by Tracy Serpa
They had already been in chest-deep water when he started swimming, and his panic had pulled them to the point where he could just barely skim the sand with his toes. Behind him, Greg’s head stuck out of the water; he was coughing and sputtering as he flailed against the surf, trying to turn himself around to face the beach. His eyes were wide, unblinking, like a child in the deep end of a pool for the first time. Paul pulled his board to him and loosed the ankle strap.
“Grab on!” he shouted, and shoved his board toward his struggling friend. But Greg’s eyes remained focused on him; they never even acknowledged the surfboard that floated only a few feet from him.
Greg was still thrashing in the water when Paul felt the gentle suction of a gathering swell. The roar built behind him as it broke, but he kept his eyes on his friend until it slammed into the back of his head. He kicked against the current, trying to make sure he maintained a safe distance from Greg. When the wave passed, he surfaced quickly to get his bearings and wait for his crazed friend to emerge. As he waited, he felt a knot tighten in his stomach; too much time had passed. After another minute, he hauled himself up on his board and called out for his friend a few times, still scanning the water.
Finally, he tore his eyes away and looked up toward the beach to find it strangely quieter. Bodies were strewn on the sand, blood puddling in the divots around them. A number of people were still up, staggering around; two or three raced down the beach toward pockets of violence that Paul could barely make out. The man in the purple board shorts was on his feet, stumbling along the shoreline, screaming at the sky. A woman stood far away from the water with her hands on her head, looking dazed and helpless. The current swept Paul’s board closer to the beach, bringing all the grisly details into sharper focus. He shuddered and closed his eyes as a cold gust blew across the water, whipping up spray. On the beach, one of the wounded let out a barking cry, which was answered by several others, and a feeling of terror clamped down over the knot in his gut.
He scanned the beach, looking for his friends, and he could not decide if it was a relief that he could not find them among the too-still bodies. Looking farther down the coast, he could see that whatever madness had happened in front of him was moving quickly away; no more than fifteen people remained staggering around the sand, but they moved with the same terrifying motions as he had seen Greg using. And then he knew: he could not make it to the truck while the beach was occupied, at least while the sun was still up. Unable to do anything but wait for darkness, Paul vaguely hoped someone had called the police. Lying flat on his board, he waited for the welcome sound of sirens.
~
Brandon’s body was numb except for the horrific pain at the places where Trent’s teeth had pulled his skin away. He couldn’t tell if his own eyes were open or closed; all he saw was red. The asphalt grit chafed his skin as he pulled his knees to his chest, and he knew he was still lying on the street. Over his own ragged breath, he heard another voice panting, “Shit. Shit. Oh God. He’s dead. Shit.”
Brandon’s pulse beat harder in his temples as he thought, Is that me? Am I dead? A moan slipped through his lips, and a sudden pressure seized his arm.
“Brandon?” It was Kai’s voice, but Brandon still could not see anything but the red. “Brandon? I’m calling nine-one-one; just hang on.”
It was not unconsciousness that took over, because the world did not go dark or quiet. The sound of his blood rushing through his body beat louder in his ears, and the light that streamed through his eyelids or the blood in his eyes bit mercilessly into his brain. For a moment he could not think, he had no memories or words, and the pain throbbed out from the wound on his neck and forehead, pulsed out into his face and chest like poison spreading, but he was too disoriented by a suddenly unfamiliar body to care. There was nothing left of Brandon to be afraid of the overwhelming fury that burst to life in his head and coursed down into every limb; the body around him shook and contorted, but he had lost his mind and could not grasp what was happening.
And then he rushed back into himself, as if his mind had shoved away whatever rage had threatened to wipe him out, and the pain was fierce again. It had migrated from his head and neck down into his torso and arms, and it was like nothing he had ever felt. It was not like fire or freezing or needles or the crushing ache of broken bones. Brandon tried desperately to wrap his limbs around himself, to squash the agony out, but they jerked away as if someone outside of himself had control. He gasped as the pain reared up again, and his stomach bile burned in his throat.
