Half Lives (38 page)

‘Icie?’ Tate murmured.

‘Yes. Tate, I’m right here.’

After a long while he said, ‘I’m scared.’

‘I’m sorry.’ It was all I could think of to say. What do you say to a dying twelve- or was it thirteen-year-old kid? I should have really known his age. I should have tried to
get to know him better.

Tate’s eyes leaked tears. His lips trembled. I could tell it took great effort for him to speak, but he was determined. ‘I don’t want to die.’ He opened his hand to me
and I held it.

I knew he needed me to say something reassuring, but what could I say? I didn’t want him to die – I didn’t want to die. Tears flooded my vision. A sob clawed at my throat but I
didn’t want Tate to hear me cry. He was scared enough. He didn’t need his final hours filled with me blubbering.

‘Tate, we are right here,’ Chaske said. ‘We aren’t going to leave you.’ Chaske took Tate’s other hand. ‘I think we custom-make our own afterlife.
You’ve lived longer than most everyone else out there. I think all the great rockers are up there waiting for you and you’ll get to spend eternity jamming. You were going to be . .
.’ Chaske cleared his throat. ‘You are going to be the best drummer of all eternity.’ Chaske was talking in soothing tones as if everything was going to be fine. His voice
wasn’t full of questions and doubt like mine was. He sounded sure. ‘It’s going to be amazing, Tate. I promise.’ Tears were streaming down Chaske’s face but his voice
never faltered.

‘Icie,’ Tate whispered. I leaned in close so I could hear him. ‘My watch,’ he said, lifting his wrist less than an inch before it flopped back at his side. ‘You be
the time-keeper.’

‘I couldn’t.’ Part of me didn’t want to take the watch, not only because it was admitting that his fight was nearing an end, but also because a selfish part of me
wondered if it was contaminated with radioactivity. It definitely felt infused with death. But I owed it to Tate to comfort him in any small way I could.

‘Icie . . .’ Tate struggled to speak. ‘Please.’

Chaske slipped the watch off Tate’s wrist and pressed it into my hand. Tate’s body convulsed and he screamed in pain. I wanted to run but I forced myself to stay. All I could give
him now was my presence.

‘It’s OK, Tate. We are right here. It’s OK,’ Chaske continued talking in a steady calming stream. Tate’s body relaxed. His fingers loosened in our grasp.

I focused on Tate’s watch. In my mind I counted the ticks of the second hand. The ticks between breaths increased. I was sure each breath would be his last. I hoped it was. How horrible
was that? I wanted his suffering to end, but also I knew that once he died, I would have to try to block him out like I had so many others. I wondered if Chaske was right. Was a quick death better
for everyone?

Looking at Tate when whatever it was that made him alive and not just a body disappeared, I realized that there was no such thing as a good death.

We wrapped Tate in Chaske’s sleeping bag and carried him back to the end of the tunnels where light met dark. We used some of the stones Tate had removed from the secret
storage area and built him a makeshift tomb.

‘Wait a minute,’ I said. I took his iPod from my messenger bag. I gently placed one earbud in each ear. I dialled and selected ‘Shuffle Songs’ and hit play. It was better
than a eulogy.

I could already feel myself hardening. ‘I’m sorry, Tate.’ I zipped the sleeping bag all the way up.

‘He would have died on that road without you,’ Chaske said. He tried to take my hand, but I batted it away. I was angry at him and everything.

‘I’m not sure I did him any favours by bringing him here.’

‘Tate wasn’t unhappy here,’ Chaske replied. I knew in a weird way he was right. Tate seemed to get on with it, better than the rest of us.

Chaske started humming. I recognized the tune to ‘Outta Time’ by In Complete Faith. I joined in, and we sang the words we knew.

I slapped an empty water jug in time to our out-of-tune and off-beat tribute. Chaske picked up one of the drumsticks Tate had fashioned from tightly twisting together the
wrappers from our power bars. He wailed on Tate’s drum set. That thumping sound would forever remind me of Tate, his blue twinkling eyes and his round face surrounded by a helmet of yellow
curls.

We ended with a flourish that made my hands sting. Chaske reached for me, but I walked away. I kept walking until I was at the tunnel’s entrance.

‘Where’s your gun?’ I asked him.

‘What?’ Chaske kept his distance.

‘Get your gun and let’s get this over with. You’re right. We are prolonging the inevitable.’ I rested my back against the cool metal door.

Chaske reached for me but I held my hand up like some action figure creating a force field. ‘I don’t believe all that shit you told Tate. Do you? What’s going to happen to us .
. . after?’

‘God, Icie, I don’t know. I’ve always felt there was something more. Not someone watching over me but a power or a force, you know. Something bigger than us. I want to believe
I’ll see my mom again. But at the very worst, it’s just silence. I don’t mind silence.’

‘Do you think I’m going to hell?’ I asked. ‘For being a spoiled rotten brat who didn’t know how good she had it. For killing that . . . man. For shutting Marissa
and Midnight out. For everything.’

‘The one thing I don’t believe in is hell. I believe in second chances and forgiveness.’ Chaske took me in his arms. ‘I think we’ve been punished enough,
don’t you?’

I nodded. Maybe he was right. This was hell. Maybe we were the only survivors on the planet. Everything and everyone we’d ever known was dead. Suddenly I could feel the radioactive waste
penetrating my skin. I scratched my arms. It was inside me and I wanted it out. I tore at my skin until I created long, thin welts and blood-red tracks on my body.

