Half Lives (37 page)

Now he stands perfectly still, waiting for another message from the Great I AM. The space is quiet except for a far-off drip, like rain plinking in a puddle. The sound seems to
echo like a whisper in the vast space.

‘Whatever,’ he says to the Great I AM, and tries to relax, but the darkness feels as if it’s consuming him.

Beckett takes a deep breath and orients himself. He visualizes the space before his light was extinguished. Beckett slips the backpack’s straps over his shoulders and inches
along the cave wall towards the entrance. He’s got to get out of here. He fumbles forwards. His fingers find ragged rock. This must be the door. As he squeezes through, he thinks he sees
twinkling stars up ahead. But that doesn’t make sense.

Someone has walled up the entrance. What he thought were stars are only the tiny spaces where moonlight has found a path through the pile of rocks. He edges along the rocky wall,
trying to avoid the skeletons beneath his feet. He claws at the rocks until he creates a hole and climbs out. He gulps in fresh air.

The first thing he sees is Harper slumped on the ground with Lucky standing guard. He rushes to her side. A gash has opened up at her temple and blood is oozing down her face. He
wipes away as much as he can.

‘Harper,’ he says, untying her and taking her in his arms. Her body is limp and cold. ‘Harper, please be OK.’

He can’t do this without her. All this time, he thought he’d saved her, but looking at her lifeless body, he realizes it was she who saved him. Without her, he is a man
with a birthmark. She’s always made him a hero. She’s always made him feel more than a man. She was propping him up, always right there behind him. ‘Not this,’ Beckett
shouts at the top of his lungs. ‘This cannot be the sacrifice. Not whatever!’

Harper’s eyes open a crack. ‘Thank the Great I AM,’ Beckett cries, and hugs her close.

She grimaces and presses her fist to her bleeding temple. ‘What . . .’

‘Did Greta do this to you?’ Beckett asks. Harper nods and then her head flops to one side. He can’t believe it. He thought Greta was different. Maybe it’s in
her nature to fight. Maybe he pushed her too far. He will forgive her as the Great I AM says, but not right now. ‘Harper, stay with me. Wake up.’ She needs to open her eyes again, to
talk to him. ‘Harper,’ he says, and kisses her on her forehead. ‘Please, Harper.’

Harper stirs ever so slightly. ‘Give me some air, would you, Beckett?’ she whispers, and tries to sit up. She moans in pain and sinks back down.

Beckett rests her against the infinity stone. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, easing himself down next to her.

Harper wrinkles her eyebrows together. ‘Seriously?’

Beckett half smiles at her sarcasm. She’s going to be OK.

‘We’ve got to stop Finch and Greta.’ Harper speaks slowly as if it pains her to say it. ‘As the Great I AM says, “Desperate times call for outrageous
measures”.’

A plan is beginning to form in Beckett’s head.

Harper leans into Beckett. ‘What did you find?’

Beckett hands Harper the Great I AM’s backpack. ‘I think it’s the Great I AM’s Facebook.’ Beckett wraps an arm around Harper.

‘Beckett, what are we going to do?’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ he says. ‘Let’s give Forreal and Vega something to believe in.’

A
fter we cleaned him up, Tate spent the next hour in the necessary being sick. Chaske held him upright while I placed cold compresses on his
forehead. I tried not to gag each time he threw up. Even after his stomach was empty he continued to heave. Eventually he collapsed in Chaske’s arms. We tucked him in bed and took turns
watching him sleep. My body itched to run away. It took every ounce of courage to stay by Tate’s side. I wasn’t cut out for this. It was too real and horrible. Hadn’t we suffered
enough?

When he woke the next morning, he was exhausted but sort of fine. We let him eat a whole MRE. For a day it was as if we were almost back to our locked-underground normal. Even though I
couldn’t remember how I normally acted or what I normally did. Every second my brain was consumed by one question – are we being poisoned?

Chaske and I talked about leaving this place, but we were still more scared of what was out there than in here. Then Tate got too sick for us to even consider moving him. We watched this vibrant
kid age before our eyes in agonizing stages. First came the diarrhoea, then nose bleeds. Next the chills and fever. He said he felt as if his head were being ripped in two. We gave him what
medication we had.

