by Nancy Isaak
“We need to hurry,” urged Porter. “Before he wakes up!”
I turned back to Brandon. “You get down on your knees,” I hissed. “And you put your hands on that poor kid’s leg and you do exactly what Porter tells you. You do it now!!”
Slowly—reluctantly—Brandon knelt down.
* * * *
It was horrifying.
Just as Brandon pulled—Connor woke up.
The fractured bones in his legs crunched—moving into what Porter hoped would be the correct position.
Connor SCREAMED!
And then screamed some more…his body racked with tortured shaking.
Ignoring Connor’s struggles, Porter yelled at Brandon to pull even harder. The big guy increased his pressure, his face contorting from the effort.
There was a sudden SNAP!
“Stop!” cried Porter.
Brandon immediately let go.
* * * *
Connor’s leg still looked horrible.
But at least the bone wasn’t jutting out of the skin anymore.
Using two pieces of wood, Porter bound them to either side of Connor’s leg—rendering it more or less immobile. Then he took antiseptic pads and cleaned and dressed the wound as best he could, following the instructions from his medical book.
Finally—Porter taped both of Connor’s legs together, to try and keep the wounded limb from moving too much on the trip back home. Through all of this Connor moaned quietly, tears escaping from his eyes to roll down his cheeks. Even completely drunk, it was obvious that he was still in terrible pain.
* * * *
Back at the house, while Porter, Andrei, and Ian settled Connor into a room on the first level—I took a trip out to the guest house. I found Kieran and Brandon there, sitting on the veranda, drinking beer and smoking.
“You don’t get involved!” I warned Brandon, as I came up the stairs. “This is between brothers.”
“No worries,” he said, holding up his hands.
Kieran stood up as I walked forward. He looked scared.
“Bro,” he said.
But that’s all he said—because then I punched him. Hard—a right jab to the head.
He went down immediately. “What the hell, Jacob!”
I stuck my finger in his face. “This is your one warning, Kieran,” I said, furious. “Next time you’re out on your ass.”
Then, I turned and stalked off.
I didn’t speak to my middle brother for the next three days.
JOURNAL ENTRY #11
I’m really worried about the new kid.
Connor seems tough, but his leg doesn’t look very good at all. Porter says that if it gets any worse, we might have to cut it off. There are bits of the leg that are darkening right now. And if they turn any blacker, Porter says that it’ll be because the leg is dying.
Then—we’ll hack it off.
But let’s face it—we don’t have a hospital or even really know what we’re doing. Porter is figuring everything out as we go along, using that big medical book of his.
Sometimes he reminds me of how I made fun of his bringing books with him. But then I take one and whack him over the head with it—and he stops.
* * * *
One good bit of news is that I took a walk over to the Locals’ side of the Point for a little tete-a-tete with Ru. I still haven’t quite decided if he’s a good guy or a bad guy. But he did give Porter and me temporary access to the pharmacy next to Pavilions. We immediately went over and picked up some antibiotics and pain relievers for Connor.
We’re hoping that they might help.
JOURNAL ENTRY #12
Poor Connor—he’s been unresponsive for most of today. Just moving his head back and forth. And moaning.
His leg looks really bad—much worse than yesterday. There is a line of black infection heading up from the wound. Porter has drawn a mark just above it. He says that if the ‘black’ moves past the pen mark in the next couple of hours, we’re going to have to cut off Connor’s leg.
Porter is down in the backyard right now, preparing—sterilizing some knives in a big pot of boiling water on the barbeque.
JOURNAL ENTRY #13
While everyone else slept, Porter and I waited through the night, watching that black line of infection. It went right up to the pen mark that Porter had made, as if kissing it obscenely—then slowly moved backwards—inch-by-inch.
Porter thinks that the antibiotics might have finally taken hold. He says that if Connor can make it through the next few days, he thinks that the worst part should probably be over.
Right now, the kid is still unconscious.
We haven’t even given him any alcohol for the last day and a half. It’s simply the trauma of his wound that is keeping him out right now.
* * * *
I’m still so fricking angry with Kieran and Brandon.
What were they thinking—taking a shotgun to this kid’s leg?! Plus, they break it and then they just walk away, leaving him lying there!
Idiots!
* * * *
Andrei has been a big help with Connor.
The rest of the guys seem either too scared or too creeped out by the oozing wound to be of much assistance to Porter and me. Instead, it’s been Andrei who runs back and forth—bringing us food and water—helping us clean out the wound and change the bandage.
This morning I asked him how come the blood and the pus doesn’t bother him.
“It does bother me,” he said. “I hate it.”
That surprised me.
“Then why are you helping?” I asked. “Everybody else is staying away.”
“That’s exactly why,” he said. “Because if I don’t help, then it will be just you and Porter and that’s not fair.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agreed.
