by Camilla Monk
“Yeah . . .” Or maybe not. I honestly have no idea.
“Good. We need to get away from here.”
Against all odds, my body doesn’t betray me; my legs don’t collapse under me like I thought they would. Somewhere, in a part of me I had no idea even existed, there’s still enough strength, enough will to run and survive. I can feel the burn in my calf muscles, the pain that comes with each exhausted gasp, but once again I grip March’s hand and run toward the lake.
The thrum of blades whipping the air above us sends a burst of renewed energy through my system. At least now my mind is clear enough that I know why I’m running. My eyes screw shut, blinded by the helicopter’s beam. Did it come back for us because they’re done with Dries and the others? And yet . . . two quads sit abandoned at the other end of the lake, lifeless bodies lying sprawled on the ice next to them. Dries was here—I can tell that much.
“We’ll take one of those,” March shouts over the increasingly powerful droning following us.
I’ll take anything at this point, even a skateboard, as long as they don’t start shooting again. I don’t want to look up; I prefer not to know whether there’s an asshole ready to engage us up there.
Halfway to our goal, March’s feet skid on the ice, and he stops. His hand squeezes mine so tight it hurts, but I’m too frightened and exhausted to say anything. He looks around and . . . listens. After a few seconds, I too pick up on a distant rumble. What comes next is something out of E.T., except it’s not a bike that bursts from the trees under a moonlit sky and crashes onto the lake with a deafening sound, but the Bat-tank.
Panic explodes in my chest as I watch it drift our way in a cloud of ice dust, the tracks spinning madly to outrace the cracks forming on the once-smooth surface. Whoever is driving this thing deserves to die with us! I feel my feet leave the solid ground when March hauls me out of the way. We can’t run fast, this time, not against this monster. The three pairs of headlights are rushing toward us so fast all I can make out is a blinding blur.
March holds me as we roll out of the way . . . right before the tracks come to a brutal stop mere feet from us. We find ourselves bathed in the glare of the headlights, dizzy and, I suspect, both terrified. One of the doors folds up, prompting March to shield his eyes with the back of his hand to get a better look at the tank’s occupants. Seconds stretch as the helicopter too closes on us, the rotor’s powerful wind swiping icy dust in our faces.
“What are you waiting for? I don’t have all night.”
I recognize Dries’s voice, but I can’t move. I just stay curled against March like a dead, frozen thing as he pulls me up. I went through one too many brushes with cardiac arrest, and my legs won’t support me, not even when the first round of bullets clanks against the tank’s hood, shattering the ice less than three feet away from us. I feel like a sock tumbling in a washer as March lifts me in his arms and carries me inside the Bat-tank. There’s a loud buzzing in my ears, and above me, March’s and Isiporho’s faces seem like glittering smudges.
A remote, rational part of me concludes that I’m in shock, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t know how much time passes until the fog starts clearing in my mind. The helicopter . . . it’s shooting at us, and we’re making a daring escape. The maniac who made the tank jump at us is, unsurprisingly, Dominik, who seems delighted by the whole situation. The wheel spinning madly in his hands, he keeps yelling that it’s “fokken Christmas” while we tear through snow, rocks, and branches toward a trail. In the passenger seat, Dries casually comments that this is, indeed, a nice ride.
I shake my head, blink, and look down at my hand, gripping March’s so hard my nails dig into his skin. Sweet baby Jesus, we’re racing outside authorized hiking trails. In the back seat of. A. Goddamn. Tank. Also, the helicopter is still thrumming above our heads, its blinding beams swiping across the trail in an attempt to lock in on us.
Dries looks up through the windshield, on which I’m only starting to notice the bullet impacts. “We need to take care of that. Dominik, how many Javelins do we have?”
“Four.”
Next to me, Isiporho whistles while March raises an eyebrow at his boss.
I’m about to ask what’s a Javelin, but that red button blinking on the dashboard with a missile icon on it is all the explanation I need. This is madness.
A bump sends us flying and crashing through barbed wires. That . . . was the Russian border. Dominik seems to barely notice that we’re being shaken like martinis. He frowns at the dashboard. “Fok! Launcher’s fingerprint locked too.” He holds out his hand to Dries, who casually reaches under his seat and retrieves . . . a severed hand.
