by Peter Liney
By midafternoon, my worst fears were giving me a real going-over. They weren’t coming back. Something had gone terribly wrong. Maybe they’d been betrayed, or maybe they’d betrayed us? Either way, I felt so weighed down by guilt I could’ve thrown up. Why had we taken such a chance? Why, when we had everything, had we risked it all?
I was about to make my way down to the others, to confront them with a few difficult home truths, when I took one last habitual, rather than hopeful, look out.
God knows how long it was before I registered what I was looking at. There was a group of four kids making their way toward me through the afternoon heat haze: Gordie, Arturo, plus a sort of roly-poly kid and a tall, slim girl.
I wanted to shout out, to run down and tell the others, but I couldn’t. Instead, I just stayed where I was, transfixed by their hesitant approach, nervously scanning the horizon behind them in case anyone was following.
You could see Gordie was giving out the orders. At one point the plump kid looked in my direction, as if trying to make out the entrance, and got a mouthful for his curiosity. They took this altogether erratic approach, going from one pile of rubble to another, like they were just messing around with no particular purpose in mind. As they got nearer, I could see the two new kids looked kind of bulky, as if they had things stuffed inside their shirts, and I guessed Gordie had persuaded them that was all they could bring. Or maybe it was everything they had?
Finally they made the last twenty yards or so and were standing outside. Gordie took one last look around, then leaned down to grab the door, but I heaved it open for him.
“You okay?” I asked, as the four of them scrambled in.
“Wastelords are everywhere,” he said, by way of an explanation. “You can’t do a thing.”
He promptly introduced the two newcomers: the girl being Hannah, and the boy, Luxurious. Both of them never said a word, just kind of gaped, like they thought they were going to be the victims of a practical joke and were now rapidly having to rethink.
Immediately Arturo started to show off, leading them down to the living area, acting like he was in charge of the whole setup.
I tell you, if they weren’t pop-eyed enough walking down the tunnel, taking in all there was to see, when they got to the bottom and Delilah screamed and squealed, hugging and kissing Arturo, they sure were then. Gordie backed away, huddling up against a wall with the two newcomers, making a face as if to say that he fully understood how nauseous they must be feeling.
Standing there, in the electric light, I had a chance to see both of them in a bit more detail. Hannah’s tall, dark, kind of graceful in a way, but has this odd, permanently startled expression about her. If Arturo gives you the impression that he’s oblivious to everything that’s ever happened to him, then she makes you feel she’s been touched by every drop. Not a word crosses her lips, but if you ever get the chance to unravel the stories in her eyes, I reckon you could knit quite a tale. As for Luxurious, well, he’s about the closest thing to a human bowling ball you’re ever going to see. There’s no gap between his shoulders and chin, no light between his fat little thighs. Everything about his stature says “Don’t knock me over cuz I’m never going to be able to get up again.”
The thing that really shook them—more than secret doorways, underground worlds, or electric lighting—was to see their friends on such good terms with old people. I guess Arturo and Gordie must’ve told them, but obviously it hadn’t sunk in. They had this appalled look on their faces, as if they were in the reptile house at the zoo and someone was asking them to handle one of the exhibits. I could’ve almost taken offense. But we decided not to mention it, to just act as natural as we could and wait for them to come around.
Whether deliberately or not, Arturo gave the situation a real kick-start by taking them off on a guided tour. When they returned an hour or so later, they were a lot more relaxed, Luxurious acting like he’d been in the tunnels almost as long as the other two. He’s got this real high-pitched voice, like he’s been taught to speak by an insect or something.
“They do understand, don’t they?” I said to Gordie. “I mean, this is it. They can never go back.”
He nodded. “They never want to see that place again. Not for any reason.”
He said it with such feeling, I knew something else had happened and asked him what. He turned to Luxurious, waiting, but the bowling ball made this face like he didn’t want to talk about it.
“Kids are disappearing,” Gordie eventually said.
I shrugged. I knew that. Lena already told me kids disappeared sometimes. “More than usual?”
