The Only Ones

by Aaron Starmer

  “He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back,” Darla said. “Besides, he gave up his rights to privacy when he lied to us.”

  “Yeah! And like you’re not peekin’ inside all the personal pages when you’re here all alone.” Henry snorted. “Puhlease.”

  “It’s called a code of ethics,” Felix said. “Something I work hard to maintain.”

  No one had been watching Martin this whole time, but Martin had been watching Henry’s rifle. Its muzzle was nearly brushing against Martin’s cheek as it angled from Henry’s back. Martin knew what was happening here. He had read about this type of situation. A gun was in the room. Before they left the room, that gun was going to be fired. It was inevitable. He surely didn’t want anyone to be hurt. With the exception of Henry, whom he was beginning to wonder about, they seemed like reasonable people. So he did what he thought was the best thing to do.

  Martin punched Henry in the face.

  Henry wobbled, stunned into submission. Martin grabbed for the rifle. When he yanked it away, it sent Henry spinning and the block of wood sailing across the room.

  Felix and Darla watched, speechless, as Henry fell into a web of strings and Martin pointed the gun to the ceiling and fired off five rounds.

  Blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, click …

  The rifle was empty. Holes the diameter of Martin’s fingers decorated the ceiling, and debris flurried down. As the echoes from the gunshots faded away, Martin sighed in relief. Of course, no one could hear the sigh over Henry’s screams.

  “Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” The pits of Henry’s elbows shielded his eyes, and his stubby hands covered his ears.

  “It’s okay,” Martin said calmly. “I was making sure we were all safe.”

  Felix stared at him. His right eye held the stare for a moment, then seemed to lose its nerve, turning away. His left eye, however, stayed fixed in place.

  “We do not hit!” Darla stepped forward and yelled. “We. Do. Not. Hit! And we do not shoot! We do not. Shoot. Guns. Near people! What kind of place do you think this is?”

  “I—”

  “What were you thinking?” Darla said.

  “I—He had a gun. I wanted to make sure nobody was shot,” Martin said.

  “Turkeys,” Darla barked. “Deer. Rabbits. He uses it to shoot animals. I was going to cook you dinner tonight, Martin.”

  “Oh,” Martin said. “I guess I misunderstood.”

  “Friggin’ right you did,” Henry grumbled as he pulled himself up and quickly ran his sleeve across his cheek.

  “Sorry,” Martin whispered as he handed the rifle back to Henry.

  Darla tilted her head and pursed her lips. Then she flicked her fingers out like she was displaying claws, held them there for a moment, and slowly lowered them to her sides. “We will accept your apology,” she said through her teeth, “because I honestly think that island folk such as yourself probably have different rules. But here, in civilization, we act civilized.”

  “I understand,” Martin said softly.

  “Goody,” Darla said, then rescued the block from the floor and flipped it over to reveal the small door and keyhole on the back. She gave Felix a playful but insistent push on the shoulder, knocking him back to attention. “Gonna need that key, lazy eye,” she said. “High time we get inside Kelvin’s mind.”

  Felix closed his eyes and nodded. He was not going to fight this fight. He reached into his headband. From inside he pulled a tiny key with a series of intricate teeth. He handed it to Darla.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” she said. “The honorable choice.”

  Bracing herself with her free hand, she carefully got down on the floor and sat cross-legged with the block in her lap. She wielded the key. The slip, the turn, the click, the creak of the door hinges came next. Then she reached inside.

  She held a small green marble up in the air for all to see.

  “That’s it?” Henry asked.

  “That is indeed it,” Darla said with a crooked smile.

  “Don’t let Lane have it,” Henry sniped. “She’ll send it rollin’ in one of her whirligigs.”

  “Lane does not worry me,” Darla said, sliding the marble into the front pocket of her jeans.

  “Who’s Lane?” Martin asked.

  “Pudgy girl,” Darla said. “No consequence.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Felix said.

  “What?” Darla giggled. “Lane’s zaftig. That’s a thing for some people, apparently. And I’m being truthful. I think Martin is the type of guy who appreciates the truth.”

