Terminal Island

by Walter Greatshell

  It is a hand, a pale arm clasping his. The arm becomes a whole person, a ghostly figure emerging clean and glowing from the ground—it is one of Henry’s fellow prisoners from the basement. The applause rises again. Pulled completely free, the reborn being looks around in wonder and apprehension. He touches his body as if amazed to find it in one piece. Suddenly there is the sound of triumphal music, and from every part of the stage dozens of other luminous figures start rising out of the ground, voices joined in a choir, staring in surprise at themselves and each other as they sing.

  Henry is in shock, frozen as this climactic musical number plays out. The sun rises behind them, and dry ice smoke floods the stage so that it is as if they are standing on a cloud. At last all the actors appear in full-throated song: the minotaur and the mare-woman from the wings, the mirror-plated angel from above—all these godlike beings welcoming Henry and the other raised dead to some heavenly plane. Everything swells to a crescendo, ending on the highest note.

  The curtain draws shut.

  Now the show truly seems to be over. Everyone but Henry is animated, blissfully weeping and hugging each other in a tumult of post-show chatter. People rush onstage in congratulation, bringing trumpet-like white flowers. “Oh my God! That was fabulous!” It’s a sea of happy activity, with Henry standing like a pillar of salt in the middle.

  Nothing clicks; his thoughts have seized up like a frozen computer, spitting out bytes of random gibberish: I’m not…just…there’s no…but it’s…what—

  He feels a pressure building in his head and chest, making it hard to breathe and crowding out everything else. Things around him are wavering, blurring—the chatter begins to seem far away, as if heard down a long tunnel. Henry can’t feel his limbs. He is sweating, swaying. As if in slow motion he tips over backward, back into his grave. When he falls it’s as if he plummets into a bottomless pit…

  Henry awakens with a start, heart pounding, as if he just drifted off. He is sitting in a darkened movie theater, a few rows from the front. It’s still the Casino, but the place has cleared out; Henry is alone. How long has it been?

  There is a movie playing.

  “What the hell?” he mumbles, wiping drool off his chin. For the first time in a long time he feels clearheaded, almost refreshed, as if everything else has been a muddled nightmare. In consternation he sits up.

  The screen is showing a grainy video image—pans of trees and flickering bonfires, shot in night-vision green. At the bottom corner of the screen it says, LIVE. The soundtrack is of someone breathing into a microphone and indecipherable background hubbub: the sound of a crowd of people either hysterically laughing or crying.

  The image is very jumpy, but rushing figures of women can be seen. All are wearing grotesque metallic masks—some reptilian and others horned and childlike. The dark cavities of their eyes flash with the creepy reflected glow of infrared. Hundreds of them are shambling around in the firelight, naked or with their clothing in rags, bodies smeared with strange tribal patterns, their mouths hanging open and arms spread to the heavens as if lost in some religious mania. Scattered around the ground are knurled white objects—bones.

  Above the chaotic noise, a woman’s voice can be heard, hoarsely shouting, “Nun chre methusthen! Nunc bibamus! Can they hear me? Turn it down, I can’t hear!”

  As if reading from notes, she recites, “‘Rain falls by the grace of God, hence from high Heaven is the sea replenished, and in its endless depths the cold lays bitter hold! But lo!—beat back the chill with fire, and build the pyre higher and higher! Drink wine as sweet as nectar to a bee, and drink of it abundantly! Do not give over your hearts to woe, or waste your youth to care; for sorrow is a sober foe, and ambrosia cheats despair! Oh Lord, we drink in your name this holy gift; to cast out shame, run wild and swift!’”

  Despite her golden mask, Henry recognizes the woman. It is Lisa again—the former tween psycho who drove him and his mother off the island all those years ago, now graduated to murderous cultist and seller of nonexistent condos to the soon-to-be-slaughtered leisure set.