“Yeah,” he said, pausing for a moment. “We know what’s happening to them.”
“What?” I asked, a little fearfully.
Gordie gave that little sneer and shrug he’s so fond of, as if something doesn’t really matter, even though you know it really does. “They’re taking them for organs.”
I just stood there, gaping at him.
“What?” Delilah croaked.
Luxurious nodded. “They installed this cold store in one of the warehouses. Someone saw bodies hanging up in there.”
There was a long, shocked pause, as if no one wanted to pass comment, to admit they were even part of this conversation.
“We’re an organ farm,” Gordie whispered, like it was a joke he couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud.
It was only when I realized how hard she was squeezing that I noticed Lena had taken my hand. I turned and stared into her face. There was so much pain there it hurt you just to look.
“Oh, Clancy!” she moaned.
None of us knew what to do. We just stood there like we’d been hit or something. As if by shutting down, by going all cold and hard, we just might be able to cope with it. Forcing kids to live and work in shit, physically and sexually abusing them, then snuffing them out when their organs were ready to be sold, like they were just plants bearing fruit. How could any of us live in this world knowing that?
“I want to go back for two more,” Gordie said, like he wasn’t sure if we would allow it or not.
“Two!” Delilah moaned, as if any number was going to be futile.
And then, I don’t know what happened, but I guess I lost it. In the way that everyone imagines a big guy eventually will. I turned and punched the wall of the tunnel so hard it’s a wonder I didn’t go right through. The others just gaped at me, like something they’d always been a little frightened of had finally happened. Over and over I hit it, only the many times in the past my knuckles had broken and mended stronger protecting them from breaking again. A smear of blood appeared on the wall, growing with every blow, like I was painting with my fists. I felt such rage, such fury, but most of all, such shame. All my life I’ve followed orders. Never making a judgment or a decision. But I’ve roughed people up, broken legs and arms, and more. And for what? No one had ever done anything. Just got in someone’s way, or been too stupid or greedy or something. And occasionally, thank God, not that often, I’ve even killed people. I actually took a life. I didn’t enjoy it, but I didn’t hate it either. It was never personal. But can’t you see what I’m saying? All that fear, that force, that pain, it should’ve at least been for a good reason. Maybe I could’ve changed something? Maybe this great useless mass of dulled muscle could’ve made a difference?
“Clancy! Stop it!” Lena screamed, grabbing hold of me and trapping my arms.
I stood there, puffing and panting, letting her hold me, blood dripping from my fists to the ground.
“It’s okay,” she kept repeating. “It’s okay.” As if pleading with me not to frighten her anymore.
But it wasn’t okay. Not one bit of it. And we all knew it. Ever since I been on the Island, I stood back and watched things happen that, if Mr. Meltoni had told me to do something about them, I would’ve done my best to stop. But I accepted them as if it was none of my business. Day after day retreating more and more into myself, resignation chewing its
way through me while I did nothing but wait for it to take a terminal hold.
Well, no more. I may be old, I may be weak, I may be useless— I don’t know—but I’m still alive. And if I never do another damn thing on this Earth, I’m going to do whatever I can to stop what’s happening on this Island.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
So now I know what all this working out’s been for, what the challenge is to be. I always had a sense there was a reason, that destiny was lurking somewhere, I just didn’t expect the task to be quite this great.
The moment I made my decision, I marched straight down to the lower tunnel and started to, not jog, but run as fast as I possibly could. As if I had a need to exhaust myself until it hurt, to draw out some of the pain. Pounding around and around that circuit till I literally collapsed to the ground, my legs going into spasm, my lungs screaming like baby birds. But still I wasn’t finished. I poured extra sand into the drums, more than I ever would’ve imagined lifting again, and forced my old body to jerk and push that cumbersome weight into the air. Over and over, till my muscles told me they couldn’t do it anymore and yet still I coaxed and cursed them till they finally did.
