Echo Island

by Jared C. Wilson

  Eventually, Bradley felt the hard shell of the kayak hanging on the wall just shy of the corner of the building. He lifted and pulled, and when he had it free, he could hear the rattle of articles inside: a paddle and a life jacket.

  “Score.” He suddenly felt a burst of energy.

  Pulling the vessel down the rough grade adjacent to the ferry dock and entering the water, he squeezed into the rubber-sealed seat without hesitation and pushed off into the rocking channel between the island and the mainland.

  The Pacific waters churned cold and dark, and the rain continued to fall unabated. The lightning frightened him now, despite its continued help. Without it, he could keep an approximate sense of bearing—the island was behind him. But with it, and bobbing in the wide-open sea without cover or comfort, he feared a fatal zap. The real danger lay at the fulcrum point of the island’s disappearance from the rear horizon; in that brief limbo of nothing but ocean, in the space where neither shore could be seen, it would be easy to lose his bearings.

  Bradley paddled harder against the water he couldn’t see and against a fierce wind that seemed to have started only to oppose him. The roar of the rain on the ocean muffled even the thunder. Through the haze of rain in his eyes, the lightning-lit way seemed surrounded by waterfalls, like he was rounding the curve of the earth or reaching the end of the world.

  Bradley realized he’d been paddling for too long for the lights of the mainland park not to be in view. Maybe he’d changed directions without realizing it. He’d only sailed the channel once at night, and the conditions were clear and calm then.

  Bradley wondered if he’d diverted north or south.

  Then he had a disturbing thought. If the electricity on the mainland was out too, there wouldn’t be any lights to see. He hadn’t felt like he’d turned. But it’s hard to know straight in such conditions. If only he’d had the night sky or some other landmark. Or a compass.

  Or some sense.

  He yelled into the sky, a deep eruption from the gut.

  Bradley thrived on control, on forcing his will onto anything and everything he pleased. The feeling of helplessness now was overwhelming, and he felt like he might explode into a million pieces. He seethed and pounded the kayak with his fist.

  Tilting his face up to the black sky, he felt the rain fall heavy on his lips and closed eyelids.

  Finally, he hung his head. Laying the paddle across his covered lap, he bobbed on the waves and tried to calm down.

  After a few minutes, lightning flashed, and Bradley could see the faint outline of solid land thin and low on the horizon.

  A thrill overtook him. “Ah!” he shouted in triumph. The paddle broke the water with gusto.

  He cursed when he got close enough to realize he’d done a one-eighty and was heading back to the island. But he didn’t stop, deciding this time to search the machine shop boats for a compass.

  Every time Bradley found something that felt like a compass, he rushed outside to wait for the lightning’s confirmation only to discover he was holding something else: a key ring, a sealed pack of chewing tobacco, a set of retractable headphones, an empty box of mints, and various round tools and electronics he couldn’t identify.

  After an hour and a half, Bradley finally felt a round, knobby protrusion near the wheel of one of the boats. This was odd because most boats now had electronic directional devices installed, but it was worth a try. The object felt like plastic, and although it was attached, he had no trouble snapping it off the dashboard. Bradley was not just strong, but frustrated.

  In the sporadic light of the storm, he saw that he had at last liberated a compass. It was a spinning globe in a clear plastic shell, and after grabbing a screwdriver and screws from a table he’d found in his previous search, he screwed the base onto the kayak’s bow.

  His purpose revived and his energy renewed, Bradley set out again.

  Jason had no idea what time it was, but the house still shuddered in the storm. He’d woken from a restless sleep to get a drink of water, even though he wasn’t really thirsty, and discovered for the first time that the wall clock in the kitchen had stopped at 8:56, a minute off the time the clock at Archer’s house read. Just shy of 9:00 a.m. His parents would have been in their Sunday school class. His brother would have been in the church’s back lot with his buddies, taking turns watching each other trying to injure themselves on skateboards.