  Slurring a little, Lisa goes on: “The Lord sayeth, ‘Witless are those who will not lose their wits.’ Hence we stand before you in disguise, for he who stands in judgment also dies! We’ve been purifying ourselves for two days in readiness to greet Him! We are ready!” A frenzied cheer goes up in the background. “We have suckled the calf and the wolf cub; we have gorged ourselves on sacrifice. Oh my God, please God—what you’re seeing now is something none of you could ever witness in person and live—the holy adoration of the Bacchae!”

  There is a screaming outburst in the background, and the camera bounces and spins over blurred, running figures. For a minute the picture bobs crazily and then steadies as all the women fall to their knees, keening hysterically.

  Something lurks before them, barely visible under the trees. A strange, humped form, flickering greenish in the video haze, black horns glinting in a massive woolly head.

  The bison-man.

  As he totters forward, the camera spins, scanning the clearing. Henry glimpses blurred shapes of four white horses with naked, masked riders. They are turned outward, facing in different directions, and lying on the ground between them is a man’s writhing body. He is spread-eagled, and there appears to be a spear sticking through his side. Is he chained to the horses?

  Before Henry can make sense of what he is seeing, there is a thin crack! and the horses bolt in all directions. The abruptness of what follows catches Henry totally by surprise—a rude shock that hits him like a physical blow to the chest:

  Right in front of his eyes, the man is suddenly ripped apart like a doll. With a crunch of popping ligaments and joints, his body is flung straight up and all four limbs simply jerk loose and go flying after the horses, leaving the man’s head and torso to sickeningly flop back down in the dust. Yet it is what happens next that causes Henry to blanch with the supreme horror of witnessing something that even his worst nightmares have not prepared him for:

  All the women set upon the mutilated, twitching body…and begin devouring it.

  Crying out in horror, Henry turns away, too late, and dry-heaves between the seats. There is no escaping it; he can still hear what’s going on, the sound of their nearly sexual ecstasy, and it’s as bad as seeing it.

  “Ah God…oh my God…” he mutters, making his way down the row and to the exit.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  STEEL RAIN

  It is still night outside—the same night? Henry has lost all track of time, and his watch is gone. That Rolex Oyster was a Christmas present from Ruby. The night air feels good, and for a few minutes he simply leans against the closed exit door to steady his legs.

  “Shit shit shit shit shit…”

  There isn’t a person in sight. Everything looks completely ordinary—a perfectly normal night. What now? he thinks. What next? Without thinking about it, he starts walking along the shore path toward town, letting his legs lead him.

  He finds that he is returning to the Formosa Hotel, and can think of no good reason to resist. Going inside, he finds the lobby deserted as it ordinarily would be so late at night, and continues on upstairs without a pause. In fact he accelerates, building momentum as he climbs to the third landing and readies his key. But the door is already open, the room empty and clean. A breeze rustles the curtains.

  “Ruby,” he whispers, eyes welling.

  Henry sits on the edge of the freshly made bed. To the air he says, “What do you want from me?” There doesn’t seem to be anything more to do, ever—he could stay right here until doomsday.

  The something catches his eye in the dark: a slip of paper on the pillow. In tight, businesslike script: Meet me at my hotel ASAP—Arbuthnot.

  Almost disappointed by the unbidden hope, Henry sobs harshly and gets up again.

  There is still not a soul in the street. As he walks to the Sand Crab Inn he feels oddly normal—just a man out for an evening stroll. Shock has s
oftened his head; he’s gone blood simple and recognizes it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t look on the bright side: There are still planes in the sky and ships on the sea. He can’t tell if it’s the town or just him, but there is a strange sense of returning sanity, like the passing of a high fever. Maybe the worst is over, he thinks.

  Arriving at Arbuthnot’s hotel, Henry doesn’t bother with the main entrance, but goes around the side and up to the balcony. The door appears untouched—the DO NOT DISTURB sign is still on the handle. Henry knocks. There is no answer. He tries again, the raps echoing across the tropical courtyard. After a few more knocks he tries the door, but it is locked. The certainty that Arbuthnot is not there gives Henry a conflicting rush of wishfulness and anxiety: Ruby must be with him. Maybe they’ve left the island.

