Half Lives (33 page)

I kept seeing Midnight in every shadow. I’d see her scurry in and out of my peripheral vision. With each imagined sighting, my heart ached. She could survive in the wild. Maybe she was
better off out there than trapped in here.

Chaske, Tate and I became zombies, not like the one I’d killed, the kind that looked human and healthy outside but decayed on the inside. None of us talked about what had happened. Days
and nights merged together. Chaske made sure we ate. Sometimes he had to force me. Tate continued to act as our human clock, but he called out the time at bizarre intervals: ‘It’s nine
forty-six.’ ‘It’s almost seven o’clock.’ He kept tracking the days.

‘Do you know what day it is?’ Chaske asked me one day as I passed him on my way back from the necessary. He was standing, hands on hips, surveying Tate’s jagged hash marks.

I shrugged.

‘Today is our two-month anniversary.’

It seemed longer.

‘We’ve got to stop this,’ he said, nodding his head as if he were re-counting the marks.

I didn’t feel like responding.

‘It may not feel like it, but we’re the lucky ones. Let’s draw another line right here and start again. Let’s live for . . .’ he paused, ‘for everyone who
can’t.’

Sure, it was corny and felt a bit weird for him to say it, but it was true. I buried the past seventeen years in that dark hole and started to climb out.

We agreed to present something special to one another in celebration of our new beginning. Over the past weeks while I’d been sleepwalking, Tate had been busy building a drum set out of
anything and everything he could find. He’d set it up at the very back of the tunnel, near the pile of rocks where the light ended. It was quite ingenious really. I finally discovered what
had happened to the condoms. Tate had blown them up and was using them as part of his drum set. He’d spent hours and hours putting it together and then every day he would practise, sometimes
working out the drum arrangement for tunes on his iPod or creating tunes of his own. Tate had been working on a new version of ‘Outta Time’ by In Complete Faith. The song was incredibly
sexist and I tried not to cringe. I could hear one of my mum’s feminist lectures playing on repeat in the back of my mind.

He’d added a ten-minute drum solo. Chaske and I sat and listened and gave him a standing ovation when he finally finished. I realized days later that Tate really did give the gift that
keeps on giving, when I couldn’t get that crupid song out of my mind.

Chaske gave us the best gift of all. He had found a pile of construction scraps and built a makeshift shower. With one less person, Chaske assured us we had enough water for each of us to take a
shower this once. Chaske started the water flowing and left me alone. I stripped naked and let the water trickle over my body. It was better than the power shower I had at home with the ten
strategically placed jets. This shower cleansed my soul. I told myself that I was washing away everything that was past – a baptism of sorts. I would be re-born from this minute. Brown
rivulets snaked down my arms and between my breasts. Tate sneaked a peek, but I didn’t care. If he could still feel something, then I wasn’t mad, I was jealous.

Now it was my turn, but I had nothing to give. Tate said I should read them something that I’d written in my notebook – the one that was supposed to be my journal for English class
– but I couldn’t. It had doodles of emoticons all over the cover – Marissa had crept in at some point and drawn those – but was blank inside. I’d thought about writing
in it. Sometimes I’d sit with pen poised for hours, but I couldn’t make myself write. I wasn’t really sure I’d want to remember this place anyway. That is, if I survived.
That is if anyone was out there to read it.

I invited Chaske and Tate to my room. Tate thought that was my present. He spied my underwear pile, a tangle of silk and lace. I took great care of my underwear, setting aside part of my daily
water supply for hand washing. Underneath the dirt and the loss of pretty much everything, clean underwear made me feel a little human.

Tate sat on the floor, a little too near my underwear. Chaske sat straight-backed on my cot. I settled cross-legged on the floor.

‘I thought we could read this.’ I pulled Chaske’s coverless copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
from under my pillow.

‘I wondered what had happened to that,’ Chaske said, taking the book from me. Tears collected in his lashes. He stroked the title page.

‘Is that OK, Chaske?’ I asked. ‘I’m sorry.’ I’d robbed him of something. I could see that now.

‘What?’ Tate asked, looking from me to Chaske. ‘What?’

‘It was my mother’s book,’ Chaske said so softly. ‘It’s the only thing I have of hers.’ He was giving us another gift – a tiny piece of his story.
‘I’ve never read it.’ He handed the book back to me. ‘It would be nice if you’d read it to us.’

I cleared my throat and read. The book opened with the narrator reminiscing about the events leading up to some ‘accident’. We didn’t know what the accident was yet, but the
narrator, her brother and dad disagreed about what had started it. One thought it had started weeks before, while the other thought, if you took a broad view, that the events that eventually led to
the accident had started a hundred years before.

When had my story begun? I wondered as I read. What had prompted terrorists to release the virus on some random day? Why that day? Why a virus? Was 9/11 the cause or the effect, or was it
something else unrelated? I didn’t understand the politics or the history or what drove people to kill other people they’d never met. I suppose it didn’t matter what had started
it all. Endings were beginnings and vice versa.

I tried to focus on the words on the page. Let Harper Lee, the author, take me and my mind someplace else where there was a loving father to watch over me and make everything all right. I read
to them until I was hoarse. Tate passed me the water and begged me to read more. I only stopped when I noticed Tate asleep on my cot, snoring.

Chaske took my hand and led me out into the tunnel. Something was welling inside me. We walked down the incline and paused when we reached the archway to his room. Chaske tilted my face to his.
Even in the low artificial light in the tunnels, I could see his eyeballs twitch as they studied me. I leaned in, casting my shadow over him. His pupils dilated.