  Eight fifty-something.

  Jason didn’t want to think something catastrophic had happened, but if it had, he hoped it had been painless. He briefly pictured his family disintegrating in a bright flash, but shook his head, hurling the thought away.

  In the living room, Tim was sprawled out on the sofa. Archer was sitting upright in Jason’s father’s recliner, the green notebook clutched to his chest like a teddy bear. Their eyes were closed, but none of them could sleep.

  The bottled water was lukewarm to the touch. Jason eyed the sink and wondered if the town’s water system relied at all on electricity. Would the water eventually give out or turn bad? He was tired, but his overactive imagination easily conjured up images of an island overrun by sewage, of having to boil pond water over open fires, and of the four of them living like castaways on a postapocalyptic island, living out some Lord of the Flies nightmare.

  Leaning against the kitchen counter in the dark, he’d almost drifted to sleep, trying hard to inspire a dream about all this being a dream, when a loud banging made him jump.

  The bottle fell and water poured out onto the tile.

  “Is someone knocking?” he heard Tim say.

  Jason felt his way back into the living room.

  Lightning flashed, highlighting Tim’s deer-in-headlights expression.

  “Shh,” Jason said.

  Archer stirred, yawned.

  “Shh!” Jason hissed.

  “What?”

  Six loud bangs on the door.

  All three turned.

  “Careful,” Jason said, as Archer rose, stretched, and walked to the entryway.

  “It’s probably Bradley,” he said.

  “Maybe he found help back on the mainland,” Tim said. “What time is it?”

  Archer shuffled closer.

  “Careful, man,” Jason repeated. “There are others out there.”

  The visitor pounded on the door again, rattling the glass.

  “Open up, you buttheads!”

  “Bradley,” Jason said, relieved.

  Archer turned the dead bolt and had barely cracked the door when Bradley pushed in, dripping water everywhere.

  Bradley looked at him, undecided whether to jab with a retort or with a closed fist. Before he could respond, Tim said, “Did you make it? Did you find someone?”

  Bradley looked at him with a profound distress. He sputtered, “It’s not there.”

  “What?” said Archer. “What’s not there?”

  “The park. The mainland.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s gone.”

  6

  GHOSTS

  What do you mean, it’s gone?” Jason asked.

  “It’s gone! The whole thing. It’s just . . . not there,” Bradley shouted.

  “There’s no way—” Tim started.

  “Tim, it’s gone!”

  “Maybe you got turned around,” Archer said.

  “Not a chance,” Bradley insisted.

  “How could you see out there anyway? We can try again in the morning, in the daylight.”

  “Try if you want, man. I’m telling you, it’s not there. I had a compass. I stayed east, I’m positive. I paddled for at least an hour after I couldn’t see the island behind me anymore. It’s just not there.”

  Archer closed the door. “Look, Bradley, you’re tired and wet. And frustrated. It would have been really easy
to get turned around in the storm.”

  “Dude, I’ve been sailing these waters my whole life. I don’t get turned around.” His one-eighty notwithstanding. “And I had a compass!”

  “The whole coast of Washington State did not just disappear.”

  When lightning struck, Archer noted the downcast look on Bradley’s face again.

  The house went dark. Bradley said, “The whole population of our town disappeared. I don’t know, man. I knew where I was going. I found the island again going due west on the compass. But due east, there’s nothing there.”

  Archer dared not press the matter.

  Jason lit some candles, and a gloom settled on all of them and then, a weariness.

  Weariest of all was Bradley; he sloshed from the entryway to the couch and collapsed, wet clothes and all, next to Tim. With the others watching in terrified silence, he closed his eyes.

  Tim looked to Archer as if for help.

  Archer whispered to Jason, “We’ll check it out tomorrow.”

  They all sought sleep then, despite the waning darkness and the continuing din of the storm, but sleep still eluded them. Three hours later, shortly after dawn, the storm had passed, but the entire island lay shrouded in fog. Thick white mist crowded every way, like a swirling, slowly encroaching army of ghosts.