I swallow hard to contain a wave of nausea as Dominik arranges the bloody fingers flat on a fingerprint scan on the dashboard. A row of buttons starts blinking green, and he gives the hand back to Dries.
I register March’s whisper in my hair. “I’m terribly sorry for that.”
Not nearly as much as I am . . . Whirring sounds coming from the roof catch my attention. In the driver’s seat, Dominik is busy steering with one hand and tapping repeatedly on a touch screen with the other—to adjust the missiles’ trajectory, I gather, when I glimpse a 3-D rendering of the terrain around the tank.
I don’t really panic until I see Dries holding on to both straps of his seat. Dries, who chopped a guy’s hand to steal his tank, who was driving a rocket-launching ice-cream truck when we first met. This guy is bracing himself? He is, because Dominik suddenly slams on the brakes, sending us flying forward. March and Isiporho simultaneously hold on to the door handles and my body, preventing me from crashing through the windshield. Something weird happens with the tracks, like they’re unable to grip the snow and are spinning uselessly, before the tank bolts into reverse, the sudden acceleration crushing us against the back seat.
Within seconds, the helicopter is no longer behind us but well ahead, and I watch in fascinated horror as on the dashboard’s screen, crosshairs lock on to the aircraft and start blinking red. The moment Dominik presses the firing button, there’s almost no recoil, only a brief vibration propagating through the roof, the seat, and ultimately my body. We did fire though: two fiery lights illuminate the night sky, tracing graceful arcs all the way to the helicopter. I shield my face reflexively when it explodes, the booming shock wave hitting the tank hard, along with a rain of burning debris crashing on our roof and windshield.
As the adrenaline rush recedes and my heart rate slows down, I notice the way March wrapped his arms around me. Almost like a hug. Now that we’re no longer seconds away from certain death, this quasi-intimacy feels weird. Scary even, as if I were naked in his embrace. I squirm away tentatively, willing myself to ignore his sigh as he lets go of me.
Stoic, Dominik raises his right hand, palm turned to Dries, who considers it with a haughty twist of his lips. “You know I hate that. We’re between gentlemen here.”
The Bat-tank jolts and moves forward, ostentatiously crushing the flaming tail of the helicopter, which now lies wrecked across the trail. Dominik’s hand stays in place though.
Isiporho’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter. “I say the pup’s earned it.”
Dries’s tongue clicks in annoyance, but he relents and high-fives his disciple.
At last, Dominik places his hand back on the wheel with a self-satisfied smirk. “Since none of you are going to say it, I will: that was fucking awesome.”
FIFTEEN
SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST
We did pass a Russian border patrol a few miles east, probably sent to check on the gaping hole we left in their barbed wire fence. But there were three of them with only Kalashnikovs and a dog to defend their country, and, well, we had a Bat-tank. So they basically watched and pulled out their radios as we bulleted past them. I’m guessing that what happened there was something along the lines of, “Dude, I’m not paid enough for this shit.”
Dries seems confident that we’ll be “on schedule”�
�to quote him. He even retrieved a cigarillo from his breast pocket and is now busy slowly poisoning us under March’s disapproving eye. I don’t mind that much: there’s something familiar, almost comforting about the sweet tobacco smell tickling my nostrils, like a childhood memory maybe—except I don’t have any of those left, I remind myself bitterly.
It’s been less than half an hour since we crossed the border, and under the tracks, the ground has gotten smoother. It’s too dark outside to assess our surroundings clearly, but I’m not certain we’re on the trail anymore. The woods have thinned, and at the end of the snowy road illuminated by our headlights, I can make out some sort of field, a white plain that seems to stretch until it blends with the inky sky. There’s so many stars . . . I wonder if I’m seeing them for the first time. Was it that I never thought to look up, so numb that I was in my cage? Here, with the moon half-hidden behind distant trees, no clouds, and no light to distract my gaze, I’m spellbound, little more than a speck of dust under the infinity of the Milky Way.
I get too absorbed in my philosophical contemplation of the universe to notice the tank has stopped. March’s gentle tap on my shoulder pulls me out of my daze. “Island, we’re here.”