I’d been putting limits on myself. I said I wanted to get fit and no more, that it was crazy asking an old heart to take the strain of a young one, but now it’s different. I got something to aim at: enemies I think about every step of the way, every time that I need the motivation to drive a heavy weight into the air.
’Course, once Lena calmed me down and the others thought I was approachable again, they started voicing their doubts about the whole thing, Jimmy and the kids warning me that we didn’t stand a chance. But the way I see it, the way I managed to convince them, it’s not a chance we don’t have—it’s a choice. Even if we could ignore what was going on over in the Camp—and sure as hell we can’t—even if, for some miraculous reason, De Grew and his Wastelords never find us, we’re still finished here, and we’re fools if we think otherwise.
We ain’t moles, no more than we’re rats. We’re human beings. We got to have the scent of the season in our faces, the sun and the stars sweeping across our sky. And if there’s any hope at all of that happening again, it’s in us dismantling and destroying everything that’s sprung up around here. Blowing the whole damn place apart and hoping that, when the pieces fall back to Earth, they’ll form something far more conducive to humanity.
Lena started coming with me more and more when I worked out. Not just running, but weightlifting, too. I tell you, she’s surprisingly strong. No wonder it hurt so much that time she laid one on me. We take turns, helping each other out, shouting encouragement to make that last limb-trembling lift. I like it. It makes me feel we’re not just a couple but a team—a unit joined by sweat and strain, by our mutual rendezvous with fate.
The only problem is, I have no idea how I’m going to go about this. Not the slightest. Everyone assumes I’ll come up with something, that it’s my territory, but that’s just adding to the pressure. I mean, I don’t want to disillusion them or anything, but I thought they would’ve known: I don’t come up with ideas, I carry them out.
The one thing I do know is that the balance of power on the Island revolves around drugs. That’s how the kids are kept in check, how they’re being manipulated. If you stop them, you got a chance of stopping everything. Which means that somehow we gotta get down to that warehouse again and put it out of business.
’Course, there’s a lot more to it than that. Drugs ain’t bad, no more than they’re good; in themselves, they’re nothing. It’s those who exploit the weaknesses they create who are evil. And the real challenge is on the hill overlooking the Camp, with De Grew and his Wastelords.
All the years I been hearing about this guy, what a sick, sadistic sonofabitch he is, I never imagined I’d ever have to go up against him. It must be going on fifteen years since I did anything like that. And more since I actually killed anyone. I don’t even know if I’ve still got it in me. For so long I avoided asking myself the question. When I finally did, I knew it was all over. Killing’s wrong. No discussion. The irony is that maybe, just this once and for the first time in my life, I got an idea it might be right.
It’s the one subject Lena and me have gone out of our way to avoid. Mind you, I know she’s brooding over it all the time. One night I woke up and found her lying next to me with the kind of expression that tells you someone hasn’t slept at all. I put my arms around her, too tired to talk, but as I started to doze off, she spoke.
“He thrives on pain and fear.”
“What?” I said, with a slight start.
“As a species we need food and water to survive. He needs to torture and kill.”
Immediately I knew who she was talking about. “Yeah . . . I know.” I sighed.
“You can’t make allowances for that. It’s madness.”
She fell silent and I wondered if that was all it was going to be, if we’d continue this another time, but she got herself into such a state, worrying away next to me like a sheet of ice slowly cracking.
“It’s the ultimate weapon because no one knows what it’s capable of.”
Again she went silent, as if she hadn’t spoken at all, as if it had just been a thought that had escaped from her head, and by doing so been transformed into words.
“It’s okay,” I said sleepily, giving her a hug. “Don’t worry.”
I guess the thing is, in her mind she can’t put us both together: the meanest murderous bastard on the Island and the tired, spent old heavy coming out of retirement to face him. And when you think about it like that, is it any wonder she’s worrying?
Presently her breathing became deeper and I realized she’d fallen asleep. She was lying on my arm, cutting off the circulation, but I couldn’t bear to move her. I took a deep breath and held it as long as I could in that dusty old cathedral of my chest. I have to come up with something. Everyone’s waiting on me, relying upon me to know what to do, and it means everything to me that I don’t let them down.
