by David Jurk
I walked on, through the lushness of the central courtyard, the fragrances spawning memories, to the western side of the hotel, nearer the pool. And it was there, crossing the broad walkway underneath the redwood arbors that I found the first bodies. Two men, Hawaiians I thought, lay spread eagled on the pavement, their heads nearly severed from their bodies – presumably by a single stroke of some very substantial, very sharp blade. The blood-blackened wounds grinned at me like huge mouths, heads hinged back and held by little more than a flap of skin. Flies covered the wounds and clustered wetly around eyes and lips. It was grotesque, sickening, and I quickly turned away and walked on.
The pool, too, held a body. An older woman, obese to begin with, had been turned into an obscene, pale giant; her body becoming an expanding, fleshy envelope of gases as she rotted.
Passing the pool with its bloated body and water gone green and murky as quickly as I could, I came to the lower lobby, crossed along the marble walk toward the reception area, and came to yet more devastation. The café bar was completely overturned onto the walkway, the restaurant where Rachel and I had routinely eaten breakfast torn to pieces, tables overturned, pots and pans strewn about in a sea of trash.
The thought struck me that the hotel was dead, as dead as the rest of the civilized world was on its way to becoming. There were no people to walk out onto those balconies, to smell the salt sweetness of the breeze. But this crescent of beach, this soft, slow, calm place of sea and sand and breeze was here before we came, and it will be here still, after this all rots away into the Hawaiian soil. And a phrase suddenly came to me from boyhood, from the memory of despised Saturday mornings at Catechism class before my mother finally relented and released me from it. Was it Ecclesiastes?
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever.
Yes, well, in this case there may not be another generation, and it occurred to me that it might prove difficult to argue that the Earth wouldn’t be the better for it.
Reaching the lobby, I found it wide open and bright, natural light flooding in from skylights and broad open-air arches. The magnificent mahogany outrigger on display in the center of the large room was also as I remembered, and still thankfully untouched; at least twenty meters long and darkly powerful, the fine, rich wood glowed with the lacquer of time itself.
The lobby was empty otherwise – the registration and concierge desks unmanned and undisturbed; it was as if the people just stepped away for a moment, called to other duties. There was no trash, no evidence of chaos or violence – and thankfully, no bodies. I turned and considered the big canoe again. I imagined it had been restored at very great expense, no doubt in the belief that it was the perfect Hawaiian icon, the very epitome of what the hotel intended to convey of itself; power, elegance and timelessness. Surely it was never intended to ever sail the sea again. And now - how long would it rest here before it fell to dust?
The only buildings I’d not already gone past were the two westward wings which held the rooms with the best beach access. It was where Rachel and I had stayed, and a perverse part of me wanted to get close to it, to poke at the wound in my soul. So, I walked through the palms, then along the walkway that led down toward the beach. But I never reached it. A wisp of voice came to me on the breeze and I stood frozen, straining to hear. Rachel?
There was nothing but silence, and I took several hesitant steps. Then again; soft, faint sounds that became words. No, not Rachel.
“Help, please…here.”
It seemed to be coming from somewhere in front of me, in one of the rooms. A patio door stood open no more than two meters away and I entered, expecting to find someone but the room was empty, and I went straight through to the hallway. Looking up and down the hall, I listened but there was nothing more. I saw that the door next to me was propped open with a folding chair, something odd enough that I walked over to it, pulled it open and looked in.
Two beds; the first piled high with blankets. The second, the bed furthest from me, held two people. A man lay still under a sheet, eyes closed, face so pale it was nearly translucent in the light from the windows. Next to him, sitting on the edge of the bed, was a woman wearing nothing but a sheer nightdress. She might’ve been in her fifties, but her face was so drawn, her age seemed to me measured in something other than years. She sat half-turned toward me, her expression a mixture of destruction and something else…a faint curiosity?
We stared at one another and it occurred to me how grotesquely alien I must look in the suit and respirator. I felt foolish, like I’d dressed for a masquerade while she sat completely vulnerable, exposed.
“Hello,” I said. “Are you…”
“Dear god,” she breathed, like a sigh. She started to rise. I saw her eyes as they found the gun at my hip and her hands rose to her mouth unbidden, like a pair of small, startled doves flushed from cover.
“Oh my,” she said, and managed to get to her feet. The nightdress was so sheer she may as well have been naked. Her body was deeply flushed, her skin mottled. Sweat dripped between her flaccid breasts. I watched as she struggled for breath.
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. This…” – and I motioned vaguely at the pistol – “is only for protection. I’m…I heard you call out.” She stared at me.
“You’re not from the government.”
“No,” I said. “No, no. I just, I’m here on a boat. From…from San Diego.”
“San Diego,” she repeated. Her chest worked at a breath. “Are you… is there any help?”
I watched her, watched her eyes. She stared at me with a level direct gaze, intelligent and aware. She knew where she stood and what she faced.
“No,” I told her. “I don’t think so.”
She nodded.
I’m alone,” I went on. “Just a survivor.”
“A survivor,” she repeated, as if I’d said I was a Martian.
“Yes. I…I’m just trying to find food.”