Chaske hugged me tightly, pinning my arms to my sides. I writhed in his grasp. I broke free and looked him directly in the eyes.

‘Kill me now.’

‘Doubt is like awkward, certainty is like not possible.’

– Just Saying 281

FINCH

F
inch feels too big for his body. His skin is oily with sweat and ash. He smells of smoke. Every breath inflates him. Every step elevates him. He
finds a vantage point on his Mountain and watches Vega burn.

Finch reclines on a rock. He dreams of his Forreal homecoming. He wants to wait until sunrise, until he’s sure the Cheerleaders have returned from Vega. He wants them to wonder
and worry about him. He wants the stories to circulate of his heroic acts. He hopes that some might start to despair about the future of Forreal without Finch to lead them.

He should think of a speech, something that will be quoted for generations to come. Terrorists will never threaten Forreal again. He has purged and purified. He can almost feel the
warmth of Forreal’s gratitude and admiration.

Finch wishes Beckett were here. He would like to see Beckett bow down before him. Finch recalls the look on Beckett’s face when he attacked him. Beckett was always so smug, so
calm. The Great I AM has punished him. What Beckett once worshipped ultimately claimed his life. He wishes he could see Beckett’s body, know that he is gone, but he won’t let thoughts
of Beckett spoil his triumphant return.

Finch rises to his elbows. It’s almost time. He surveys the valley below. Maybe he will expand his domain towards Vega. They can protect but not be trapped by the Mountain.

He notices movement below. He sits up. A line in the distance seems to shift forwards. It can’t be. He has defeated the Terrorists.

He stands and glares through the smoke.

Terrorists are heading towards the Mountain. They should be running away, not charging forwards.

Panic packs a powerful punch.

‘
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever
,’ he mutters, and hopes the Great I AM will show him the way. This was not what was supposed to happen.

He doesn’t want to admit it but he’s scared. He starts to walk and then run up the Mountain. He tells himself he’s climbing to get a better view, to commune with the
Great I AM, but part of him is considering running down the other side and leaving the Mountain like his mum.

When he reaches the Crown, he remembers Beckett’s girl. She is exactly what he needs. He can barter her life for peace.

He reaches the spot where he tied her to the Crown. He sees the remains of the vines that bound her wrists and ankles. The thorns are tipped with her blood, but she has vanished. She
can’t have got very far. He notices the Crown has been ripped open. Up ahead, through the Crown, something glows.

‘Do you think this will work?’

It’s Harper. Finch walks towards her voice.

‘Something is better than nothing.’ That sounds like Beckett’s voice. He’s quoting the Great I AM. But it can’t be. Beckett is dead.

Harper laughs. ‘It’s not exactly the vote of confidence I was looking for.’

Finch sneaks closer and sees Beckett and Harper through the Crown. How have they survived? They’ve built a small fire and stand warming themselves. Lucky darts outside the ring
of firelight. Her fur is suddenly bushy. Her tail seems to have doubled in size. As if the cat has sensed Finch’s presence, she skids to a stop and crouches, preparing to pounce. Her ears are
pulled back, her yellow eyes wide. She makes a low, throaty growl and then darts back to Beckett and Harper.

Finch finds a place to hide where he can still see them and overhear their conversation. He doesn’t know whether to be scared or angry.

‘Do you think future generations will call it the Crown of Fire?’ Harper asks.

‘Yeah, oh great one.’ Beckett laughs. ‘And you will be known as the Fire Mistress.’

‘How about Fire Warrior or Flame Bearer or She Who Carries a Torch?’

‘Or Fridiot Who Set the Mountain on Fire.’

Their conversation doesn’t make any sense. How can they laugh? They have disobeyed the Great I AM. They should have been punished. But they sit there as if nothing has
changed.

They are quiet for a long time. Finch has never understood how the two of them can do that. He finds it unnerving, as if they are communicating telepathically, and he’s being
left out again. He clenches his fists. The tension is building. He aches to crack his knuckles, but he can’t risk any sound.

‘Do you think Mumenda will ever come?’ Harper asks. She’s staring into the flickering flames.

How can Harper blaspheme?
Finch wonders, especially when the Great I AM has spared her.

‘Now more than ever, I believe in the Great I AM. We have crossed the Crown and been to the Heart. I believe the Great I AM is leading us to end the conflict with Vega.’
Beckett takes Harper’s hand. ‘Are you ready?’

Harper’s eyes sparkle with tears. ‘If he . . .’

‘If she . . .’

‘Goes, I go,’ they both say, and cling to each other. Finch is surprised that he can still feel jealousy at their connection.

Beckett kisses Harper tenderly on the mouth. She is surprised and reacts too late; her puckered lips follow his as he pulls away.

She cups his face in her hands. ‘I . . .’ she starts, but doesn’t finish her sentence. Finch twists to get a better view between the vines, but he can’t
decipher what passes wordlessly between them.

Beckett leans in so they are cheek to cheek.

Finch inches closer.

‘This is it,’ Beckett says. ‘You know what you need to do and when you need to do it.’

She nods. ‘Get out of here already.’ She pulls him back when he tries to leave, as if she might say something. If she does, Finch doesn’t hear it.

She lets Beckett go. He parts the opening in the Crown that Finch spotted earlier. Harper picks up Lucky and cuddles the cat. Beckett looks back at her one last time through the
knotted brambles.