“Kai, please,” he managed to moan through gritted teeth.
“I can’t get through,” his brother cried out. Brandon’s vision had started to clear, but everything around him was still red. The truck, the pavement, the body that lay a few feet away, his brother’s face and arms—everything was bloody. Kai’s face loomed over him, twisted into some terrible mask of frustration, confusion, terror, and impotence. He was holding a cell phone to his ear.
“Nine-one-one is busy,” Kai said quietly. “I’m going to get you in the truck and drive you to the hospital, okay? Can you make it?”
Brandon tried to nod and thought he might have done it, but the numbness was back and spreading through his limbs, pushing the pain back to just the bite wounds. He knew the asphalt was hot where his bare arms lay against it and that the air around him was cool, but he felt neither. He was locked alone in a body that was conscious only of itself and the awesome pain.
When Kai scooped him up off the ground, he tried to help by throwing his arm over his brother’s neck, but the limb did not respond. They stumbled toward the truck, Kai grunting as Brandon’s body fought against him, spasming and thrashing wildly.
“I know it hurts, buddy. Should I just carry you?” Kai asked, but they were only a few steps from the truck, and Brandon forced out the words, “I’m okay.”
The red was pushing in at the corners of his vision as Kai loaded him into the passenger seat, and Brandon swallowed hard. In the back corner of his mind, he felt the anger lurking, and the pain seared out over his skin. Before he could not speak again, he croaked to his brother, “Please, hurry.”
~
Kai could barely hear the busy tone beeping in his ear over the sound of his brother’s wails. He had called 911 four times out in front of Trent’s house before he had decided he couldn’t wait any longer and loaded Brandon into the truck. At first his brother had worked to muffle his cries, gritting his teeth and breathing slowly, his fists clenched into the seat. Over the last ten minutes, Kai had watched him go into shock: the shaking had started as a tremble and built into uncontrollable convulsions, staccato gasps and cries of pain morphing into the panicked sounds of a mortally wounded animal. He hung up the cell phone and dialed again, swerving around a slow-moving pickup in the third lane.
“Hang in there!” he encouraged. Brandon’s eyes were screwed shut, his own blood beginning to dry on his cheeks and in his eyelashes. The wound on his neck was almost black with a thick clot; only a few drops of bright red blood seeped out when he wrenched his head to the side. He tried to curl himself into a ball, only to have his limbs jerk away from his core as he convulsed again.
“Brandon!” Kai yelled as he dialed 911 again. “We’re only five minutes from the hospital, man,” he said in a lower voice. Brandon’s teeth started chattering again. Kai turned the heater on, pushing all the vents open and toward his brother. Turning his head back to the freeway, he swerved back into his own lane just before he clipped a taxi. His brother moaned through his teeth and pushed his head into the seat back. Kai thought he heard him say, “Okay,” as he dialed again, only to get another busy signal.
Brandon pulled in a shaky breath just before his body jerked again, and he began coughing. Blood flecked the windshield. He wiped his lips with his sleeve and lifted his right hand slowly to his forehead, reaching gingerly for the gash. Kai reached across the truck to stop his brother’s hand, pushing against it gently.
; “Don’t touch it, Brandon,” he said quietly. The wound was already covered in dirt, and Brandon’s hands had debris from the street on them, as well as some of Trent’s blood.
“I can’t see anything,” his brother moaned. Kai noticed suddenly that his hands were trembling as well. He gripped the phone tighter and dialed 911 again.
“Come on,” he growled, pressing the accelerator. The old truck groaned in protest as the needle on the speedometer ticked up to sixty-five. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw tears welling in Brandon’s eyes. He wondered briefly if he had heard the busy signal too. Kai dialed again.
“I can’t believe this shit,” he yelled, slamming his cell phone against the steering wheel. They were still three exits from the hospital when Brandon convulsed again. His mouth twisted wide, but his scream sounded strangled, caught in his chest. Fresh blood pumped out of his forehead, and the clot on his neck broke free, sliding down to his shirt collar.