  They couldn’t even see the street from the Georges’ front door.

  Bradley had helped himself to some of Jason’s brother’s clothes. It irritated Jason. Either one of the others would have asked first. And Bradley in Scott’s khaki cargo shorts and blue Nike tank top just made Scott’s disappearance, the whole family’s disappearance, that much more unsettling.

  “When the fog clears,” Archer said, “maybe we can sail out for the park again.”

  “Who’s this we?” Bradley said. “You’ve never sailed in your life.”

  “Okay. You guys can go out again.”

  “Not me,” said Bradley. “Already did it. Maybe you thought I was dreaming or hallucinating, but—”

  “Actually, I was thinking you got lost in the storm.”

  “I didn’t. And that’s the last time I’m going to tell you.” The look on Bradley’s face said he meant it. “I don’t know how it happened—far as I’m concerned, that’s for you to figure out—but it’s not there. Understand? End of story. Not there. If one of you guys wants to go looking for the mainland, have at it. But I’m not going out there again. Something crazy’s going on, and I’m not gonna paddle out there just to turn around and find out that Echo Island’s disappeared too. Then what’re you gonna do? You can try your own luck if you want. But leave me out.”

  “Fair enough,” Archer said. He and Jason exchanged looks. “But,” Archer continued, “I still think, however weird this is, there’s a logical explanation.”

  “If you say I got lost in the storm again, I swear I will feed you your own kneecaps.”

  Archer, unperturbed, said, “Well, I’m going to ride out to the power station. Maybe I can figure out how to get some electricity going again. If we get some power restored, we’ll be able to check the TV or the radio or get some kind of communication device working. I’m under the assumption now that the island is indeed empty.”

  “Pots don’t fall off carts by themselves,” Tim said.

  “Fine, mostly empty,” said Archer. “In which case, our best hope is seeing if we can find any news about the island, or contact the outside world.”

  Apropos of nothing, Tim said, “I wonder if the Mariners won yesterday.”

  Bradley punched him on the arm.

  Archer rolled his eyes. “Okay if I borrow a backpack?” he asked Jason.

  Jason grabbed one from his closet. Archer put the green notebook and two bottled waters in it, slung it over his shoulder, and started for the door.

  “You don’t want one of us to come with?” Jason asked.

  “I’ll be fine.” Archer didn’t want anybody getting in his way. “It’s not that far, and with any luck, I’ll get some juice flowing in this dead burg.”

  “You don’t believe in luck.”

  “Well, I believe in it more than I do some other things.”

  Jason faked a smile and watched Archer disappear on his bike into the milky veil.

  “He’s so strange,” Bradley suddenly said. “Him and his logical explanations. It doesn’t take Encyclopedia Brown to figure out what’s going on here isn’t natural.”

  Neither Tim nor Jason bothered responding, partly out of wariness of challenging their irascible friend, and partly out of the inclination to agree with him.

  “Dudes, we should totally go check out the woods behind the Bee Market,” Bradley suggested. “Maybe there’s clues. Maybe that person is hiding out in there.”

  Jason and Tim sat at the round table in the George family’s breakfast nook, pondering the ghostly gauze swimming in the backyard.

  “If that person wanted to be found, I think we would’ve found them, right?” Jason said. “I mean, at this point, it just seems like poking around is looking for trouble.”

  “What’re we gonna do, just sit around all day?” Bradley asked.

  “We have to wait for Archer. If we leave and he comes back, he won’t know where we are.”

  “A note. Ever hear of it? I think pens still work.”

  “For all we know he’ll run into trouble out there,” said Tim. “We should stay in case he comes back for help.”

  “Nah. If I know Archway, he’s already there fiddling with circuits and whatnot. He’ll be fine, man. He’s probably already forgotten about us. Come on.”

  Tim looked at Jason, in want of a reasonable rebuttal.