In the end, I realized that was the problem. I was more worried about convincing people I wasn’t stupid than coming up with a plan that might work. Sometimes you just got to go with what you know, the tried-and-tested stuff you seen succeed over and over.
I remember Mr. Meltoni sending me and a couple of the boys down to settle with the D’Anno kid. He had great teeth, so white and even, nicest smile you ever saw. Women loved him. I never saw the kid without a “model” or “actress” hanging off his arm looking all serious and sulky, probably cuz they knew there was no way to compete with that smile. The only trouble with the kid was he was lazy. He wanted all the rewards, but took shortcuts with the work: telling lies, getting careless about whose pocket the dough should be going in. Mr. Meltoni gave him chance after chance, but he never had the savvy to take one. I guess what I’m trying to say is, the kid might’ve been great to look at, but he wasn’t that bright.
Eventually, Mr. Meltoni lost patience with him. The kid and his gang used to operate out of this huge fruit warehouse down on the docks. They thought it was impregnable, that no one could touch them in there. One night we sent this old tub straight into the wharf, smashing it to pieces and bringing down the front of the warehouse with it. That harbor looked like a great big floating fruit salad. Everyone came out, gawping and laughing. Meanwhile, Frankie sneaked around the back and blew the kid away. Tell the truth, I got real angry about it. Frankie was the ugliest sonofabitch you ever seen in your life, he had a face that looked like he’d been rummaging through a cosmetic surgeon’s trash can, and you know where he shot the kid? Why, straight in the mouth, of course. Shattering all those lovely white teeth like broken china. I mean, can you believe that? He was dead, for chrissake. What kind of guy’s jealous of the smile on a corpse?
Anyways, I reckon that’s what I need to get me to De Grew: a distraction. The bigger the better. And the more I think about it, the more I realize the destruction of the drugs warehouse fi
ts the bill perfectly—somehow we gotta blow that damn place into the sea. If we can manage that, then maybe, in the ensuing confusion, I can find my way to De Grew.
The only thing is, by solving that problem, by coming up with a plan at last, I’ve presented myself with another. I’m going to need more people. A whole lot more. And there’s only one place I can think of to find them.
Life’s thrown me some pretty juicy ironies over the years, but none that dripped more than this: me and Jimmy going back to the Village to see if we could recruit people to help us fight the Wastelords. God help us all. We had a better chance of gathering up an army of rats, or training an airborne squadron of seagulls.
As we turned down one of the rows, an old familiar feeling began to weigh heavily upon me, but we really didn’t have a choice. It was them or no one.
“Jesus,” I muttered to Jimmy. “We gotta be kidding.”
“Give them a chance, Big Guy. Maybe, when they’re presented with a real opportunity to change things, they’ll surprise you.”
“You reckon?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
I took a glance through the door of a lean-to. An openmouthed couple stared dully out at us, looking so ready for death they seemed almost disappointed we hadn’t brought it with us.
It went through my head to just turn around then and there, to go back to the tunnels and come up with another plan, but Jimmy, maybe cuz he sensed my mood, saw this small group sitting nearby and pitched in among them.
We’d already decided it was best for him do the talking. I might be a changed man in many ways, but I’ve no doubt that any Villagers who know me still see me as an insular, bad-tempered individual they’d rather avoid. And though I didn’t recognize any of the group, I still felt Jimmy was a much more likely source of persuasion.
’Course, he didn’t come straight out with it. That would be asking for trouble. Who knows who might be listening? He just got into a bit of general chatter; the weather, Island life, everyday stuff. And to tell the truth, I reckon they would’ve been happy to have kept that up all day. But the moment he began to slide toward what he really wanted to say you could feel their suspicions being aroused. And soon I was reminded of why I despise Villagers so much. They’re so resigned: fate is their prison and nothing’s going to persuade them to escape. The little guy did his best, but as soon as they got an idea where this crazy talk was leading, they practically fell over themselves to get away.