‘I don’t know what more we can do for him,’ I told Chaske less than a week later. We had stepped out into the tunnel to discuss what to do next. Tate was bedridden. He
couldn’t eat or drink without getting sick. His hair fell out in fistfuls. He smelled as if he were decaying already.

‘Should we, you know . . .’ Chaske couldn’t say it but I knew. ‘He’s only going to get worse. More pain. It doesn’t seem humane to watch him
suffer.’

I thought about the zombie and the weight of the gun in my hand. The trigger had clicked under the pressure of my finger and I remembered the look in the zombie’s eyes as the bullet had
entered his body. How his eyes widened in surprise and then squinted in pain. Then I always saw Marissa’s face. We were both just trying to make it through this and remain human – which
I knew now was impossible.

That memory made my body ache. My throat tensed. My stomach convulsed. My insides swam in a sickening swirl of guilt and anger and fear and sadness. I told myself again and again that I’d
had to do it. It was him or me, but no matter how hard I tried to convince myself, I knew I’d taken two lives.

I told Chaske, ‘I can’t. I know you’re right, but I can’t.’ I’d done it once in the heat of a life-or-death moment. I couldn’t pull the trigger again,
even if it may be for the best. I couldn’t point the gun at Tate. I already felt as if I’d killed him by bringing him here.

‘Icie, promise me. If I ever get that bad, you’ll find the courage to put me out of my misery. You’ll do it for me, won’t you? I’m telling you it’s OK. It
would be what I’d want.’

I shook my head. ‘We weren’t exposed. We’re fine. I mean we’d be sick already, right?’ but I knew it was impossible to say. I didn’t know how much exposure
we’d had and what type of radioactive waste it was. Also I knew from my dad that everyone reacted to poisons differently. Tate had been so close to that radioactive gunk for so long and
he’d had direct contact too.

‘I hope you’re right, but promise me. Don’t let me suffer.’

I hoped it wouldn’t come to that. I buried my face in his chest. My mass of dreadlocks fell over my face. ‘It’s all my fault,’ I whispered, barely saying my confession.
‘I didn’t know. My parents couldn’t have known.’

He stroked my dreadlocks.

‘I thought we were safe,’ I said, and swallowed the thick saliva that had gathered in my mouth. ‘Why did Tate have to open that door anyway? Why couldn’t he just leave it
alone? We were better off not knowing, weren’t we?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Chaske said. He brushed my hair aside so he could see my face in the soft glow of the solar lighting.

‘My parents couldn’t have known that stuff was here. Why would they send me here if that stuff was here? I mean—’

Chaske hugged me closer. ‘Icie, I saw those containers just like you did. They had no markings besides the radioactive symbol. Some company has taken advantage of this free storage
facility, or maybe the government was secretly storing the stuff here. Those canisters aren’t marked with a company name or any fancy coding system. They must have been hidden here for a long
time. Your parents couldn’t have known.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ I buried my face again.

‘We would all be dead already if it weren’t for you and this place,’ Chaske said.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ I murmured into his chest, my lip nudging his bare skin with each word. I kissed his chest, his neck. I held his face and kissed him hard on the lips. I wanted to
feel something. I didn’t want to think about Tate any more.

‘Icie,’ Chaske said and shifted away from me. ‘I can’t. Not now. OK?’

I heard his words but I couldn’t stop. I had to make him understand. I wanted to feel what I’d felt so many nights with Chaske. I wanted that spark, that closeness. I kissed him on
his cheeks. I ran my hands across his body but, instead of responding, his body tensed. I kept kissing him. He had to understand.

‘Enough, Icie,’ he said, and pinned me against the tunnel wall.

‘Chaske, stop it,’ I said, writhing underneath him.

‘Icie, please,’ he whispered, and shook me until I stopped fighting. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. I shut my eyes. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he
said again.

‘Yes, it is. All this . . .’ I started to cry. I hated these helpless tears. I wanted to pull my arms in and cover my face but he wouldn’t release me.

‘It’s not your fault.’ He repeated it again and again and again.

