The Compound (3 page)

And we had our roles.

He was the leader. I let him lead, because I liked to follow. Followers were rarely accountable for their actions. In addition to leading, Eddy was also my protector. Always had been.

We were eight years old the last summer we stayed with Gram in Hawaii. One afternoon, we picnicked by a waterfall. Eddy and I lived in board shorts and rash guards that summer. Gram, smelling of White Shoulders, wore a red muumuu, her long hair loose, a pink pua flower behind one ear. She spread a dolphin print beach towel on the grass before laying out an appetizing
buffet of Spam and rice, leftover kalua pork, Eddy’s daily ration of Jack Link’s beef jerky, which he couldn’t live without, fresh mangoes, and guava juice. For dessert a small cooler held my favorite strawberry mochi ice cream balls.

We finished lunch. Eddy and I took a Frisbee and went off by ourselves. I followed Eddy up a steep hill and tossed the disk to him. The breeze from the falls pushed it back my way. I grabbed for it and missed, reaching so far that I lost my balance. As I tumbled down the hill, my back slammed into a tree. It stopped my downward progress, knocking away my breath. Arms waving, legs kicking, I struggled for air.

Eddy stood at the top of the hill. Over the rushing water he called to me, “Eli! Stop. Stop moving.”

Minutes passed. My breath came back. I moved to get back up on my feet.

Again, Eddy called to me, “Eli, don’t move. I’m coming.”

Like a crab, he inched his way down the hill. As he came closer, his eyes narrowed at something past me. I twisted my head in order to see what he saw. The tree that had taken my breath was the only thing between me and the long, fatal drop to the rocks beneath the falls. I reached out for my brother.

Eddy pressed both his palms into my chest to calm me. “Eli, I got you, I got you.” He gripped my arm and we crawled up the hill together.

At the top, relieved, I rolled over onto my back, panting. “Don’t tell Gram.”

Eddy was also winded. “Duh.”

B
EING IN THE COMPOUND WITHOUT EDDY SEEMED TO GET
harder every day. We didn’t talk about him much. Dad had said early on that this was our life and we should move on, not keep thinking about the way things used to be. After talking to Terese that morning in the gym, remembering Eddy, all I wanted was to talk to him and pretend he could hear me. I tried to imagine our lives as they might have been. Sort of a What Would Eddy Do?

If things were normal and we were in the old world, going to high school, Eddy would probably have a million girlfriends. He’d had all the friends in grade school and I knew I was in the mix only because of him; high school wouldn’t have been much different. I’d be getting dragged out on double dates with his girlfriends’ friends. Knowing Eddy, he would probably insist on it.

Sometimes my thoughts took a different direction: What Would Eddy Do If Eddy Were Here?

I hit my fiftieth free throw.

Despite knowing he and Gram had perished on the outside that night six years before, I never truly felt our connection break. There was emptiness, of course. Along with a huge feeling of loss. But that feeling of connection only a twin could understand? That I still had.

Lining up my next shot, I started to release the ball.

“That’s off.”

The voice startled me even as I tried not to show it, although my lousy shot was proof enough.

Dad walked out of the shadows underneath the basket as my air ball went past him. He let it bounce off the wall before catching it, then tossed the ball from one hand to the other. “You and Terese have a nice game?”

“Huh?” That caught me off guard. Had he heard our conversation? “Um, yeah. Her game needs work, though.”

Dad chuckled a bit, then tossed me the ball. “She has a grand imagination, that one.”

I nodded, unsure what to say.

Walking toward the door, away from me, he paused but didn’t turn around. “I’m sure you can set her straight.”

“Set her straight?”

“Basketball.” One hand raised in the air, the wrist flipped a bit. “Her game.” And he left.

Although he didn’t come out and say it, I sensed he had heard me and Terese. And after the exchange with my sister that morning in the gym, I wondered what Eddy
would
do if he were in the Compound instead of me. Despite believing I was dead, would he trust that feeling of connection and still hold out hope for a miracle?

Through 250 more free throws, of which I made 227, I already knew the answer. If there were even the slightest chance the world was not as it seemed, a tiny slice of hope that his twin might still be alive, he would find out. Or else die trying.

I
WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN FOR DINNER, NOT EXPECTING
to be greeted with rainbow-colored balloons and streamers. My family sat on the red leather banquettes in the breakfast nook, all eyes on me. Mom and Dad were on opposite sides, of course. As far away as they could get from each other while still putting on the illusion of a happy family.

Lexie was in her usual place, right at Dad’s side. Maybe she thought she had a shot at becoming queen of the Compound. Her dark braid contrasted with the white of her T-shirt. She fixed me with a glare, even more piercing than usual.

Terese had a big smile on her face, definitely fake.

Mom’s wasn’t. Her dark hair was piled on her head and she wore red velour. Even a touch of red lipstick. Perhaps it was due to the occasion, but for whatever reason, she stood and her arms widened to give me a hug.

“Happy Birthday, Eli.”

She noticed the dread in my face and the smile on hers wavered. She backed off.

No one touched me. No one ever touched me. I didn’t allow them to. I didn’t touch them either. Not since the night we arrived here.

I sat down on a stool by the granite counter away from everyone else.

Dad yawned. His hair was a blond helmet of bed head, and he wore his ancient bear and elk shirt. Arms crossed, hands spread out on his shoulders, he looked like he was chilly. “Your fifteenth birthday, son.”