Here?
I nod, but to be honest, “here” is . . . nowhere. He helps me climb out of the Bat-tank, and once we’re standing at a safe distance, Isiporho arranges several loads of C-4 inside the vehicle. I watch him proceed with mild concern.
“We won’t be needing it any longer,” he explains, before pointing to the sky. “Look.”
I squint at the horizon. Surely, a dark shape is flying our way.
Isiporho grins. “Right on time.”
It’s not until I see the plane clearly that I understand that the white expanse surrounding us is in fact an abandoned airstrip, as evidenced by the presence of a crumbling control tower in the distance, leaning on a hangar I didn’t notice either because it’s slowly being devoured by the forest and buried under a layer of fresh snow.
We watch the plane touch ground effortlessly despite the powdery clouds engulfing it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it, with the engine placed atop the wings like that.
Next to me, Dries runs a hand across his face. “Where did he steal a Beriev?”
Isiporho shrugs. “Dikkenek works in mysterious ways . . .”
I look up at March. “Who’s that?”
His expression softens. “One of your Facebook friends.”
Okay. I used to cultivate ties to the criminal underworld on Facebook. I let that sink in. Deeply. A question forms on my lips, that I should have asked long ago. “March . . . ” I gulp. “I’m not really a software developer, am I? Was I, like, an undercover spy?” CIA, Mossad, DGSI? I shudder at the endless list of equally frightening possibilities. Do I secretly know karate? Maybe not. I got caught by Stiles too easily for that.
Before March can answer, uncontrollable laughter erupts from . . . Dominik.
“Dominik, my boy, you vex me,” Dries grumbles.
“Sorry, baas. It’s just . . .” Aannd he’s chuckling again, prompting Isiporho to do the same.
“No,” March eventually answers. “You’re a brilliant engineer . . . with a taste for adventure.”
“Trouble,” Isiporho corrects before his gaze darts over to our tank. Something seems to catch his attention—lights on the road. Oh shit, there’s a bunch of cars driving our way. His eyebrows knit in annoyance. “Dries.”
The culprit claps his hands. “Well, lady and gentlemen, now’s the time to run.”
I’m tempted to say, “Again?” but March takes my hand and drags me before I can voice any complaint. Our little group races toward the now-stationary Beriev while, behind us, voices bark in Russian—orders for us to stay where we are, I gather. A jolt of panic makes my legs work twice as fast when I hear gunshots . . . followed by an explosion—the tank. My legs falter and stumble before I catch myself; I nearly forgot about the C-4.
In the complete chaos that ensues, I glimpse a rudimentary ladder being deployed from the plane’s side, and before I know it, March’s hands are on my butt—helping me inside, actually. I fall face-first on a blue carpet in a dubious state of cleanliness. Dries hauls me to my feet . . . and that’s when we’re attacked by the dog.
Charging down the aisle with a terrifying bark is the fattest, ugliest bulldog I’ve ever laid my eyes on. And I’m pretty sure it’ll also be the last thing I’ll ever see, until an even louder bark explodes from the general direction of the cockpit: “Andrea! Zwijg!” Andrea! Be quiet!
The cerberus freezes at Dries’s feet, its tongue dangling and drooling in a disgusting manner. Now that it’s no longer trying to kill us, I notice the creature is wearing a knit Christmas sweater. On its back, snowmen and reindeers frolic among pines, and the red wool appears on the verge of ripping from the effort of containing “Andrea’s” jelly.
I feel March’s hands on my shoulders. “Don’t be afraid; he’s not dangerous, just a little . . .”
“Stupid.” Dominik sighs, slamming the plane’s door while, in the distance, a group of Russian soldiers runs toward the plane. Apparently they won’t give up, even if the tank’s explosion set one of their cars on fire.
Dries unceremoniously drops my ass in a row of blue-lined seats. “Buckle up, little Island.”