  After a few minutes, he returns to the street, wondering what to do next. Loitering in the shadows, he gravitates back to the town plaza…and sees something that stops him in his tracks.

  There is someone sitting on the bench: a woman.

  Her back is turned to him and she has a pale, gauzy scarf over her head. She looks as if she’s waiting for someone herself.

  With alarm bells going off, Henry moves cautiously towards her, taking care to stay out of sight. He doesn’t like this; it feels like a poisoned apple—that’s what his guys used to call it when local nationals gave them gifts while they were on patrol. The woman doesn’t move, primly sitting in the sepia light of a streetlamp. All he can think of is the hollow-faced girl from the play. It’s a trick, it’s a trick…

  When he is less than a dozen yards away, he clears his throat. The woman turns around as if startled, and Henry gasps at the sight of her face.

  It’s Ruby.

  They rush together in a frantic clinch, both babbling at once: “Oh my God where were you, where were you!”

  Overruling her, Henry demands, “What are you doing here?”

  Tearfully, Ruby says, “I’m supposed to meet a man named Arbuthnot. He said he knows where Moxie is! Honey, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you—”

  “Arbuthnot?”

  “Yes! He said that you had talked to him, and everything was about to blow sky-high—something about the Department of Homeland Security getting involved.”

  “Why did you leave me before?”

  “Leave you?”

  “Back in the hotel room!”

  “Henry, I didn’t know what else to do—my head was filled with all that crazy stuff you told me! Moxie was gone, and those horrible people were down in the street! When you collapsed on the floor I freaked out! What was I supposed to do? All I could think of was what you told me to do—to go for help. So I hid in the downstairs linen closet until they were gone. When I came out and realized they took you, I almost lost it right there—I thought I’d never see you again. Where have you been?”

  “At the movies. Did you drug me?”

  “What? No! Honey, what the hell are you talking about? Drug you?”

  “The wine. It was drugged.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. Because you thought I was crazy? Dangerous? Or maybe because someone else told you to?”

  “That’s ridiculous! Henry. I didn’t drug you. I drank it, too—you saw me!”

  “Okay…” Henry nods warily. “So what’s going on?”

  “After they took you away, I tried to call the police, but there was still no answer, so I went down to the Sheriff’s Office. The whole town is empty—I couldn’t find anyone. After a while I just started knocking on doors, but it’s like a ghost town. Finally I came back to the hotel and broke down. Baby, you have no idea what I’ve been going through; I’ve been out of my mind.”

  “Join the club.”

  Sniffling, she says, “I know, I’m sorry. Anyway, just before I was about to lose it completely, I found a note to you from a man named Arbuthnot—it was written on hotel stationery, so I called his room. He explained how he knew you and told me to meet him here.”

  “Why out here? Didn’t that seem a little risky?”

  “He said he had to be sure that I was who I said I was—that I was coming alone. He promised to watch out for me.”

  “What did he tell you about Moxie?”

  “He said he thinks she’s all right, and that he can take me to her. She’s hidden up in the hills somewhere. Near the town dump, wherever that is.”

  Electrified, Henry says, “How did he know that?”

  “He said he has some kind of local connection who’s deeply involved in the whole thing. It sounds like the whole island has gone crazy—oh honey, I feel like I’m having a bad dream and can’t wake up. Is this for real?”

  “It’s real. God damn it. He really said that about Moxie?”

  She nods miserably.

  “And he was supposed to meet you here?”

  “Yes.”

  Henry looks around at the silent businesses and beachfront. The whole area is abandoned; there’s no sign of anyone coming. With Ruby here he is afraid again, can’t take any chances. He wishes he could be sure she actually spoke to Arbuthnot. What if she’s lying? Or what if it was someone posing as Arbuthnot to trick her? He keeps thinking he sees flashes of movement in the black windows overlooking the plaza.

  “We can’t wait around here,” he says. “We’re sitting ducks.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get out of town. Hide in the hills, at least until morning.”

  “What about Moxie?”