Not just my birthday. Eddy’s, too. That’s why I had been thinking of Eddy so much. My gut had realized it was our birthday even though my brain didn’t. I didn’t own a calendar. And I sure as hell didn’t mark off the days like some survivor on a desert island. I pretty much just waited for Mom and Dad to announce the holidays, the only Compound days that differed from regular ones.

Most holidays in the Compound were a welcome departure from the routine. Even though we lived in a microcosm where things never strayed from the unremarkable, holidays still held some surprises. The day after Thanksgiving we put up an artificial tree and decorations, hung stockings by the fireplace in the family room. On December 25, we awoke at some ungodly hour by Terese’s cheerful “Happy Christmas, everyone!”

Down in the family room, we found our bulging stockings. I admired Dad for managing to think of every detail.
There was always something to open. Terese would get a doll or toy she didn’t already have. I’d get a video game. Lexie, some sheet music or ballet shoes. Although I knew where all the supplies were, Dad was able to keep a whole store of things secret, things he could bring out on birthdays and Christmas to make us feel like normal kids. And most of the time it worked. Even if it was just for one day.

My birthday wasn’t something I wanted to be reminded of, let alone celebrate. July 16. Once we were in the Compound, I found it ironic that Eddy and I were born on that day, the umpteenth anniversary of the inaugural nuclear explosion at the Trinity test site. Most dads had hobbies that they passed down to their sons; hunting, fishing, auto repair. Dad’s hobby was nuclear war, which meant his sons knew everything about it.

To Eddy and me, it was cool. War was exciting, especially nuclear war. But it was exciting in the same way a California earthquake might be exciting to a person from the Midwest, or a tornado might be exciting to someone who lives in New England, where they never occur. We thought it was something we would never experience, so we weren’t afraid.

Those scientists didn’t really know what they had created at first. Even their name for the atomic bomb was innocuous: the Gadget. But when they saw it brought to life, they realized soon enough. Oppenheimer himself later quoted some old text: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Yeah, they realized soon enough. They probably realized
weeks later on August 6, when the United States bombed Hiroshima, and then August 9, Nagasaki. The events of July 16 paled next to those.

July 16 wasn’t just my birthday. It was also the anniversary of the day we entered the Compound. That terrible night when, because of me, Eddy was gone forever. If it were up to me, I would never acknowledge the date. Celebrating the worst day of my life was insane. But I think celebrating the day only as my birthday—nothing else—helped the rest of the family in some way.

Mom handed me a package. “It’s from all of us.”

My fingers tore away the wrinkled white tissue paper. A first edition of
On the Beach
, a 1950s classic about the world after a nuclear war. It would have been valuable if the real world still existed. Of course I’d read it before; there was a paperback copy in the library.

I forced myself to look pleased as I opened the cover.

Dad had written the inscription, dated of course. Never without a black fine-point Sharpie, he always dated everything. In the old world, he dated boxes of cereal when the groceries were delivered. He dated packages that arrived in the mail. Whenever we went through the Starbucks drive-through to get his coffee, he’d date the paper cup. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d Sharpied the date on my forehead when I was born.

I flipped the page.

Like the first time I’d seen them, T. S. Eliot’s cruel words struck me. That was the only passage I would ever read of this edition. Of course I would set it among the
others on a shelf in my room, but it was a work I never wanted to read again. The survivors in the book stirred up jealousy in me. They saw the end creeping toward them, but all the while they were still in control of their own destiny. Yes, they were doomed, but they had the opportunity to choose when their final breaths occurred.

I envied them that, having cyanide as an option. Not that I would have chosen death over life in the Compound. But at least they had a tangible choice. I didn’t.

I felt Dad watching me so I forced a smile as I shut the book and thanked everyone. Then we had dinner, spinach salad alongside vegetarian lasagna with fresh peppers and tomatoes from hydroponics. The noodles were in pieces, they were so old, but it still tasted good. I didn’t look forward to birthday cake because there wouldn’t be any. We no longer had all the ingredients.

That had come to light a few weeks before. I had been in the kitchen, doing Mandarin vocabulary at the booth.

Mom was at the espresso machine, making her third Americano of the morning. For her, Dad had stockpiled what must have been tons of Tully’s whole bean French roast coffee. Decaf.

I was on my first, and only, of the day.

She took a sip out of her green-plaid insulated mug. “Eli, I want to show you something.” Still holding her cup of noncaffeine, Mom stood at the door to the pantry and beckoned. Inside, she pointed out a sack of flour. “Look in that.”

The burlap was folded open. The grayish flour stuck to my fingers. “I thought flour didn’t go bad.”

She took a drink. “I thought so, too. I’m wondering if it’s not entirely wheat. Maybe something else got mixed in.”

I held my hand to my nose and sniffed. Didn’t smell right. Didn’t smell
that
bad, though. “Is it all like this?”

“I don’t know.” She twisted a bit of her hair. “I don’t want you or the girls to eat any of it.”

I looked at her. “You’re not going to get rid of it?”

She bit the inside of her lip. “You know how your father likes bread.”

My eyes widened. “You’ve been feeding him bread from this?”

She nodded. “I mean, not yet. I just found this today. If he gets sick, then I’ll stop. I just … I just don’t want to give him any indication the food situation has worsened.”