horror of what I've learned and what I've done over the past couple of days, and if that's the case, I'm truly grateful. With a sense of relief, I watch as Logan crosses the room and opens his case, and suddenly he pulls out a small knife. A little confused, I wait until he comes to the table and sets the knife in front of me.
“I'm going to leave the room,” he says calmly, “for about five minutes.”
I stare at the blade. “Why?”
He pauses. “If going to the island is your way of committing suicide, I think you'd be better off just getting it done now. Cleaner, simpler, much less painful. Dying on the island could be more dragged out. There are people there who like to torture new arrivals. There's cannibalism there, and ritual horror.”
I open my mouth to reply, but something about the sight of the blade makes me feel strangely calm.
“Why are you doing this for me?” I ask finally.
“It's an offer that we extend informally to everyone who chooses the island,” he continues. “You'd be surprised how many take it. I guess... I guess I just care about you.”
As he heads to the door, I can't take my eyes of the knife. I hear Logan stepping out of the room, leaving me sitting alone at the desk with just the blade for company. I'm sure he's watching via some hidden camera somewhere, and I imagine he'll give me a little more than five minutes. I'm not going to use the knife, though; I'm not even going to touch it. Going to the island isn't about suicide. It's about making sure that when I die, at least I get to spend a few moments in a truly free place.
Most of all, I don't want my death recorded. And going to the island is the only way to escape the billions of cameras that infest every city on the planet.
Chapter Eighteen
Asher
As my knife slips against the bark of the tree, I let out a grunt and fall forward. I manage to hold myself up at the last moment, and the knife drops down to the ground along with another section of wood.
This is taking way too long.
Having scoped out the area immediately surrounding the clearing, I decided this morning that I needed to start trying to build... something. Anything. I had this grand idea in my mind that I'd start chopping down trees and creating wooden walls, but with only a few old knives at my disposal I've found the reality of the task to be somewhat different. I haven't given up yet, of course, and I won't give up, but still... I'm good at a lot of things, but carpentry has never been one of them, and after a moment I take a step back and look up at the tree as it towers high above me.
How the hell am I ever going to get this thing down, let alone carve it into individual sections and then start building an actual wall? I guess there's a reason I haven't come across any other structures on the island: the task of making anything is just too much, given the fact that we have no tools to use.
Still, I've managed to build one thing that feels like an achievement.
A fence.
Or part of one, anyway.
Having found some fallen branches the other day, I was able to drive them into the ground and use some long, thick leaves – I have no idea what they're called, and I guess the name doesn't matter – to bind them together, and now there's the start of a fence running along one edge of the clearing. I know it's not much, in fact it's kind of pathetic, but every so often, when I'm feeling as if this whole task is beyond me, I turn and look at the fence and I feel proud.
Picking up some more scraps of wood, I turn to walk back to the -
Suddenly I find Jude standing right behind me, staring at me with her eyes wide open and her pupils still the wrong size.
“Hey,” I stammer, taking a step back. “What... What are you doing up?”
I wait for a reply, but she simply keeps her gaze fixed on me. One pupil is still enlarged and the other is still tiny, but apart from that there's no hint of an expression anywhere on her face. There's fresh paste on her head-wound, which has at least stopped bleeding.
“You still need to rest,” I tell her, stepping closer and reaching out to take her hand. I try to smile, but something about her gaze makes me feel unsettled, as if it's barely even the real Jude staring at me. “Come on, let's get you back over so you can sit down. I've got everything under control.”
Her hand is cold to the touch, but I don't let go.
“It's natural if you don't feel quite right yet,” I continue, still trying to lead her back over to the other side of the clearing, where I constructed a very basic shelter a few days ago. She refuses to budge, however, although she at least turns her head to keep looking at me. For a moment, I can't help noticing the way her head injury seems to dip inward, as if part of her skull has collapsed. “Did you see my fence?” I ask, hoping to engage her somehow. “I know someone like you would probably be able to make something much better, but I'm pretty pleased with myself.”
I wait, and after a moment her lips start to move slightly.