She nodded again, and we were both silent for a while as she fought the thing that had taken over her lungs.
“Have you found any?” she asked finally.
“Food?”
She nodded heavily, and I took the pack off, pulling out the cheese and bread, and one of the water bottles, hesitated, then laid them on the bed nearest me.
“I brought this with me,” I said softly.
“Do you need it?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I have enough for now.”
“Thank you, then.”
I looked at her, saw her glance down at the man. It occurred to me that there was one thing I could give her, if she wanted it. I did not take the time to wonder whether I was capable of it if she did.
“Is there…anything I can do to make it go easier?” I asked.
She stared at me in silence so long that I thought she hadn’t understood. But she had.
“No thank you,” she replied at last. A flicker of something passed her eyes. “Much too violent.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to say and began backing out of the room.
“I’m leaving now,” I said. Somehow, I felt ashamed. I had no idea why.
“Thank you for that.” She nodded weakly toward the food I’d left on the bed. “And… good luck.” Her mouth bent briefly in a faint smile and I saw suddenly a wife, here with her husband. Perhaps they’d come here to paradise for an anniversary – let’s say the twenty-fifth; enough reason for a special celebration, a long-planned trip. Except the virus had been here, waiting for her - for both of them.
Our eyes met again. There was a grace about her, an undeniable dignity. She would die with that much intact. And at least, I thought, glancing at the cheese and bread, she wouldn’t die hungry.
I turned and walked out of the room without a word, heading back toward the lobby, finished with any further exploration. If there were more people in the hotel, I didn’t want to see them. I had no help for any of them. And the hotel k
itchen, the pantry? I needed food. Perhaps so, but more than food I desperately needed to be free of this place, free of this horror, free of the dead and dying.
Retracing my steps to the lobby, I took one last look at the great canoe, then climbed the two flights up the dead escalator to the reception area at the hotel’s entrance. At the top, I turned and stared back down the long, empty stairway which seemed now to descend into emptiness, disappearing into an unlit nether world.
I turned my back to it and walked toward the brightness of the open door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT WAS WONDERFUL to be bathed in light, to feel the brilliant sunshine pouring through the open-air reception area. I stepped through the trash that covered the floor without thinking about it, past the concierge desk and out to the walkway, thrilled to feel the breeze. The circular drive that served the hotel entrance was choked with cars, some still parked neatly along the curb, others in utter chaos, doors open, clothing strewn about.
I stood for a moment trying to devise a plan, wanting to focus on finding food and getting back to the boat. What point was there in anything else? If there were more people alive in the hotel, what could I do for them?
I looked around, remembering the shops across Rice Street, east of the hotel. An easy walk, but I saw no point in taking the time – they were oriented to hotel guests and cruise ships, selling souvenirs and junk food. A few restaurants, yes, but small and unlikely to have much food. And if the hotel shops were looted, it seemed likely to me they would be too.
But then, where should I search? What made sense? A warehouse, perhaps; a distribution center or a drone deployment facility, if I could find one. And failing that, I thought perhaps a larger store, one with their own security – enough that they might’ve been able to forestall some of the initial looting. Something like Walmart, maybe? The more I thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. Unless they’d stayed on a generator, there’d be no possibility of fresh fruit or dairy, of course, but getting a healthy supply of dry goods and canned food would be enough for now, enough to let me figure things out.
I needed to get into town. I needed a car.
Well the place was packed with them, and my first thought was just to start searching them for keys. But once on the sidewalk, I noticed the valet stand and it occurred to me to do it exactly the reverse – keys first, then the car. I walked over to it, saw on the wall behind the desk an old-fashioned pegboard with hooks. On the hooks were dozens of key fobs - each tagged with what I assumed was a parking location and the guest’s room number. Looking them over, one leapt out at me; gaudy red leather with a Porsche logo and I grabbed it and walked outside. The main parking lot was to my left, the last several rows of which were cordoned off for valet parking. The spaces were numbered and within a few minutes, I found it. It was, in a word, gorgeous.
In some respects, I’d been hoping it was one of the fuel cell models – the 911H would be nice - so I’d not have to worry about gas, but it was one of the classics, a gas engine version, a flat six. I got in and laying the fob in a storage pocket, pressed the On button. Would the battery still have a charge? Oh yes. The dash - a digital, all-glass display - came alive. Fuel was nearly full.
Then, despite everything, despite the horror of the plague and what it had done to this island, despite the dying woman in the hotel room, despite packs of dogs and worry about food, I was a teenage boy again, about to kiss a girl for the first time. There was a voice in me, chastising me, scolding me - but it was weak, entirely unable to overwhelm the smell of leather, the embrace of the seat, the feel of the gearshift. I was nervous. I pushed the clutch in, hesitated, and punched Start and the music began.
For a few seconds, everything dropped away, and I sat there in some poor dead bastard’s Porsche and just let myself be thrilled by the symphony thundering from the exhaust. There’s a reason, I told myself, why some people still loved internal combustion engines. Or did.
