Half Lives (25 page)

‘My brothers saw something out there.’ She points to the valley below. He can tell she’s scared. And yet she’s come to warn him. His heart swells. She’s
risking everything for him too.

‘A black creature attacked them,’ Greta continues. ‘They saw it climb this mountain.’

The realization of what she’s saying clicks. ‘Terrorists.’ He can’t believe it. Harper is wrong. There
are
real Terrorists, beasties just like his
ancestors believed.

‘What did you say?’ Greta squints at him.

‘Terrorists. We’ve always feared their return.’ He starts to pace. This is worse than he thought. Finch is going to attack Vega and Terrorists have returned.

‘No, this was some sort of monster.’

‘Yeah, with claws and fangs. The beasties that brought about the end of everything.’

She studies him as if he’s a puzzle she can’t solve. ‘With these monsters running wild, I think you need to persuade your people to join with us,’ she says.
‘We can protect you.’

They can protect us?
He needs no protection other than the Great I AM. Beckett remembers Harper’s warning: Greta’s people want our Mountain. This doesn’t
mean Harper was right. He won’t believe Greta has ulterior motives. She came to warn him. She wants to protect him. She risked Terrorists to come here. And even if she’s a spy, what
does it matter? His people are planning to attack her home.

He stops pacing, but his thoughts continue to go round and round. He faces her. He can’t wait any longer. ‘Greta, I came to warn you too.’ He doesn’t want to
say it. He doesn’t want to believe it’s true. He knows it will kill whatever it is that’s blossomed between them. ‘Some people in Forreal believe,’ he starts slowly,
‘someone from Vega killed a young girl from Forreal.’

‘We could never—’

He’s got to tell her. He’s got to say it now or he may never be able to find the courage. ‘These people plan to attack Vega at sundown tomorrow. They know
we’ve been meeting, and they think I’ve been conspiring with you.’

‘Oh, God, Beckett, no.’ She looks at him and then out towards Vega.

He reaches for her, for one last embrace, but she backs away. Her eyes are locked on his but she’s shaking her head and moving farther and farther away. ‘What have we
done?’

For that, there is no answer.

Greta turns and runs.

And now he has lost her for good.

Without so much as a backward glance, she’s gone. If she can so easily turn her back on him, maybe he was fooling himself that what they had was as important to her as it was to
him.

Maybe Harper was right. Maybe Greta has been using him all along.

Beckett lies stretched like a star on the hard, rocky soil. If it weren’t for the thousands of tiny pebbles digging their sharp edges into his flesh, he would feel nothing.
He’s waiting for Harper as agreed. He’s been Saying to the Great I AM, but he feels abandoned – by Harper, by Greta. The Great I AM seems to have abandoned him too.

He presses himself into the Mountain and says to the Great I AM,
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

He feels the grit on his skin and imagines that he is becoming one with the Mountain, slowly blending and then disintegrating until the fragments of him are blown away on the hot
desert air.

Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.
The Saying rolls around in Beckett’s brain but it doesn’t give him peace. The Great I AM can’t want him to stand by and watch
them destroy each other. But what can he do?

Whatever.

The word, usually so solemn, so meaningful, now feels almost unknown on his tongue. His eyes squeeze shut tightly in frustration.
What am I supposed to do?

Beckett’s skin prickles with goose bumps, as if the temperature on the Mountain has changed. Someone is coming. He can feel it. He tries to relax and tune into every molecule
around him.

He keeps his eyes closed and says to the Great I AM,
Whatever.
Beckett hopes that whoever it is will simply go away. But the person keeps coming. He’s so close now that
Beckett feels the heat radiating off him.

He waits until he feels hate hover on the blade of a knife above his throat. He opens his eyes. The defining features of the figure looming above him are obscured in shadow. The
silhouette materializes: a tall, lanky frame, a beak-like face and a bald head.

Finch.

Beckett looks him in the eyes, demanding an explanation.