That’s how I felt. I was a pupil opening to let in more light. I placed my palm flat on his chest, which was expanding and contracting in time with my own. I moved closer until our lips
were nearly touching, then pushed him away. How could this be happening in this place? Step. Push. Step. Push. Until his back was pressed into the wall. I didn’t deserve this, but I needed it
more than food, water or shelter. I placed my palms against the wall on either side of his head. Our eyes were still locked.

‘Chaske,’ I whispered. ‘I don’t think I . . .’

He slipped his arms around me. Energy sizzled in the air between us.

He pulled me close; I pushed away.

But he wouldn’t let go.

His face so close. His body touching mine. After feeling nothing for so long it was overwhelming.

My arms relaxed and draped across his shoulders. He closed the distance until our bodies were pressed so tightly together I thought he might crush me.

I closed my eyes, and he kissed me.

‘Greatness starts with one ginormous idea and one small step.’

– Just Saying 32

BECKETT

B
eckett, Greta and Harper trudge up the Mountain. Lucky scurries around their feet, her yellow eyes glancing up at them, unsure of which way they
will go next.

Crossing the Crown has ignited something inside Beckett. Every step seems to heighten his senses. The edges of the boulders seem sharper. The moon brighter. The clouds whiter. The
Mountain air smells sweeter, but there’s a subtle acidic hint of ash.

Beckett spots a rocky ledge and climbs up, hoping for a view of Vega and inspiration from the Great I AM. But the vision below fills him with guilt and rage. Smoke gathers like angry
storm clouds floating towards the Mountain. Grey streamers are tethered to Vega. Finch has carried out his plan. Vega is burning. Beckett wonders how long it will be before the heat of war
follows.

He looks down at Harper and Greta.

‘What’s wrong?’ Greta asks, starting to climb up after Beckett, but Harper holds her back. Greta elbows her away, finds a foothold and flings herself onto the
ledge.

When she sees Vega, she lunges at Beckett, fists flying. ‘We finally find a home . . .’ Her voice catches. ‘We survived everything . . .’ Tears stream down her
face.

Beckett hugs Greta away from Vega. She sobs into his shoulder. Harper propels herself onto the ledge, ready to defend him, as always. He raises a hand to tell her to keep her
distance.

‘I am so sorry,’ Beckett tells Greta. ‘We will make this right.’

She shoves him hard and for a second he teeters on the edge. The ledge overlooks a deep ravine. Harper grabs his arm and pulls him to safety.

‘You could have killed him, you crupid Tristan!’ Harper yells.

‘It’s OK, Harper.’ Beckett keeps the girls an arm’s length apart. He can feel them pulsing towards each other. ‘This won’t help
anything.’

‘I need to go home.’ Greta breaks free and faces Vega. ‘What’s left of it.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Beckett says, reaching for her but stopping short of touching. It’s for her own good. He’s not sure if
she’s strong enough to make it down the Mountain.

‘Let her go,’ Harper mutters. She’s staring out at Vega. ‘I think we need a bigger boat.’

‘What did she say?’ Greta hauls her fist back to punch Harper.

‘It’s just something we say,’ Beckett explains. ‘It means we’re in big trouble.’

‘Stop speaking in riddles!’ Greta shouts. ‘Please, Beckett. I need to be with my people.’

He wraps his arms around her until she stops struggling.

‘I can’t let anything happen to you,’ he says.

She pivots out of his grasp and in one swift movement she knocks Harper aside and is scampering back down the rock. He can’t save Vega but he can protect Greta.

‘I’ll get her,’ Harper says, and leaps down and races after Greta.

Beckett hears their bodies smack the earth. They are shouting at each other. But his attention is drawn to the opposite edge. He stands so his toes curl around the rocky lip. He feels
a push and pull. The edge beckons him closer to see what’s below, but also sends a shiver of fear through him at the long drop. He feels a sense of lifting like the moment jumping turns to
falling, as if he’s on the verge of discovery.

Beckett peers straight down at the sheer drop below. He spots what looks like a skeleton among the rocks and it’s as if he is transported someplace else. He spreads his arms
wide and tilts his chin upward, drinking in the mountain air.

An image flashes into Beckett’s mind. He sees a boy so much like him, with long, black hair flowing down his back. The boy is bare-chested and stands in this same pose in this
same spot. It’s as if Beckett can feel the boy’s spirit slip under his skin. Profound joy and desperate sadness knot in his chest. The boy takes flight and Beckett wants to soar with
him. Beckett lifts his arms higher and he feels as if he’s flying.

The image fades and Beckett falls backwards hard onto the ledge. He’s frightened by what might have happened. It takes a second for Beckett to shake the feeling.

As he climbs down, he sees that Harper has Greta pinned to the ground. Greta is writhing beneath her.

‘What’s wrong?’ Harper asks. She must see the startled look on his face. Greta stops struggling and stares up at him too.

‘I think the Great I AM has given me a television,’ Beckett says. He can’t get the image of the boy out of his mind. He sees him flying but surely those are his
bones below. Beckett thinks of the mass grave with the mix of pink and metal. He forces these images to make sense. The Great I AM is revealing the Mountain’s secrets to him one by one.
‘The Great I AM wants me to find the Heart.’ It’s the only answer. ‘“Everything happens for a reason”,’ Beckett quotes the Great I AM.

‘That’s complete and utter bullshit.’ Greta bucks free. Harper leaps to her feet and grabs her by the wrist before she gets too far. ‘Sometimes horrible things
happen and they are just horrible,’ Greta says. ‘Not signs. No meaning, just horrible.’ Greta pauses and glances at the gathering smoke in the distance. ‘But I suppose,
given enough time and distance, maybe someone somewhere will give this act meaning.’