“When you're better,” I tell her, “you can -”
Before I can finish, a faint gurgle comes from her mouth.
“What was that?” I ask, stepping closer. She's clearly trying to speak, but I can't make out any distinct words. “Listen, you should -”
The gurgle continues for a moment longer, before finally stopping.
“Please rest,” I continue, trying to ignore the sense of fear in my chest. I know she's not well, and I know she might not recover, but I have to keep hoping. “For me, and for you too. Please, Jude, you have to give yourself a chance to recover.”
***
Once I've managed to get her back to the shelter, I sit with her for a while until I'm certain she's asleep and then I quietly get up and head back out to the clearing. I really don't know what I'm supposed to be doing, but I can't sit still and I figure I should just keep working until I start to get a little better at all this stuff.
And eventually Jude will recover so that she can help, and then things will get better much faster. I have to believe that.
For several hours, I work on extending the fence, since that seems to be something I can actually get done. Sure, a fragile wooden fence isn't exactly going to keep anyone out, but it's a marker of the land that we've claimed and I figure it's the start of something bigger. Working carefully but quickly, I manage to lose my thoughts in the work and by late afternoon I've extended the fence so far in one direction that I've actually had to create a corner so that I can continue along the next treeline. After all, I figure there's no point marking out a section of land that's too big.
As the light starts to fade, I hear a rumble above, and when I look up I'm surprised to see that the sky has darkened. Maybe that long-awaited storm is finally moving in, which means I need to do some extra work with the shelter to make sure that Jude and I aren't drenched tonight. I finish tying a few more sections of wood together, and then I give the fence a gentle shove to make sure that it's reasonably solid. To my surprise, it barely buckles at all, and I can't help thinking that maybe I'm actually getting good at this.
Turning, I -
Suddenly Jude is behind me again, staring at me with that same blank expression.
I instinctively take a step back, bumping against the fence.
“Up again, huh?” I say with a forced smile, feeling distinctly uneasy as I once again see that her mismatched pupils are fixed on me. “Was it the thunder in the distance? Did that disturb you? Sorry, there's not much I can do about the weather.”
I wait for a reply, but of course nothing comes.
“I need to fix the shelter,” I tell her, still trying to engage her somehow. “If it rains tonight, I think it's going to really pour. Remember that time we got drenched a few weeks back, and it took about three days for us to dry off?”
Again I wait, but there's not even the faintest flicker of recognition on her face.
“Well, it happened,” I continue, “and it wasn't exactly comfortable, so...”
My voice trails off, and for a moment we stand in silence. This feels hopeless.
“Are you in pain?” I ask finally, taking a step closer. Deep down, I've begun to worry that she might not recover, and that I'm just prolonging her agony. “Let me take a look,” I continue, peering at the wound on her temple. Sure enough, the flesh still seems to be dipping slightly, as if the section of skull beneath has been crushed into a concave shape, which I guess means it might be pressing against her brain. I've been telling myself that her body should start to heal itself, although that's more of a hope than an actual belief, and with each passing day I find myself wondering more and more whether her mind is slipping away.
She opens her mouth, and once again the only sound that comes out is a faint gurgle.
“Come on,” I say after a moment, taking her cold hand in mine, “let's go sort out that shelter, yeah? You can watch me take twice as long as I should and still not do a good job.”
This time, she follows me a little more willingly back across the clearing. I guess maybe, just maybe, that's a sign of progress, although deep down I'm starting to wonder whether I'll end up having to put her out of her misery.
Chapter Nineteen
Iris
“By the early twenty-first century,” the automated voice continues, as more images flash up onto the screen, “mankind was slipping deeper into a period of conflict and strife. World leaders began to realize that the global system offered no way for rebellious spirits to get away from civilization, and this meant that attacks on civil institutions were increasing at an alarming rate.”
Glancing across the room, I stare at the other girl for a moment. There are only two of us in this so-called 'induction class', but so far she's resolutely avoided eye contact. There's something a little wild about her, and she's clearly paying no attention to the screen at all. Instead, she using her teeth to clean beneath her fingernails.