  “Where do you think we’re going? Come on.”

  They leave the lights of the plaza and follow the narrowing shore toward the ferry terminal, passing volleyball courts and the bike rental shack. Behind them the town glows like a bed of embers within its kiln of mountains; below to the left are the ferry docks, the waters beneath glassy and black as polished jet; on their right the converging hillside, cliffs rising to yellow-eyed mansions high above. Directly ahead is the empty platform of the ferry terminal—the Cabrillo Mole. Beyond that the light ends…but the road goes on.

  Checking Ruby’s watch, Henry is surprised to see that it is barely past 3am—he was hoping it was nearer to dawn. Looking across the bay to the hulking temple of the Casino, glowing solemnly on its cape, he is reassured to see no activity of any kind—no one following them or raising any alarm. Nothing to suggest that anything worrisome or even unusual is going on.

  Henry feels a chill as they pass the ferry landing, remembering that long-ago horror underneath. As if sensing his unease, Ruby takes his hand and says, “Stay with me; I’m right here.” He squeezes back and trains his attention on the dark road ahead.

  Now everything is compressed to a thin groove of pavement with a dirt shoulder. Avalon is lost around the bend, and with it the light. There is no moon. The road becomes little more than a ledge above the sea, with matte-black cliffs looming overhead, taking up half the night sky. They quicken their pace, knowing that they can’t afford to be caught out here.

  “What do we do if a car comes?” Ruby asks.

  “Make a run down to the beach. We’re coming up on Lover’s Cove.”

  They can barely see their hands in front of their faces, or the gravel crunching underfoot. The sea to their left is a dimensionless black field, swallowing the stars and then regurgitating them as dim silvering on the rocks below.

  Then, deep within the void, Henry sees moving lights. “Look,” he says. “A boat.”

  Ruby’s voice leaps with hope: “Where?”

  “Right out there.”

  “Oh my God. Maybe we can get their attention!”

  Staring hard at the lights, one of them a brightly-flicking beam, Henry feels a grim suspicion. “I don’t know…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s getting closer. Don’t stop. Just keep moving.”

  At first it seems impossible that the boat could have anything to do with them; it is so far away and moving so slowly, the beetle-bri
ght attention of its spotlight concentrating on distant matters, so that Henry wonders if he’s just being paranoid. But little by little the beam starts to intensify, becoming a glare in their periphery that is less easy to ignore with each passing minute. Soon the whole cliff face begins to glimmer, jumping with light and shadow like an enormous stage curtain. And he and Ruby the shadow puppets.

  “Shit,” Henry says.

  “What is it?”

  “The flying-fish boat. Run.”

  They run.

  As they run, the light keeps growing, becoming a harsh whiteness that bleaches the night to a pale haze. They cannot see, cannot look at the glare; it is as if they are in a tunnel of milky glass with a dead zone of white pain, a knife twisting in the corner of the eye. It even seems to affect their ears: a bass throb builds with the light, deadening their other senses so that the whole world is reduced to that blood-in-the-ears thrum.

  “It’s following us!” Ruby says, getting winded.

  “I know.”

  “This is just like what you—”

  “I know.”

  Now they are running alongside the wooden railing above the beach—Lover’s Cove. The beach stairs are coming up, but there is no refuge for them down there. In fact there is only one miserable speck of shelter anywhere, and it is one Henry furiously resents being driven to use. But Ruby is tired, and he needs a break himself, if only to give his shading arm a rest.

  “Here!” he says. “Behind this!”

  It is a plywood sign nailed to the railing that reads, WARNING! NO LIFE-GUARD ON DUTY. They duck behind it, hearing a faint squawking of amplified laughter. The panel is about three feet by three feet; both of them, sitting on the ground with their backs to it, can just fit within its square of shadow. It is an unspeakable relief—a bubble of calm in which they can hear themselves think.

  “Oh my God,” Ruby says.

  “I know; I’m sorry.”

  “You think they’ll go away?”

  “No. They’re probably just trying to pin us down until the others come.”