Finch clears his throat. ‘I’ve been looking for you, Beckett. You can’t hide on my Mountain.’ Beckett can feel the blade quiver in Finch’s hand.
‘You have betrayed Forreal. It is my destiny to avenge Atti’s death and kill the Terrorists once and for all. I won’t let you stop me.’ Finch’s eyes are wild.

Beckett can almost picture it. Blood draining from his body and staining the earth below.
Has the Great I AM sent Finch?
Beckett wonders. Is this his destiny?

Finch straddles Beckett’s torso, keeping the knife poised over Beckett’s throat. He kneels on Beckett’s arms and sits on his chest. Finch’s legs are like steel
rods, cutting Beckett’s arms in half. Beckett whispers the Saying of Dedication.

‘Stop that.’ Finch presses the flat of the knife into Beckett’s neck. It stings as the blade breaks the skin. Finch tenses his grip on the knife. Beckett sees doubt
in Finch’s eyes. It only lasts a split second, but Beckett interprets it as a sign from the Great I AM. He bucks Finch off and snatches the knife from him. He recognizes Forreal’s
ceremonial knife, its red handle and white cross.

Beckett kicks Finch’s legs out from under him. Now Beckett and Finch have switched places. Finch lies stunned on the ground. How dare he look up with fear in his eyes after
everything he’s done? He is destroying years of peace and disobeying the Great I AM. He has wrecked everything that it has taken Beckett a lifetime to build. He has stripped Beckett of his
Great-I-AM-given right to lead Forreal. He’s ruined what Beckett had with Greta. Beckett’s vision tints red. He lunges for Finch, leading with the tip of the knife. Finch rolls out of
the way and the knife slashes his bicep. A teardrop of red drips down Finch’s arm. Beckett staggers back with the shock of what he’s done.

Finch levels a kick at Beckett’s wrist, causing the knife to arc through the air. Finch scrambles for the knife. Beckett zigzags up the Mountain, dodging boulders and threading
through a maze of pine trees.

Beckett knows he can’t run forever and the Mountain’s landscape doesn’t offer many hiding places. He checks behind him. Finch is gaining on him. The knife in
Finch’s hand blinks in the sun.

Up ahead Beckett spots the Crown. The Great I AM warned that anyone who crosses the Crown would die.

Beckett’s thoughts loop in an endless figure of eight. If he doesn’t cross the Crown, Finch will finish the job. If it is the Great I AM’s will that he die today,
then let it be the Great I AM who takes his life. He accelerates and heads straight for the Crown. His Saying echoes in every footfall.
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.

He springs into the air. Branches break under his weight and he is impaled on the thicket. Hundreds of thorns pierce his body and he screams, caught in a spiderweb of pain. He crawls
up the Crown. Thorns claw at his bare chest and snag his loincloth. When he reaches the top, he half dives, half falls over. The second his hands hit the ground he tucks and rolls.

Maybe it’s his imagination, but his skin tingles. He’s on sacred ground. He waits for the Great I AM to exact the ultimate punishment.

Finch stops in front of the Crown, panting from the effort of the chase. ‘Beckett,’ Finch calls through the brambles, ‘you have betrayed Forreal and disobeyed the
Great I AM. I am the Cheer Captain now.’

Beckett stays silent even though his lungs beg for air. He believes that he is moments away from death – either by the force of the spirit or Finch’s hands.

The anticipation is torture. Every cell in his body feels stretched and ready to burst.

Finch straightens his tall, lanky frame, his body a mosaic through the twisted branches. ‘May you be at peace with the Mountain,’ Finch whispers, and sprints away.

Beckett waits for death. He lies flat, watching the daylight fade. Tears threaten when he thinks of Greta and Harper. What will happen to them? He will watch over them if he’s
able. He clings to every second of life the Great I AM allows him.

Nothing happens.

Not a lightning bolt or a rattlesnake, not even a breeze, disturbs him.