  “I am,” Martin said.

  “See?” Darla closed and locked the little door, stood up, and handed the block and key back to Felix.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Felix asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Darla said with a shrug. “But it’s gotta be important if Kelvin was hiding it, right?”

  “People hide plenty of things for plenty of reasons that I don’t understand,” Felix said.

  “And you’re so good at helping them, aren’t you?” Darla teased, thumbing Felix on the cheek.

  “We all do what we do,” Felix said plainly.

  “Ah!” Darla remarked. “Speaking of which, let’s get Henry some bullets and Martin some solar panels. We’ll be eating rabbit and watching DVDs before the night is out!”

  She threw her arm around Martin and pulled him in close. Then she grabbed Henry by the collar of his T-shirt. Reluctantly, he sidled over to her, and she threw her other arm around him.

  Squeezed tightly against her, Martin could feel the curves of Darla’s body. It wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. Yet pressing into his thigh was the marble in her pocket. Its round, hard coldness had penetrated her jeans and Martin’s pant leg.

  —— 8 ——

  The Declaration

  Darla’s house, a stately four-story Victorian in the middle of town, would be the first one wired for electricity. It took Martin all day, but it was relatively easy. With Henry’s and Felix’s help, he mounted some solar panels on her roof and created an electrical hub in her pantry from which she could run extension cords.

  “You’re only going to be able to use a few things at a time,” Martin told Darla. “Some lights at night. Maybe a toaster oven.”

  “I want hot water, a fridge, and surround sound, Martin,” she said, pouting.

  “How many houses are there left to do?” he asked.

  “Well, there are now forty-one kids in town, including you,” Felix told him.

  “Do they all have to live in their own houses?” Martin asked. “I mean, couldn’t everyone move in together and—”

  Henry stopped him with a shake of his head and a look that said, “Don’t even think about thinking that.”

  “Fine,” Martin responded. “But with the number of solar panels we have here, we have to ration.”

  “Rationing is for lifeboats, silly,” Darla said. “The world is ours to take. We can siphon some gas from cars on the highway, fuel up Kid Godzilla, and go looting. I do it all the time.”

  “For now, don’t you think it’s fair if we simply distribute what we have?” Martin said.

  “Fair is fair,” Darla said. “Everyone gets their share. That island you came from, it wasn’t Cuba, was it?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Martin said.

  “She’s teasing you, Martin,” Felix explained.

  “Oh,” Martin said.

  “Cuba’s full of Mexicans,” Henry added.

  “It is?”

  “Ignore him,” Felix said. “Geography’s not his strong suit. Let’s decide whose house is next. You can skip mine for now. I have big plans to revamp the entire Internet. Electrify it. Spread it through town. But I need to set up the mainframe. Much work to be done. Plenty, plenty of work.”

  “I don’t need no electricity,” Henry said. “Do fine without it.”

  “Okeydoke,” Felix said. “So then I guess you should just start from one end o
f town and make your way across.”

  A question had been festering in Martin’s mind since the moment he had arrived in Xibalba. It was a long shot, but he had to ask.

  “Is there a guy named George who lives here?”

  The others thought about it for a moment.

  “There’s a Greg,” Henry said.

  “Gabe,” Felix said. “You mean Gabe.”

  “No, we don’t have a George,” Darla assured him. “Quite sure of it.”

  “That’s fine,” Martin said, trying to hide his disappointment. “Thought I’d ask.”

  “What’s done is done and who’s gone is gone,” Darla said with a wink. “C’est la vie.”

  The portly, peanut-eating boy’s name was Chet, and he was the first on the list. Chet lived on the edge of town, in a farmhouse that might as well have been a junkyard. The boy was a pack rat, and his home was a nest of clutter—broken toys, piles of rusty farm equipment, swords and helmets, and Lord knew what else. As Martin surveyed the house to determine where to feed the electricity, he could hardly tell where the walls were.

