Usually I’m good about compartmentalizing things. Usually I keep my childhood trauma in a hermetically sealed box buried under piles of other useless shit in my brain, but in that moment—
I don’t know, it was like I was ten years old again.
She was stripped down, about to die, totally vulnerable, and all she could think about was her little sister. As far as I’m aware, serial killers don’t stop to think about their little sisters. Sociopaths don’t get emotional before they’re murdered. And while it wasn’t clear just by looking at her face, under my hands the girl felt so slight it was almost unnatural. As if she was malnourished. As if maybe The Reestablishment was starving her.
She reminded me of Adam.
Adam Kent Anderson, half brother of Aaron Warner Anderson; husband to Alia; father to Gigi and Roman. My big brother,nicest guy in the world. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, refuses to own a gun. He runs a design firm with his wife. Helps organize fundraisers at the elementary school. Has no interest in the family business. Doesn’t like to talk about his past. We go to the same restaurant every Thursday, and he always orders the same thing: a cheeseburger with no onions.
Adam used to be a soldier of The Reestablishment, but he enlisted only to protect me. He dropped out of high school to become a hired gun against his will, and he did it to save my life. I made the mistake of projecting his backstory onto her.
It was a stupid, emotional move.
I don’t know anything about the girl except that she murdered me, and then tried to murder me again and again. It was a huge mistake attributing complexity to her character. I don’t even know for sure that the girl is still alive—but I know the kind of medical miracles The Reestablishment is capable of. If they got to her in time, she’ll definitely live to murder another day. Hell, I saw that guy with the robot arm and I knew right then that we’ve been underestimating these fascists. There’s no world in which I just escaped The Reestablishment without real consequences, and the inviolable truth of that fact is stressing me out.
I pop a gross berry in my mouth and chew.
I wonder why they left the gummy bears in my pocket. I wonder why they’re letting me think I got away with something. I wonder why I thought I’d be able to get off this island without a solid exit strategy.
Your power has made you intolerable.
Warner said that to me once.
He said,“I thought you were annoying as a child. I was right. I thought you might grow out of it. I was wrong. Now you seem to think you’re a superhero. You walk through the world like nothing can touch you. I don’t know why you smile so much. Kent knew better than to smile so much. I certainly never taught you to smile. Shut up,” he said, when I tried to point out that he smiled all the time these days. “One day that overzealous optimism is going to get you into trouble. You think I’m being hard on you. I am. It’s because I don’t want you to die, you idiot.”
I smile at the memory. That’s as close as he ever comes to sayingI love you, little brother.
I spit out the berry pit.
I stole a jet to get here—add that to the list of stupid things I’ve done—except in order to get here sort of undetected, I landed the plane on a smaller island nearby, one still under the governance of The New Republic. I kayaked from the smaller island to an even smaller island, and then paraglided off a cliff into the densest, most unpopulated stretch of Ark Forest. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t really leave a trail, and anyway, I’m guessing the guys back home have already repossessed the plane I stole. It’s unlikely to be where I left it.
“Okay. New pivot.”
I jump to my feet and clap my hands, startling a raccoon in the process.It stares at me from a couple yards away, a pair of frog legs poking out of its mouth.
“Yeah,” I say, pointing at the furry bandit. “Get excited. These assholes aren’t making any effort to find me, so I’m going to build a fire, roast some nuts, and then we’re going to hammer out the details of a new plan.”
The raccoon resumes chewing, unblinking.
“Ideally,” I say, popping another berry in my mouth, “the best way off this island would involve stealing another jet.”
I chew; the raccoon chews.
“But, realistically, all I need is a boat.”
I poke around the underbrush, searching for dry kindling.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I say, brandishing a stick at the raccoon, now clutching a nut in its fist. “You’re thinking—James, that’s the obvious thing! They’re going to expect you to do the obvious thing! The ports are probably rigged with explosives! Heavily secured! Soldiers everywhere! Too many to kill even for someone as strong and capable as you are!”
The raccoon nibbles at the nut.
“Well, I appreciate the compliment, but that’s not what we’re going to do.” I gather up a few more sticks. “The thing is, I’d tell you what we’re going to do, except— You’re recording me right now, aren’t you, you little trash panda? And I’m not going to tell you shitheads exactly what I have planned.”
I step toward the animal, staring into its dark eyes. In the perfect slant of light, the blue sheen is unmistakable.
“So,” I say, bending to better meet its gaze. “If you’re watching this program right now, I’d encourage you to ask yourself this: What would Aaron Warner Anderson do? Because that’s the question I’m about to answer. And he taught me everything I know.”
Rosabelle
