by Nancy Isaak
Porter suddenly came gasping along the trail. He looked horrified to see Nate still on top of the cliff. “Get…him…down!” he panted. “Hurry!”
I looked at all the waiting, expectant faces.
One in particular—Xavier’s—sent me moving. The tiny redheaded kid looked absolutely stricken, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Let’s do this!” I exclaimed—rushing toward the edge of the cliff.
* * * *
I will not lie—I was absolutely terrified!
While Nate had been secured to the ropes by the block and tackle, I simply had to hang on tight. In reality, I kind of rode Nate—in an uncomfortable and embarrassing position. I remember thinking how absurd I must look—and that I was so very glad that my humiliation wasn’t going to be posted onto YouTube.
“How fast do you want to get down there?” called Ru. He was at the edge of the cliff, picking up the end of a lever attached to a winch—which, in itself, was attached to the rope that secured the tackle.
“Boot it!” I yelled.
Ru smiled, then—one of those grins people make when they’re up to no good. And he pushed the lever forward—not slowly, but all at once.
Nate and I dropped—fast!!
* * * *
The freefall lasted only a few seconds, although it seemed like much longer. Thankfully, I didn’t scream—at least, out loud.
Inside my head—however—I was squealing like a little baby.
At the bottom, I quickly jumped off of Nate—on very shaky legs—and unhooked him from the tackle. Cleared of the contraption, I waved upward.
Seconds later, the tackle began to ascend.
“Okay, dude,” I said to the Nate-burrito on the ground beside me. “Let’s go surfing!”
It took some doing, but once I had him over my shoulder—fireman-style—Nate wasn’t that difficult to carry. I couldn’t run very well, but I could jog. When I hit the sand, however, I was forced into a kind of hopping-quick walk.
Not very efficient—but I still got him there in less than a minute.
* * * *
The blue-green waves of Zuma were right in front of me.
God, but I loved this beach!
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, carrying Nate into the water. “Zuma will take care of you. You’ll see.”
His sheets immediately became waterlogged and heavy, threatening to pull him down. Undoing the bindings, I let them fall to the ocean floor.
I held Nate—cradling him like a baby—as I walked him farther out.
“Not much here today,” I told him. “Surf is kind of weak and mushy. Tide’s too high. Works well for us, though—don’t have to walk so far.”
Looking down, I saw that Nate had finally stopped shaking. He seemed so small in my arms, so fragile. The gentle waves swirled around him, feathering his hair, washing away his sweat and grime.
If anything—he looked ‘pretty’.
“Dude,” I urged him. “Time to man up.”
* * * *
Porter and Xavier joined us five minutes later.
They had come down together on the tackle. I was astonished—still am—that Porter would actually attempt such a dangerous stunt. But there they both were, wading out to meet us.
“How’s he doing?” asked Porter, stumbling to remain upright in the surf.
“You tell me.”
Unzipping a fanny pack, Porter reached in and pulled out his thermometer. He stuck it in Nate’s mouth and Xavier immediately moved into position to hold it in place.
“I can tell right now that his temperature has gone down,” said Porter, his hand against Nate’s head. “He feels a whole lot cooler.”
“He stopped shaking a couple of minutes ago,” I reported.
“Is he going to be okay?” asked Xavier, looking worried.
“I don’t know,” said Porter, honestly. “But, at least now he’s got a better chance than before. I’m still worried that he’s been unconscious for so long, though.”
Xavier used his free hand to wipe a stray hair out of his brother’s face. “That’s just because he’s such a lazy bones,” he said, fondly. “Nate always likes to sleep in. Mom gets really mad because Nate will sleep all day if he could. Dad says it’s because he’s going through a growing spurt.”
Porter pulled the thermometer out of Nate’s mouth and held it up, squinting against the sun to read it.
“Well?” I asked, impatient.
“Almost normal,” he grinned.
* * * *
It might have taken us only a few seconds to get down the cliff, but it took us almost forty-five minutes to get back up. Exhausted, we trudged up the curling, ever-ascending road that led up from the beach—pulling Nate along in the back of a child’s wagon that Ru had dropped down on the tackle.
Once we got to the top of the cliff, we still had another half hour’s walk before we reached Ru’s houses. As we came around that final corner and saw the junction leading to the Locals’ compound ahead, we were all dead-tired and more than a little cranky.
Until we heard it…
“Hey, Xav…” The voice was faint and raspy.
I wasn’t the only one who wondered if I was imagining it. Then, I saw our little redhead turn and look down at his brother.
“Hey, Nate,” Xavier whispered—beginning to cry.
Best moment of the day—absolutely!
* * * *
Just before dusk, Porter and I walked back to our house alone.
Ru had wanted to come with us—or at least send some guys to accompany us like an honor guard—but Porter and I had wanted to be by ourselves.