“My mom always says that it’s not words that count—it’s actions.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a good mom there, bud.” I reached out and rubbed the top of his head, grateful.
With a scowl, he shoved my hand away. “White boy,” he scolded me. “Don’t be touching a brother’s hair.”
“But I wasn’t…” I began.
“Just kidding,” he grinned. “Don’t worry, Jacob. I’m not stupid like that.”
Reaching out, I whipped my arm around him, pulling him in close and giving him a noogie on the top of his head. He burst into laughter.
“Nice,” said a quiet voice.
Andrei and I both froze, looking down at Connor. He was staring up at us—his green eyes wide-open and alert.
“Hey, bud,” I smiled. “You certainly had us scared.”
Andrei immediately took off running—in search of Porter.
“My leg hurts,” said Connor.
“That’s the good news,” I said. “It means that we managed to save it.”
“Where am I?” Connor asked, looking around.
“You don’t remember?”
He shook his head.
“You’re with us, dude,” I said. “You’re part of our family, now.”
“Cool,” he said, yawning.
Then, he went back to sleep.
THE VISITOR
Connor seemed to be quieter than our other boys—but he still fit in well.
Because his leg was healing, he didn’t move very fast. Instead, he limped around the mansion, taking stock of his surroundings one room at a time.
Like Porter, he enjoyed reading and I’d often find him in the library, running his fingers along the spines of the books.
The other thing he enjoyed was being on watch duty up on the roof.
To make it easier on him, I pulled the big leather chair over next to the eaves. Connor would sit there for hours, staring out at the Point and the ocean.
* * * *
“It looks pretty quiet out there.”
Connor nodded. “It’s always quiet these days.”
There was a folding chair next to the wall and I pulled it over to s
it beside him. “How’s your leg doing?”
“Better.”
That was Connor’s way of saying that it still hurt, but he wasn’t going to complain about it. I liked that about the kid. He was easy to get along with and never seemed to have a problem with anybody or anything.
“Got a question for you, bud.” I said. Connor didn’t say a word—just waited. “How’d you wind up with Ru in the first place?”
Connor sighed—turning to look in the direction of the Locals’ houses. “We’re not really from here, you know…from Malibu.”
“We figured as much. Where are you from?”
“There’s this apartment building, down near Pico in Santa Monica. We’re all from around there. Except for Joe. We picked him up around Topanga Canyon. I think he came down from the San Fernando Valley.”
“How come you guys came here?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?” he grinned. “We all lived in tiny little apartments in the city. The closest we ever came to the good life was driving past on the way to Oxnard. When the thing happened, Ru told us we had a choice. We could be Locals in Santa Monica or we could be Locals in Malibu.” He shrugged—a little embarrassed. “We wanted to live in mansions.”
“Was there anybody here when you came?” I asked. “On the Point?”
“Probably, but we didn’t see anybody. We just moved into those houses over on the cliff and that became our home.”
“Ru said that some guys came through.”
“A couple of times,” he nodded. “Once there was a crew of about fifteen—up from South Central. That was scary.”
“What happened?”
“They were big guys and a couple of them had guns,” he said. “But Ru was smarter. We got them surrounded and told them they had a choice—leave or die. They left.”
“Nobody was hurt?”
“Not that time.” Connor shook his head. “The second time, though—a kid got killed. It was horrible.” He shuddered. “This time the guys came down Kanan-Dume. There were three of them.”
I had a sudden thought. “Were they wearing orange?” I asked.
He nodded. “Two of them were. The other one was dressed normal—just jeans and a t-shirt.”
“Was one of them a Hispanic guy, big fellow—with a scar across his cheek like this?” I demonstrated with my hand.
Connor shook his head. “No…I would have remembered someone like that. These guys were smaller, a little taller than me and white. They all had machetes, though. We caught them going into Pavilions. When Ru told them they had to go, one of them came at Ru with his machete. Joe killed him. He shot the kid right in the face.”
“What happened to the other two?”
“They took off. We didn’t see them after that.”
We were quiet for a while, just watching the scenery. Over on the far cliff, I could see some of the Locals moving about in their territory.
“Connor,” I said, carefully. “Do you think that Ru really would have killed you?”
“No,” he said. “But Joe would have…no doubt.”
“Just because you were wounded?”
He didn’t answer; instead, he just shrugged—and looked hurt.
* * * *
Two days later, Rhys, Ian, and Andrei went down to Little Dume to play in the surf.
They came home bearing tans—and a visitor.
* * * *
His name was Max and he was a big African-American dude, with long dreadlocks down to his waist and multiple hoops in both of his earlobes. He had been kayaking down the coastline from San Francisco and had seen our boys on the beach.