‘Then whose fault is it?’ I shouted.

‘If you want to blame someone, blame the people who made the stuff and put it here,’ he said slowly, but then the speed and intensity of the words increased. ‘Blame all the
people who make things that are only designed to kill. Blame the governments for not making peace their only priority. If you want to blame someone, I guess you can blame me too. Maybe we are all
to blame. We lived our lives and didn’t care about anything bigger than ourselves. We are all to blame for not speaking up, standing up, shouting, kicking and screaming, and demanding better
from the world, our leaders, each other and ourselves. If we ever get out of here, let’s do a better job. When you rule the world, why don’t you preach peace and compassion and common
sense?’

His fire, his passion, was contagious. And he was right.

‘Maybe I will,’ I said.

Towards the end we let Tate listen to a few tunes a day, spacing it out and talking endlessly about what song to pick. Sometimes he didn’t know who we were or where he
was. He kept calling me Libby and calling Chaske Jaymo or something like that. We didn’t correct him. We let him believe we were whoever he wanted us to be. When he stopped talking, Chaske
and I carried on a discussion we thought Tate would like.

Chaske and I sat on the cold rock floor on either side of Tate’s cot.

‘Best rock singer of all time?’ Chaske said, in a tone that if Tate were conscious, he would realize was too perky for Chaske. He tried so hard to keep the mood light. He had this
too-wide smile plastered on his face. It was kind of freepy, but I couldn’t tell him that his smile was making me anxious.

‘You mean besides Tate Chamberlain,’ I said, his name catching in my throat. Tears welled in my eyes. Tate wouldn’t get his rock star dream, or any dream now.

We agreed to try to keep the mood happy for Tate, but that was nearly impossible. ‘Wha Eva’s the best rock singer, of course,’ Chaske said, sticking to our light-hearted
discussion.

I cleared my throat but I couldn’t stop the tears streaming down my face. ‘Tate likes In Complete Faith and Fame Sake, don’t you, Tate? What was the tune you played all the
time?’

‘Yeah, that “Tonight” song,’ Chaske said and started to sing: ‘“Tonight’s got promise. Promise”.’

I leaned in and whispered to Tate, ‘Chaske sure isn’t the best singer of all time.’

‘Hey!’ Chaske said. ‘I’ve got a good voice.’

Chaske and I were acting too light and fluffy – like hosts on a children’s television show.

‘We already did best drummer and best rock tune . . .’ Chaske struggled for another topic.

‘And the best band of all time,’ I added. I was watching Tate slip away and all I could do was make crupid conversation.

‘Tate, how about you and I list the top ten girls we want to be stuck in a bunker with?’ Chaske asked, giving Tate a conspiratorial, but light, nudge.

‘You’ve got me,’ I interjected. ‘What more could you . . .’ But I knew if I said the rest of that sentence, I was going to lose it. I leapt to my feet and raced as
fast as I could down the tunnel. I’d nearly reached the bottom before I burst into tears. That’s what it felt like. Something inside of me had ripped open and I couldn’t stop
sobbing. I curled into a ball on the hard rock floor and cried. It wasn’t only for Tate but for everyone I’d lost. I’d locked Marissa and Midnight out. I didn’t know what
was worse, watching Tate die or forever wondering what had happened to my parents.

I told myself to suck it up. I couldn’t be there for Mum or Dad or Lola, but I could be there for Tate. I wiped my eyes and marched right back to Tate’s bedside. I mouthed
Sorry
to Chaske.

‘It’s OK,’ he said.

I slid down next to him. We sat in silence for a while, listening to Tate breathe.

Each of Tate’s breaths was ragged and barely audible. Chaske and I would hold our breaths until he took another, asking each other with the raise of an eyebrow if this was it.

Tate cracked open one eye and stared at me.

‘Hi, Tate,’ I said, and forced myself to stroke his arm. After we’d scrubbed him, his skin developed thousands of scabs, almost scales. I swallowed down the bile that rose in
my throat. I didn’t think he was contagious but I didn’t know. I never paid attention in science class. I only half listened to my father when he talked his nuclear talk. It really
didn’t matter any more, did it? We were already exposed.