It had been a long, weird day for both of us.
“I think you saved a life today, dude,” I commented. “That kid might be dead now if it weren’t for you.”
“If it weren’t for you, too,” he yawned.
Our house was just ahead, on the left. I climbed up on the mailbox and onto the top of the wall. Porter followed, barely holding onto my arm for balance. He was getting much better at this.
“Were you scared going down that rope?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Piece of cake,” I lied. “How about you?”
“Honestly,” he said, “peed my pants a little.”
“Me, too,” I nodded.
We jumped down to the ground and started walking toward the mansion.
“Maybe we should keep that part to ourselves,” suggested Porter.
“Good idea.”
* * * *
We stopped in the kitchen for a quick glass of water, then headed up to the second floor. Gloves and masks were put in place; seconds later—we were standing in Rhys’ room with Connor giving us an update.
“I think he’s getting better, but I’m not certain,” said Connor. “It’s just been too soon since we gave him his first dose.”
Porter laid the back of his hand against Rhys’ forehead. “I’m not feeling any fever.”
Connor shook his head. “I’ve been taking his temperature on the hour and it’s remained pretty constant.”
“Has he been awake at all?”
“Woke up about an hour ago. Kieran fed him some more soup.”
“Excellent,” said Porter, pleased. “What about the rest of the guys?”
“Doing even better than Rhys.”
* * * *
I found Kieran, sitting by himself up on the roof. “It’s not your watch, is it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s Brandon’s.”
“And you’re taking it for him? After being with Rhys all day?”
Kieran shrugged his shoulders.
Sighing, I sat down beside him. “Dude, what the heck is going on with you guys?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, come on—he’s such a bad influence on you—pierced ears, tattoos, bad poetry on supermarket walls.”
He looked up at me, surprised.
“They were in their rights to shoot you, bud,�
� I said, very seriously.
“We were just fooling around.”
“The type of fooling around that could get you killed!”
“Is that why you came up here, Jacob?” he asked. “To bust my balls?”
I calmed myself down—somewhat.
“Kieran, I’m just worried about you, bro.”
“Well, you can stop,” he said. “I’m a big boy.”
“But it’s just—he’s making you do all these bad things.”
Kieran turned toward me, frustrated. “Have you ever considered, bro—that maybe I’m the one who’s making him do it?”
* * * *
I don’t know.
Maybe Kieran is the instigator; or maybe he just wants to think he is.
It doesn’t change things.
For me, the reality is that Brandon is the bad guy here.
And I hate the kid…I really do.
GOING, GOING, GONE
Two days later—all our guys were either completely healed or close to it.
And, over at the Locals, the same thing was happening.
You would have thought that this would have made Porter happy. Instead, he turned into a raging obsessive compulsive, determined that we do everything to assure ourselves that this type of thing would never happen again.
I guess the ‘sickness’ had really scared Porter.
Under his direction, all the pillowcases and sheets were stripped from the beds and washed in the creek. Then they were hung in the sun—for at least nine hours. For whatever reason, Porter had decided that this was the exact amount of time needed for the sun to burn away any infectious properties.
‘Hygiene Rules’ were then implemented.
Hands needed to be washed before and after each meal. All bodily functions had to be conducted only in the bathroom area. No one was allowed to cough or sneeze without covering their mouth and nose with their arm—not their hand—their arm!
The list of rules went on and on.
In all honesty—they were the same rules my mother had always tried to instill in myself and my brothers.
But we were boys—and we were living wild.
Rules? We didn’t think so!
* * * *
When Porter discovered the enormous pile of dirty clothes in one of the empty rooms of our mansion, he was livid. Apparently, some of the guys had been tossing their clothes in there instead of doing the laundry. Opening the door had released a stench that permeated the house for days.
Immediately, Porter made us all put on gloves and masks and carry the clothes out into the back of the yard. Luckily, he didn’t make us wash them. Instead, we just threw the clothes over the fence into the neighbor’s yard.
However, we also had to go back into the house and—using bleach—disinfect the whole room. We all thought Porter was nuts, frankly, but we also did what he wanted.
Because he was our doctor.
* * * *
Brandon, however—did not take part.
Instead, he disappeared for a good five days. Where he went, we had no idea. Kieran simply reported that his backpack was gone and so was he.
Personally, I hoped that he would never return.
But he did come back—bearing a bloody scab across the side of his neck and a self-satisfied grin. He told everyone that he had gone down Pacific Coast Highway, checking the shops and pharmacies—looking for medicines.
Unfortunately, Brandon said—everything had already been taken.
Kieran believed him.
I did not.
* * * *
On the last day of March, Ru invited Porter and me to join the rest of his guys—watching Joe in the cage—as time inexorably marched toward Joe’s eighteenth birthday.