I want to say something, but I feel like she'd just blank me.
“Faced with rising levels of unrest,” the automated voice adds, “the world came up with a remarkable new idea. Twenty-seven countries from around the world combined resources to construct the island.”
Turning back to the screen, I see images of boats and scaffolding in the middle of the ocean.
“The project took a decade to reach completion,” the voice explains, as I watch pictures of workers from more than a century ago. “When it was finally complete, the island was immediately added to the list of the world's greatest wonders, while its architects and planners were awarded a series of prizes in recognition of their work. And then, exactly ten years to the day after the first pipes were set at the bottom of the ocean, a batch of ten individuals arrived to serve as the island's first inhabitants.”
“Guinea pigs, more like,” the girl mutters from the other side of the room.
I turn to her. “What makes you say that?”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn't answer.
“Thanks to the island,” the voice continues, “anyone who truly hates the modern world can now escape and live in a completely free environment. More than fifteen thousand people have made the journey since the island was opened, and in that time there has been a ninety per cent reduction in the number of rebellious acts across the globe. The island is widely considered to be one of the most important contributions to our era of unrivaled peace and security.”
“As if,” the girl spits.
“Why are you going?” I ask, turning to her again.
“Why are you going?” she replies.
“I...” Pausing, I realize that I might as well tell the truth. “It's either that or the mines, and I don't have anything left to fight for.”
“Poor little baby,” she mutters.
“What about you?”
“None of your business.”
“But -”
“People like you,” she adds. “That's what pisses me off. People who poke their noses into other people's lives. I swear to God, I'm sick of the whole goddamn world.”
“So you -”
“Don't talk to me again,” she spits. “Got it? I'm just waiting to get on a helicopter and go to the island. The last thing I want is a conversation.”
I open my mouth to reply, but finally I turn back to the screen just as it shows photos of the island's founding fathers. The voice is still talking, still filling our heads with information about the history and purpose of the island, but I feel as if I already know enough. As I continue to watch the images flash past, I find myself thinking more and more about Della, and about the fact that I'll never see her again. Sure, she was just a figment of my imagination over the past few years, but at least I had someone to talk to, someone who'd listen to my fears.
Now I'm alone.
Chapter Twenty
Asher
Finally the rain comes, and it's the most powerful storm I've ever seen in my life.
There's thunder, but no lightning. As Jude and I cower beneath the paltry shelter, with dribbles and spots of rain easily getting
through to us, the surrounding darkness is filled with the hiss of a massive downpour. I can only thank God that, due more to luck than judgment, I happen to have set us up on reasonably level ground, where at least there's no chance of a mudslide. Still, I've heard several loud crashing noises coming from the darkness nearby, which makes me think trees are starting to get blown down by the gale-force winds. Every few minutes, a fresh blast of muddy leaves is blown against our faces.
Jude and I huddle close for warmth, but we're both shivering nonetheless.
Every so often, above the sound of the storm, I hear Jude's gurgling throat. All day, she seems to have been making sporadic attempts to communicate with me. Whether that's a good sign or not, I can't really tell; it could just as easily mean that her damaged brain is firing off random impulses. Still, the arrival of the storm seemed to bring about a change in her, and she's begun to cling tight to my body, her thin fingers clutching my arms with an almost childlike urge for comfort. I can't see her at all, not in the pitch darkness of night, but I can hear her breathing close to my right ear and I can't help wondering if we're going to be together for much longer.
“It's going to be okay,” I say occasionally, although I doubt she can hear me. I can barely even hear myself.
Eventually, after many hours and with the storm still raging, I feel her shifting position slightly, and her breath feels closer to my ear. I hear her gurgling again, but after a moment she stops, as if something has changed in her head.
“It's going to be okay,” I tell her yet again. “I promise.”
She replies, and this time I can almost make out a few words.
“What was that?” I ask, leaning closer until my ear is brushing her lips. I feel a hint of hope in my heart, but at the same time I know I should be cautious. “Jude, what did you say?”