Kai slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and yelled for his brother to hang on.
Six
Sarah thought the sounds of struggle were the worst thing she had ever heard. But when the house became quiet, Sarah felt panic rising in her throat and thought she might not be able to control herself. Huddled in the corner of her closet, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. Slowly, outlines solidified in the dusk, and soon she could make out her own image in the full-length mirror that hung on her closet door; she tried to quietly move some of the things on the floor to obscure her body as best she could. A floorboard creaked beneath her as she stretched to pull her suitcase in front of her, and she froze, listening. Nothing moved in the house. Finally, she pressed herself back into the corner and hugged her knees to her chest, watching the door.
It felt as though she had been sitting there for hours when she suddenly remembered her cell phone in her pocket. Moving slowly, she slid her hand down into her pocket and pulled out the little phone. When she flipped it open, the friendly blue screen illuminated her face, which was reflected in the mirror. She looked tiny, curled into the corner. A sob broke in her throat when she involuntarily imagined her small frame fighting off the hulking man who had broken down the door and attacked Lani.
Despite a desperate urge to call her brothers, she punched 911 into the phone. Immediately a busy tone buzzed in her ear. She dialed again and again until finally it rang through and a dispatcher answered, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
In a tiny voice, she answered, “Someone broke into my house, and I think he killed my friend.”
“Okay, ma’am, is the person still in the house?”
She nodded, whispering, “Yes, I think so.”
In an even voice, the dispatcher asked, “Where are you right now?”
“I’m in my closet upstairs, hiding.”
“Okay. I want you to stay quiet, and stay on the phone with me until someone can get out there,” said the dispatcher. Sarah gave her name and address in as hushed a whisper as possible.
A quiet tone sounded in her ear, and she pulled her phone away to see the battery symbol flashing on the screen. She had to hold her breath to keep from exploding into tears.
The dispatcher’s voice sounded far away as she asked, “Miss, are you there?”
“Please send someone. My phone is dying. I have to call my brother,” Sarah whimpered.
“No, no, I want you to stay on the phone with me,” came the reply.
“I’m sorry; I need to call my brother,” she said. “Please send somebody quick.” Her hands shook as she pressed the red button and ended the call.
She dialed Kai first and immediately got his voice mail. Then she tried Paul. His phone rang five times before she got his voice mail message. Listening to his voice, Sarah closed her eyes against the fresh well of tears and then hung up. As she dialed her dad, she realized with a start of fear that someone might call her back; another vision played in her mind of her trying desperately to silence the phone too late, and the crazy man bursting into the closet to find and kill her. Hanging up quickly, she turned the ringer to vibrate, then tried Kai again, silently praying he would pick up. When she got his answering machine a second time, she waited through the voice mail, then whispered, “Kai. Someone . . . someone’s in the house. I think he—he got Lani, downstairs. I called the police, but they’re not here yet.” The tears tightened her throat, and she couldn’t speak for a moment. “I’m in my closet. Please come get me.”
She dialed again, her breath coming in short gasps, scraping against her aching throat. It took most of her energy to keep quiet as the tears rolled down her face, plopping softly on the carpet. Paul’s phone rang, her stomach lurching with each trill; it went straight to voice mail again. Her voice shook with her crying as she whispered into the phone, “I need you to please come home. Please.” She dialed again. Silently she begged Paul to pick up his phone as it rang in her ear. She gulped back her panic when it went to voice mail again.
“Paul, please, please pick up next time. Come home. Please.” She went on dialing.
~
The wind had picked up, pushing the smaller clouds past the sun in quick succession. Their shadows slid smoothly over the beach, over the palm trees that thrashed against the sky, over the darkening water and beach. Paul lay on his board, his hands folded under his cheek. He kept his feet and legs tucked up on the board as well, trying hard to stay flat against the water. Another cloud moved in front of the sun, turning the clear water murky beneath his board. Shivering, he dipped a hand in and turned himself slowly to glance to the west. The sun hung low in the sky, and a wide bank of clouds moving in from the ocean meant it would get dark earlier than normal today. He probably had another hour.