It felt weird and intrusive—sitting on the chairs they’d set up—watching a caged kid wait out his fate.
Joe was locked inside the bars—an armed guard on each side. Ru, meanwhile, paced outside the cage—around and around, looking extremely worried.
“I wonder how long we’ll have to wait,” Porter asked, quietly.
“Don’t know,” I said. “But Ru told me that Joe was born sometime after midnight.”
Porter looked down at the wind-up watch on his wrist. “If I’ve got the time right, we’re minutes away.”
But Porter was wrong.
He had forgotten about Daylight Saving’s Time.
Midnight had already come and gone.
APRIL
JOURNAL ENTRY #21
In the movies or on television, strange events are always accompanied by a noise. Or a flash of light—or the whoosh of the wind.
But it didn’t happen like that.
Instead—it was as if we all blinked at once. Our eyes closed and then they opened—
Literally—a fraction of a second was all it had taken.
Joe was gone.
Disappeared.
* * * *
I wonder now—who will it be? The last boy standing.
Will it be one of our guys? Perhaps Ethan or Wester?
Or will it be some boy far across the world—a little kid in China, a boy in Africa, a 7-year old in Russia—one single boy aging steadily toward the extinction of his entire species.
And when that last boy disappears—who will mourn him when he’s gone?
For the earth will be silent—empty of humanity.
* * * *
I used to count the days to my next birthday with excitement.
Now, it’s with fear.
It is exactly 186 days until my 18th birthday.
The countdown to my disappearance has begun.
WHALE SONG
We decided to take a day off from it all—the drama, the absurdity, the fear—and head down to Little Dume for some fun at the beach. Everyone joined in, except Porter and Connor, who were spending the day at Ru’s.
Porter had plans for the reorganization of all of the medications—putting them on shelves in specific categories according to their uses. Connor was going along to help him—and to make his peace with Ru and his former tribe.
* * * *
I had hoped that Brandon would also have had a reason not to join us. Unfortunately, he came—spending part of the afternoon at the far end of the beach, teaching Wester and Ethan how to administer the perfect roundhouse kick.
Meanwhile, the rest of us—Kieran, Rhys, Ian, Andrei, and I—laid on towels on the sand; we were enjoying the warmth of the sun on our backs after spending the last two hours of surfing and boogie boarding.
“Hooyah!” Brandon yelled, as Wester spun around, his leg in the air—almost connecting with Ethan’s chin.
“What color belt does Brandon have?” asked Ian, impressed.
“I don’t know,” I yawned, half-asleep. “Purple, I think.”
“It’s brown,” corrected Kieran, from beside me. “He was going to be testing for his black belt this summer.”
“Bummer,” said Andrei, reaching into his backpack and pulling out a soda. He pulled on the metal tab and it fizzed up, cascading down over his hand. “I miss ice,” he said, sucking up the dribbles. “Warm soda just doesn’t taste as good as cold.”
“You need to put all the soda into one backpack,” instructed Rhys. “Then you tie a rope around it and put it in the water. That’ll get everything cold.”
I nodded. “Our dad always does that when we go camping.”
“That’s genius!” declared Andrei.
He started going through everyone’s backpacks, pulling out sodas and waters—shoving them into his own. Moments later, he was racing down to the edge of the beach, towing the backpack along the sand behind him.
Rhys, Kieran, and I sat up to watch.
“How long until he figures it out, do you think?” asked Kieran, curious.
Andrei had reached the surf and was standing there—backpack in hand—looking confused.
“Five seconds,” guessed Rhys.
Suddenly, Andrei turned and raced back up toward us, stumbl
ing along the sand dunes. “I need some rope,” he gasped, when he finally reached us.
“Attached to the back of my pack.” I said, pointing.
Andrei raced to it and untied the rope. Then, backpack in one hand, rope in the other, he turned and raced back to the water.
“He’s got what—five, ten feet of rope there,” asked Kieran.
“Fifteen,” I said.
Ian sat up, turning around to look at Andrei at the water’s edge. “Why are you guys watching him like that?” he asked. “What’s he doing?”
“Right about now,” murmured Rhys. “Feeling pretty stupid.”
“And there it is!” Kieran crowed, as Andrei turned and came back toward us. He didn’t run this time—he trudged.
“What’s shaking?” I asked, when he slumped down on the sand beside us.
“Nothing to tie it to,” he grunted. “Stupid idea.”
“Dude, seriously,” I admonished him. “You’re giving up? Just like that.”
He shrugged—frustrated.
I pushed at him. “Empty the sandwiches out of my pack,” I told him. “Go over there and fill it with rocks. The weighted pack on the beach—the pack with the sodas in the water.”
“The rope in between!” exclaimed Andrei, getting it. “That’s double-genius!”