  Jason was irritated. “Go with him if you want.”

  “Sweet,” Bradley said. “Let’s go, Timmy.”

  Tim obeyed, trailing Bradley, who was practically bouncing to the door.

  “I hope you both get lost in the woods,” Jason called out after them.

  Cocking his head slightly sideways, Bradley pretended to waft passed gas from his hindquarters as he walked away. He called out to Jason, “Have lunch on the table when we get home, sweetie.”

  The door slammed and they were gone.

  The mist in Jason’s backyard cloaked the fence. It didn’t seem to be dissipating at all. He reckoned it was nearly nine o’clock—it felt like nine o’clock anyway, if feelings were to be trusted—yet the whiteness held, diffused, the glow of dawn.

  The silence was unnerving.

  A note under a magnet curled out from the refrigerator. Jason reached for the sunflower-adorned stationery and was greeted by his mother’s perfect cursive.

  John, forget to water the plants.

  It was a note to his dad dating back almost two weeks.

  The wording was intentional, part of a family inside joke. His mother once quipped that his father always ignored whatever instructions she left, so she was going to start instructing the opposite of what she wanted. Ever since, notes graced the fridge reading Leave the wobbly table leg alone and Don’t transplant the flowers. Once she even posted a “honey do” list with items like Lie around on the couch, Let the trash pile up, and Ignore the broken garage door. All the men in Jason’s family found his mom’s jokey passive aggression quite charming, but they all continued to ignore the notes (or the purpose of the notes) anyway.

  Jason crumpled up the note to discard it, but without realizing it, put the wad in his pocket. He climbed the stairs, paused at the landing as if deciding which direction to turn, and went left toward his parents’ room.

  The four-poster bed lay before him, a sight once pleasing in its homey appeal and promise of comfort, but now disturbing in its conspicuous unkemptness. The comforter had been pulled back, exposing a swirl of recently used sheets. His mother never left the house without making the bed.

  In the
empty bathroom, the sunlight through the open window set dull glows in the glass row of his mother’s perfumes and cosmetic potions.

  The silence here was almost too much.

  Jason exited and crossed the landing toward his bedroom, stopping at his brother’s.

  The first thing to hit him was the first thing that always hit him when entering Scott’s room—the odor. Absolutely unique to these four walls, it was a pungent concoction of fungal feet and hamster cage. He noted that Scott’s hamster, Payton, had indeed vanished. What hadn’t vanished was the smell his mother had sought vainly to overcome. They eventually counted their blessings that the malodorous funk lived in Scott’s room and Scott’s room only.

  The red bedspread and navy sheets intertwined like a licorice twist and labeled the always-unmade bed with a question mark.

  Jason sat on the left edge of the mattress and surveyed the soccer and lacrosse trophies on the bureau. Posters surrounded the space—team photos of the Seattle Seahawks and the Seattle Supersonics, a shot of Seahawk great Steve Largent receiving a pass, David Beckham “bending it,” legend Pelé doing the same, and clichéd portraits of Switchfoot, Green Day, Linkin Park, and P.O.D. They were images of people frozen, windows into a real life that had been interrupted, an outside world that may or may not have existed anymore. Once Scott’s mementos, they now seemed to Jason like mementos of Scott.

  There were too many angles, too many pieces to put together. Like Archer, Jason wanted to figure it all out before despairing of what happened. But the puzzle seemed too large and kept growing larger. It looked bigger than him, bigger than all four of them.

  Jason missed his family, so now that his friends were gone and he was all alone, he went in his own room, locked the door, and cried.

  Archer knew nothing about power stations, but he quickly deduced the fenced-in site didn’t actually generate electricity. Ten dulled silver transformers adjoined a little red brick building down a rocky slope on the island’s northern coast. After he’d snapped the lock on the outer gate with bolt cutters pilfered from the Vawter family’s garage, he read the gray stenciled lettering on the green door: wwec substation 204.