His body was exhausted, shaking with the cold and shock. He had waited for the police to arrive for well over an hour before deciding to try reaching another beach. Another cove lay just to the east, and if he could paddle around the thin finger of land that jutted out into the sea and separated his surf spot from the next beach, he thought he could get out of the water and find some help. After a half hour of paddling, he was close enough to the strip of land to see the riptide that ran along its edge and into the open ocean. Huge breakers slammed in to the jagged rocks that lined the edge of the natural jetty, threatening to smash his board and body to bits. He sat there for a while, thinking, before finally turning back.
Now the sun was lower in the horizon, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had a wet suit. The thought made him chuckle; his friends would tease him mercilessly if they knew. The thought was instantly replaced by a vision of the carnage on the beach, and he closed his eyes tightly against the memory.
A smaller wave rolled under his board, pushing him back toward the beach. He caught a faint, angry scream that rose into the air, punctuated by the sounds of retching, all muffled by the wind. Paul kept his face down; he didn’t want to look back up at the beach. After his board slid off the wave, he lowered his arms into the water and paddled slowly back into deeper water.
Seven
What am I doing? Gary thought as his plane taxied onto the runway. Thirty minutes of sitting on the tarmac had done nothing to calm his nerves. He took a deep breath of lukewarm, recycled air and squinted out the window to watch another plane lift gently off the ground. The sun, red behind the clouds, was beginning to dip below the horizon line; Gary glanced at his watch, frustrated at the length of the delay. He had not received a response to his text message until well after five o’clock, a few minutes before his plane boarded. It read:
Update when you land.
The plane had boarded only to sit at the gate for over thirty minutes before eventually taxiing to the runway, where they waited now in a line that grew shorter at an agonizing pace. Finally, the pilot spoke softly over the speakers, asking the flight attendants to take their seats. The wing flaps stretched out with a metallic whirr, and Gary shifted in his seat. He disliked takeoffs.
Next to him, a heavily sc
ented woman who looked to be just slightly younger than he tried to flag down a flight attendant passing in the aisle.
“When will you be serving drinks?” she asked with a small pout.
“Shortly after takeoff, ma’am,” he answered, barely slowing down.
She made a small gesture of exasperation to herself, then turned to Gary and said, “I hate to fly. Sorry you’re stuck with a nervous Nelly for the ride home.” Her thickly painted lips stretched over her teeth as she grinned at him.
Gary did his best not to commit himself to conversation, but smiled back at her.
“Where are you headed?” she asked.
“Oh, I’m meeting someone in Los Angeles,” he replied. Inwardly, he cringed at the response, feeling like he had offered up too much information too easily. He was by nature a friendly person who fell easily into conversation with other people. It was not unusual for him to spend a good portion of a flight to the mainland conversing with tourists about their trips, recommending activities and hotels for “their next time over.” In the past, however, he had always known what lay before him: an agriculture conference or a visit to Brandon at school, always well planned. This time, he was heading for a meeting with a quiet voice he had only heard over the phone.
Gary watched out the window as the plane’s engines roared to life and the fuselage shuddered slightly. For the first time ever on a flight, he noticed the conversation around him lulled, as if deep inside each passenger there lurked a kind of primal fear of flying. They began to move over the ground, slowly at first; soon it rushed past his window. In the tiny kitchen behind him, a cabinet swung open, amplifying the metallic rattle of silverware for first class. His stomach leaped as the wheels lifted off the ground, and then there was only a tiny vibration under his feet.
Honolulu shrank below them, already sparkling in the warm light of evening. Gary turned away from the window and shut his eyes as the first real pang of fear tingled in his arms and legs. It had only been a brief three months since he had picked Brandon up from that same airport. He remembered the scene clearly: Kai had offered to drive the truck so that Paul, Sarah, and Gary could greet Brandon at baggage claim, while he circled back through traffic to pick them up. Brandon had appeared on the escalator beaming, with his tattered backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair longer and more styled than it had been the year before.