And he’s relieved and devastated. He’s dedicated his life to the Mountain. He breaks the most sacred rule of the Great I AM.
If death does not come . . . but he
won’t let himself finish that thought.

The air cools and the sounds of night crackle around him.

‘Great I AM,’ Beckett says, nearly pleads. He’s said
Whatever
so many times.
Whatever
doesn’t feel like an answer so he asks, ‘What
now?’

M
idnight never left my side. She was small but had started to occupy a ginormous space in my life. I’d sit and watch her for hours. I’d
wonder why she’d suddenly decide to clean her back left paw. I loved the little mew sound she’d make when I woke her with a scratch under her chin. She liked to play with my gel pens.
I’d twirl them above her and she’d bat at them. I’d smash up rubble to make her a litter tray at the very back of the necessary and spend hours creating cat toys from scraps of
material and foil wrappers. She’d chase the foil balls I made her up and down the tunnel, but sit on them if I caught her playing. I’d almost laugh when she’d have her wacky
fifteen minutes at about the same time every night. She’d do this hop and skip up and down the tunnel. Or she’d stare at a spot on the wall as if she were admiring a Picasso. Sometimes
I’d sit and stare with her and find patterns in the dirt that could rival some of those famous abstract paintings in the National Gallery of Art. Being with Midnight was easier than being
with people. She didn’t care what had happened. She adapted. She didn’t remind me of what I’d left behind. She could be happy with simple things. There were no fromplicated
emotions to deal with, or mood swings. We didn’t have to make conversation. We could just be together.

Tate incessantly made noise. He was either drumming his fingers, tapping his toes or humming. His jaw even popped when he ate. He snored and sometimes called out in his sleep. You never had to
worry about him sneaking up on you. Having him around was like always having the TV on in the background. I sometimes wished Tate had a mute button.

Chaske kept to himself. I’d glimpse him when he’d pass my room. I timed it right sometimes so I’d bump into him in the supply room and offer to split a power bar. I’d
spend hours creating scenarios that consisted of him and me in the real world doing everyday stuff. He didn’t like to talk about himself. I didn’t know what kind of movies he liked or
what kind of coffee he drank. Did he even drink coffee? I didn’t think he was the type for organized sports. He had that book; maybe he liked museums and art galleries. But he might have
liked to make skin suits from the carcasses of dead animals for all I knew.

And I guess it didn’t matter if he liked coffee or any of the rest of that stuff. We’d probably never have any of it again. I’d probably never see my favourite horror movies.
What would remain when we resurfaced,
if
we resurfaced? No TV. No electricity. Running water? Even our attempts at mundane conversation seemed pointless in a way and only reinforced what
we’d lost. I tried to respect his need for privacy. If I was honest, I kind of liked it. It allowed me to fantasize about who he was before: the youngest and only American MI6 agent, a boy
genius who sold some dot-com for millions, a prince of some little known country. Maybe he’d run away because he’d seen some mob hit. Then I’d see those tiny slits of fingernails
he had with their jagged edges. I’d catch the way he chewed them when the conversation went quiet and hide his hands when he saw me looking at them. Maybe he was an ordinary guy on a camping
trip. It still didn’t explain why he had so much food or why he came to this mountain – and then there was the gun . . .

Marissa was obsessed with staying in shape. She had a daily workout routine. She covered her body odour with a dose of Clinique Happy. You could smell her before you saw her, like walking into a
citrus grove and discovering the orange trees were planted in cow dung.

‘Hey, Ice!’ Marissa called as she passed on her early-morning run. Marissa had turned the lights on in the tunnel. Her D&G bag was slung over her shoulder with everything she
owned – as if Lobo were going to drive away again with the rest of her stuff. The bag banged into her back as she ran.

In my half-dozing state, I rubbed my eyes and propped myself up on my elbows. I checked my watch – it was six thirty-seven in the morning.
Seriously, Marissa?
I’d started
sleeping about ten hours a day. It helped pass the time and I was weary from our new apocalyptic diet.