Not wanting to frighten them, he had paddled in place for twenty minutes—talking across the waves to them—waiting until our guys felt comfortable enough to allow him to come ashore.
Rhys then had promptly issued an invitation to dinner, which Max had been delighted to accept.
* * * *
Wester absolutely loved Max.
He followed him around like a puppy, touching his big muscles and his long dreads. Max returned the favor, throwing Wester into the air as if he weighed no more than a feather.
Watching them play together, I worried that Wester might want to go with Max when he left.
And I wondered if I had the right to forbid it.
But it never came to that.
Especially when Max explained why he was kayaking the coastline.
* * * *
“I’ll be eighteen in twenty-six days,” he said solemnly at supper that night.
We had barbequed another of the canned hams and Porter had made us some french fries to go with it. Brandon and Kieran, meanwhile, had pulled a watermelon from one of the neighborhood gardens. Along with some canned pears and peaches, we’d made a nice fruit salad for dessert.
“What does that have to do with your coming down the coast?” I asked.
He looked surprised. “You don’t know, do you?”
We all went quiet. Even the younger boys stopped their pushing and shoving to listen.
“What don’t we know?” I asked.
“I’ve paddled from San Francisco down to here—stopped a good ten, fifteen times along the way to talk to people, have dinner with good guys like yourselves.”
He took a swig from the beer in his hand, finishing the bottle. Brandon immediately reached into a carton at his side and handed Max another.
“Thanks,” said Max, continuing. “So, here’s the thing…it’s all dudes everywhere. No females. And no young ones under seven, no older ones over eighteen.”
Porter gasped. “Oh my god…something happens when you turn eighteen, doesn’t it?”
Max nodded. “You’re gone. Poof—just like that! One minute you’re there, one minute you’re not.”
“Holy crap,” whispered Kieran.
“Holy crap indeed,” said Max, lifting his beer to his lips and taking a sip. “So, now I figure that I’ve got twenty-six days left to see as much of this beautiful country as I can. And, hopefully, meet some amazing and interesting people along the way.” He reached out and gave Wester a gentle punch in the shoulder. The kid just beamed.
“Dude,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
Max shrugged. “We’ve all got to turn eighteen. Mine’s just coming earlier than most.”
* * * *
We were all hoping that Max would stay with us at least overnight. But we also understood when he said that he wanted to move on—even Wester.
“You’ll be fine, kid,” he said, giving Wester a massive hug. “But I got to tell you, man—you be sporting some stinky dreads there, bro.”
“It’s my fault,” I said, embarrassed. “I’m not really sure what to do with them.”
Max put a friendly arm around my shoulder. “Jacob, you’ve done something pretty substantial here. You don’t have anything to feel bad about. Little bro’s got ratty dreads and no way to care for them. So the solution is easy, my friend. Just cut them off.”
I was shocked. “I can’t…I mean—it’s his hair. His sister does it for him. Like it’s important to him.”
“Hey, Wester,” called Max, “those dreads gots to go, my man. You okay with that?”
“Sure, Max,” beamed Wester.
Max looked back at me, grinning. “And that’s how you do it, white boy.”
* * * *
Brandon, Kieran, Porter, and I walked Max out to Little Dume. I suggested that Max might want to consider at least camping on the beach. But he was itching to continue on—see as much of the coastline as he could before he was gone.
“I was seriously hoping there might be vampires or zombies,” grouched Brandon—as we walked down the stairs to the beach. “You sure you didn’t see anything like that?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Max laughed. “No supernatural beings. Just the situation.”
“With everybody you talked to,” asked Porter, “did anybody have any idea of what actually happened?”
Max shook his head. “Same id
eas everywhere—government conspiracy, terrorism, bomb, killer flu, alien invasion—nobody knows.”
“And definitely no chicks?” Brandon persisted.
“No chicks. Not a one. Sorry.”
“Bummer.”
We reached the bottom of the beach. Max’s kayak was right where he left it, tucked in behind some rocks. I handed him a care package we’d made up—some food, a couple of beers, and a picture that Wester had drawn of all of us.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “You take care of that little brother.”
“Absolutely,” I said, shaking his hand.
He shook back, then pulled me in for a quick hug. “Good job, Jacob. You keep these boys together, you hear.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all any of us can do,” Max grinned.
Then, dragging the kayak into the surf, he got inside. We moved forward, helping to push him out into the waves. His little boat rose and fell with every swell, sometimes disappearing completely into the trough.
Brandon and Kieran turned and walked away.
Porter and I stayed on the beach, watching, until Max and his kayak eventually disappeared from sight.
“We’re only going to live until we’re eighteen,” whispered Porter, sadly.
I put my arm around his shoulder and walked with him toward the stairs. “Well then, bro,” I said, “let’s make these next couple of years really worth it!”