I found the window controls and lowered them; the sound rose, filled the car, filled me. My toes stabbed forward, let up, stabbed again; it was like being a conductor, like being a god. For a few wonderful moments, I was so thrilled with anticipation I could hardly breathe. But the heavy pistol bulged awkwardly against my hip in the narrow seat and the respirator became terribly uncomfortable with the sun streaming through the windshield, and eventually I sighed, and shut the engine off.
Climbing out, I unstrapped the holster and pulled off the respirator and put them both in the passenger seat before climbing back in. I started the engine again, this time with a bit less flourish, and shifted into first. As I did, I caught sight of my watch; nearly two hours had gone by since leaving Windswept; it felt like ten minutes. All right then, I thought, time to move!
That’s when I learned that a Porsche didn’t drive like my pickup. Alternately stalling the engine and fishtailing the rear end, I finally made it out of the parking lot, but not before sideswiping two cars and running over several traffic cones. Ah, but that sound! I finally learned to be a bit more judicious with the accelerator and got out on the road, heading by memory toward Lihue.
There was nothing; no traffic, no other drivers, no signal lights, no police, no radar, no traffic laws. This lovely car and all the money it represented; in a few months the tires will rot, the gas will spoil, the interior will become moldy and rust will bloom underneath the beautiful paint – a little at first, then as it finds a beachhead, it will accelerate and molecule by molecule it will metamorphose the car into oxidized ore. All the science and human progress that this car represents will be lost, rendered irrelevant and forgotten; a chapter of history no one will be left to read.
Fuck that, I thought. Whatever else was going on, here, in this moment I was driving a Porsche. Enjoy it.
I was running mainly north, out of Kalapaki Beach, then northeast on Rice Street into Lihue. For the first few blocks it was mostly an area of light industry and the buildings around me, if I didn’t look too closely, appeared normal. With no electricity, the signal lights were all dead, but habit was still very much alive; it took several intersections before I could completely ignore them and just power through without thinking about it. The breeze filling the car was perfume and the sound of the engine echoed back from the street and buildings, and until we reached the town proper, I lived joyously in the illicit, fanciful illusion the Porsche offered me.
It did occur to me, briefly, to wonder at the nature of human beings. Here we were, likely dying as a species, yet the simple act of driving a car like this on a beautiful day had lifted my spirits into a realm of – there was no other word for it – glee. It felt reminiscent of the phenomenon that happens at a wake; relatives and friends gather, they’re grieving, yet in time you begin to hear laughter, the cheerful babble of conversation. People stop looking at the casket with the dead friend or relative; they prefer chatting with the pretty cousin or hearing about the vacation the old friend is planning. They prefer to laugh. We are such simple animals; we don’t want to contemplate mortality, don’t want to face the inevitably of it. We have such simple desires – we want to be happy, we want to enjoy the day, the hour, the moment. We’ll thrust aside the deepest of mysteries, the greatest of tragedies for the most banal of rewards. Provide a bright sunny day, a winding road, a beautiful car and the rest drops away. We are just Pavlov’s dogs, drooling at the sound of the bell.
I came to the Kuhio Highway intersection with too much speed, not recognizing it. And when I did - when memory rose in me of a mall with a Costco and Walmart – I hit the brakes and threw the Porsche into a hard left. But this was a 911 without traction control and it wouldn’t tolerate such shoddy treatment; the rear end slid out as if on ball bearings and I felt the wheel impact the lane divider. Immediately angry with myself and certain I’d damaged the car, I waited for the grinding of a damaged transaxle or the vibration of a bent wheel - but there was only the squeal of rubber and the glorious sound of the engine as we regained grip a
nd accelerated away. Just a game, I thought, just a boy at play.
It was only a few blocks to the mall area and I worked my way through a pile-up of cars at the intersection without much trouble but was forced up over a sidewalk to get into the parking lot. As we descended over the curb, I heard the frame bottom out and began to lust after a jeep. Barricades had been set in place across all the entrances, and my heart sank; there must’ve been looting here. The parking lot itself was a disordered jam of cars, and it turned out to be easiest just to drive along the sidewalk in front of the stores.
I reached the Walmart, pushed a few shopping carts out of the way with the Porsche’s bumper, and stopped directly in front of the doors, which had had all the glass smashed out of them. There were no lights on that I could see, but no reason not to give it a try, so I turned the car off and grabbing the respirator and pistol, got out. And without hesitation, put on the
Just inside the entryway I saw the first body; a heavy middle-aged man in shorts and t-shirt, laying on his side, a shard of glass sticking up through his chest, near his heart. He lay rotting in the heat, not yet badly enough eroded to erase the surprise on his face.
Imagining what it must smell like, I tentatively stepped past him, careful of the broken glass around his body. Inside, the dim light made it difficult to see clearly, but as I passed the produce section it was perfectly obvious that whatever had been there was no longer edible. Walking further, deeper into the darkened store, through the empty isles, bodies became commonplace – men, women and even a couple of small kids. Mostly, I assumed they’d been shot, but one of the men I saw was clearly beaten to death, his face and head a grotesque ball of pulpy flesh.
Flies and all manner of insects were everywhere; literally everywhere. Now I had further reason to be thankful for the Tyvek suit beyond the viral protection. Winged and crawling things landed on me so frequently that eventually I stopped bothering to brush them away.