  “Rather use them sunlight suckers for the greenhouse, anyway,” Chet told him. Then he led Martin out and down a short path to a small dome made almost exclusively of wooden dowels and clear plastic sheeting. Chet peeled back a few layers of the plastic, creating a door, and he ushered Martin inside.

  Rows of plants were lined up in rectangular trays suspended above the ground. White plastic pipes created a latticework ceiling, formed frames around the trays, and angled down like beams into the soft earth.

  “You did all this without electricity?” Martin asked, amazed by the complexity.

  “Wasn’t easy. Still isn’t.” Chet thrust his greasy fingers through his wavy hair as he spoke. “But folks want tomatoes outta season. King Kelvin wanted those darn fine peanuts.”

  “How did you do it?”

  “Hydroponics,” Chet told him. “I may be a slob, but I’m no doofus. And you want someone to get their knuckles in the dirt, you’re gonna need a slob.”

  “Can you—”

  “Don’t even ask. I don’t harvest that junk.”

  “No. Can you tell me how you built it?” Martin said.

  “What’s this? A little friendly competition? Haven’t you learned the deal? You do somethin’ for me; I do somethin’ for you. You hook up the panels; I keep you in the taters. I don’t have time for a price war.”

  “I’m curious is all,” Martin said, bending over to run his hand across a patch of beet greens.

  Chet swatted his hand away. “Chet’s Farmer’s Market is Friday in town square. Tickle the veggies then.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You’re really just curious how it’s built?” Chet asked. “You’d be the first.”

  “Did Felix and Henry help?”

  “The geek and the mouth breather?” Chet laughed. “I wanted this thing to work, didn’t I? No, Lane was the only one.”

  “She’s the pudgy girl?”

  Chet furrowed his brow and pointed to his own round belly. “How ’bout some sensitivity, dude?”

  “Sorry, but I’m still learning who everyone is,” Martin said.

  “Good luck with that,” Chet said. “Lane’s cool and all, but …”

  “But?”

  “But she has a way about her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just sayin’.” Chet shrugged. “Be careful. Everybody’s got an angle.”

  “What about that guy Nigel?” Martin asked. “He has a tiger.”

  “He most certainly does,” Chet said with a nod. “You know, you look a bit like him.”

  “Really?”

  “In the eyes,” Chet said. “Same intensity. But that dude … that dude is the real McCoy.”

  “The real McCoy?”

  “Genuine issue, bona fide. A prophet. I kid you not. The one thing King Kelvin should have respected.”

  “I see.”

  “Tell you what,” Chet said, peeling open the plastic door. “Electrify this place, and you get veggies for a year. Heck, I’ll even let you touch the Declaration of Independence.”

  “The real McCoy?” Martin asked, hoping he was using the term correctly.

  “Straight from Independence Hall,” Chet said with a grin. “Swiped it on my way up here. I signed it too. Right next to Ben Franklin. Chet Friggin’ Buckley. Sweet, right?”

  Martin smiled nervously and stepped under the plastic to escape the boggy humidity.

  —— 9 ——

  The Treadmill

  At each house he visited, Martin met one of Xibalba’s residents. They were all either thirteen or fourteen years old. Most were welcoming, if a bit suspicious. A few were surly, like Chet. All were thoroughly disinterested in what Martin was doing. The only thing they cared about was that he was giving them electricity. They were willing to trade almost anything for it.

  A girl named Riley offered to tailor any clothes Martin had, as long as he got her sewing machine working. “Ninja gear, a superhero suit, a cowboy getup,” she told him. “Whatever you fancy, Martin. I’m just sick of hand-stitching everything.”

  A boy named Hal promised to mow Martin’s lawn, rake his leaves, and shovel his driveway in exchange for enough power to play video games. “It’s certainly a good deal for you. I may even let you come over and sit in sometime, assuming you know how to undo a paralysis spell on a level seventy-one druid.”

  Martin had no idea how to do anything on a level seventy-one druid, but he soon understood that this was how things were accomplished in Xibalba. Give and you shall receive.

  What Martin wanted more than anything was their stories. So he would make up excuses to have them join him on their roofs or at their fuse boxes. He’d say he needed their help, and when they would begrudgingly join him, he’d press them for the details of their lives.