I obey, fighting the urge to curl up when Andrea sprawls his big butt at my feet, panting heavily. I breathe a sigh of modest relief when March sits next to me. At least I have a bodyguard in case that monster tries to lick my hand. The cabin starts to vibrate, and the plane speeds up fast on the snowy tarmac, the engine’s noise covering new gunshots coming from outside. I screw my eyes shut and block it all. I don’t want to know; I’m at the end of my rope, too drained, too scared. My stomach drops as the Beriev takes off. The plane draws a wide curve above the airfield, allowing me one last glimpse of the flaming vehicles on the ground and the soldiers hurrying around them.
It dawns on me that my wish came true after all: I left Ingolvinlinna.
“Where are we going?” I ask March, after we’ve reached our cruising altitude and the engine’s noise is down to a continuous hum.
“Constanta, in Romania.” He checks the black chronograph around his wrist. “We’ll land in four hours. Dries has a friend there who might be able to help with . . . what we saw on your X-rays.”
“Is he a real doctor, this time?” When March doesn’t answer and his brow lifts in puzzlement, I explain. “If Bentsen really put that device in my head and worked for Anies, I can’t believe any kind of medical college allowed that . . .”
“Well, she started out as a promising neurosurgeon, but her license was revoked by the Norwegian Directorate of Health fifteen years ago.”
Oh God . . . Bingo. “Why?”
Lines of concern form on March’s brow. “I can’t pretend to fully understand her research but . . . she was researching neuroinhibitors, allowing her to selectively manipulate long-term memory.”
As his words sink in, I feel a tingling sensation in my neck. I know my brain is probably messing with me, converting the fear simmering in my stomach into vivid hallucinations. But I can feel the spider moving inside me, and none of the deep breaths I take through my nose help. On the armrest, March’s hand tries to take mine; I snatch it away. I don’t want anyone to touch me.
“So she was researching memory erasure, and what happened?” I snap, staring intently at my lap.
“She was supposed to target traumatic memories in a test group of mentally ill patients, but she experimented extensively on them.”
“Like she did on me,” I rasp out.
“Yes.”
“Did any of them . . . recover?”
From across the aisle, I can feel Dries’s scrutiny on me as March says softly, “I don’t know.”
I feel nothing. I don’t know if I should be scared, angry, desperate, but the moment his words register, all I experience is a form of numbness, like I’
m disappearing. Running from Anies and Stiles at least had the merit of giving me some sort of immediate purpose. Back in the woods, being alive made sense because the alternative was imminent death. Now that I’m no longer in immediate danger—save for the way Andrea keeps sniffing my feet—I’m trying to think of what it means to start all over being so empty, what kind of life I’ll lead if I can never remember who I used to be, and really, I got nothing.
I look at March, and inside me something stirs. Anger. That sadness in his eyes, the way he seems to be constantly studying me, probing, waiting for some lighting strike that won’t happen: it makes me feels uncomfortable, angry, and that’s something already. A little anger is a good start, I decide, before I get up from my seat and squeeze past his legs into the aisle without meeting his gaze.
Dries watches me with a raised eyebrow. “Where are you going?”
I shrug in the cockpit’s general direction. “March said he was my Facebook friend.”
“Dikkenek?”
“Yeah, him.”
Already, March is rising from his seat. “Do you want me to take you to the cockpit?”
I ball my fists. “That’s approximately fifteen feet. I think I’ll manage, thank you.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his fingers twitch, but he doesn’t insist and lets me walk past Isiporho and Dominik toward the cockpit door. The former is apparently busy reviewing something on a laptop while the latter is getting his ass handed to him by a giant cupcake at Call of Duty: Candy War. Serves him right for surrendering to a life of crime, I cheer internally.
I catch Dries muttering behind my back to March in Afrikaans. “Gee haar ruimte . . .” Give her space . . .
Exactly. Too bad the evening’s only valuable piece of advice came from a dad with a rap sheet the size of Wikipedia.
I push the cockpit’s door carefully, and I’m immediately greeted by the smell of potato chips. I spot the empty bag, discarded on top of a dashboard that blinks and gleams in the dark with every color of the rainbow. Sprawled in the pilot’s chair is a blond giant I estimate to be in his late forties, early fifties at most. It’s probably been a while since he last sat in a barber’s chair, judging by the straw-like locks falling on his shoulders and the six-month beard.