  They recited their Arrival Stories, the tales of how they’d come to Xibalba. They told of months-long journeys along highways or up the coast, of hiding in flooded and fire-eaten cities, in spookily deserted villages. Some had traveled by bike. Others by boat. None could really explain why they ended up where they did. They were looking for someone, trying to make it somewhere, or just keeping on the move. Xibalba got in the way.

  The common strain in all the stories was that none of the kids ever actually saw anyone disappear. They had all been hiding away somewhere, too consumed in their own private lives to notice what was happening … until it had already happened.

  One of the more fascinating tales came from Sigrid Hansen. Sigrid was Xibalba’s resident messenger, a one-girl postal system who ferried messages throughout town in addition to maintaining a rigorous jogging regimen. A world-class junior-division runner, she had been born and raised in Norway but had been invited to an international cross-country meet in the United States. Because of her fear of flying, Sigrid traveled with her parents on a transatlantic cruise that would take them from Oslo to Scotland to New York and on to Florida, where the race was to be held. They arrived in New York on the Day.

  Rather than go sightseeing, like everyone else from the ship, Sigrid stayed aboard, put on a pair of headphones, and dedicated two hours to the treadmill. When she finally left the ship’s gym, she noticed that everyone was gone. And when they didn’t come back, she walked down the gangplank and into an empty Manhattan.

  “It should have been my day off, you know? I did not need to train that day,” Sigrid told Martin, throwing her hands in the air. “New York City was out there. My first time to visit it. And I choose to be in a room without a porthole. It is a cruel trick, yeah? Like an … irony, I think. I am staying in place for once, and it is everyone else who is now running away.”

  “Do you really think they were running away?” Martin asked.

  She shrugged and choked back some tears. “There is a hospital in this town. On rainy days, that was where I used to train. Kelvin never liked me going there, but who cares, yeah? It
has long hallways, good for a stride. I kept the doors closed, because I didn’t like to see empty beds. The sheets still messy, you know? Made me sad. Still makes me sad, thinking about it. An empty hospital should be a good thing, yeah? I don’t go there anymore, of course. You don’t have to see ghosts, you know, to believe in them. You only have to feel them.”

  Martin thought it might be appropriate to hug her, but he didn’t. He was beginning to wonder if when people reached out to him, it was only an act. It was because he, quite literally, held the power. Sigrid had asked him to provide electricity to, of all things, a treadmill.

  At night, Martin would go to Felix’s house and log on to the Internet. The house was still without electricity, but Felix was up at all hours, working alone in his kitchen, wiring together circuit boards and getting his mainframe prepared for its launch. He did it all by the dim illumination from a series of tiny lightbulbs tucked into his headband. The bulbs weren’t attached to batteries of any sort, and Martin couldn’t figure out how they worked.

  Felix proudly revealed his secret. “Fireflies,” he said. “Extract their luminescent chemicals and use them to fill Christmas lights. Voila.”

  The solution astounded Martin. Fireflies were thick on the island every summer, yet he had never thought to harness their abilities. Felix, and every other kid in Xibalba, seemed to possess a unique ingenuity. Yet almost all of them lacked curiosity beyond their own insular interests. They were clever but guarded. They were relentlessly suspicious. They had little to no interest in playing games together or telling stories, in discovering anything new. These kids were so different from George.

  As Martin searched the Internet, learning all he could about Xibalba and its inhabitants, he watched kids come and go from Felix’s house. Of all of them, Darla was the most frequent visitor. Every time she entered, she slipped a piece of paper in a mailbox marked Updates & New Page Requests. Then she would touch her fingers to her lips and blow Martin a kiss. He never knew how to react. Most of the time, he gave her a wave and she let out a loud, knowing laugh, then headed for the door.

  The rest of the kids ignored Martin. Mostly they came in and asked Felix for access to their personal pages. Using his master key, Felix would unlock the pages and lead his guests into empty closets, where they could be alone with the contents, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours.