Invasive (32 page)

N
ight. The moon caught in the waves receding back to the Pacific.

The raft rolls atop the waves toward the beach, and the five of them piston their legs in the water, dragging it up the sand to where the sea cannot reach it.

Hannah is glad to not be sitting anymore. Even though her arms and shoulders ache and tremble, she feels suddenly, inexplicably alive.

“Where the fuck are we?” Ray asks.

Einar has the GPS. He taps the screen. “Pakala. Just southeast of Waimea.” In the glow from the GPS, his face brightens with that trademark smile. “And good news: we have a phone signal. Cell towers remain intact.”

Einar walks off, dialing a number.

Ray says, “Island's awful dark. No power.”

“The ants don't have the ability to take down a power grid, do they?” Hannah asks.

Kit's words are sleepy as she reminds her, “Well, crazy ants do it at the localized level. But this is a lot bigger than that.”

“Maybe the island is dark because it's night,” Ray says.

“Or maybe,” Hannah says, “it's because these Myrmidons are smarter than the average ant.”

“No one ant is smart,” Barry says. “Their intelligence is in the colony. A superintelligence.”

Kit shrugs. “Still, Will and Ajay made a real Frankenstein's monster. Who knows what these ants can do? They sure killed our ride,” she says, referring to the helicopter.

It's then that Hannah decides: Kit and Barry had nothing to do with the Myrmidons. It's a hasty call. She knows that. But she has to pick someone here to trust, and these two—they just aren't the type. She can't see either of them having a hand in the creation of the Myrmidon ants.

Now, though, a larger question: Do the two of them stay or do they go? If they stay, they can be an on-site resource, helping her or Hollis. They know a lot. They would be valuable. But then the longer game presents itself. If this thing ever goes to a trial, she needs them on the stand. Expert witnesses providing meaningful testimony as to what happened here. She can't have them dead on this island because she thrust them into the thick of it.

It's a hard call, but she makes it:

“You two,” Hannah says to Kit and Barry. “You need to get to safety somewhere off this island.”

Barry laughs. “And where is safe? Here? Another island?” He sits up with a groan. Sand sprinkles from the back of his head. “I'm not getting on another boat.”

“You get back in the raft. Take it parallel to the coast. At least down to one of the docks. You can probably find a snack bar or something for food.”

“We are not survival gurus like you,” Kit says. “We go out there, we die.”

Hannah winces. They're probably right.

Einar walks back toward them, talking into the phone: “Hello, hello? Yes.” His smile returns. “Yes, that's right. We are near Pakala. I can't say where, precisely. Near the point. Yes. Yes. We can do that. Thank you, Pono.” He puts the phone into his back pocket; then to the others he says: “We have a ride.”

“May I have the phone?” Hannah asks, putting out her hand. Einar hesitates for just a moment, then gives it to her. She files that little moment away: Why did he hesitate? What is he afraid of? No time to worry about that now. Hannah takes the phone, tries to remember Hollis's number. She dials it.

It rings and rings, goes right to his voice mail.

Damn it. Maybe the base, then?

She calls information. They would have a number for Barking Sands.

A tone plays and a voice recording follows:
Your call could not be completed, please check the number
.

A deep, anxious breath in. Hannah feels besieged by uncertainty. Einar says, “We should walk to meet our ride.”

To Barry and Kit, Hannah says: “You're going to walk, too. Just in the other direction.”

“Wait, what?” Kit asks.

“Barking Sands is on the southwest side of the island. We're not far. If this is near Waimea, then it's a . . .” To Einar she says, “How far is it?”

Einar shrugs. “Ten miles. Fifteen at most.”

“You're going to walk there. It'll be safer if you stay in the water. Even if you just keep your feet covered, the ants . . . they shouldn't be able to reach you.”

“And if we get there and the whole place has gone tits up?” Barry asks.

Hannah's honest answer would be:
Then I don't know.
Instead she says: “Then find a boat. Stay in the water. Wait for help.”

They nod. Their faces make it clear: Kit and Barry are not sure about this. They're tired. Beaten down. And most of all, they're afraid. But acquiescence sweeps over them, as it must, because no other choice exists.

So they say their good-byes. And all the while, Hannah prays she's not condemning them to death. It's one prayer to a God she doesn't believe in, one prayer in a line of many: she prays Hollis is still alive, that they can find Will, that the ants don't kill them, that all this is just a dream and soon she'll awake.

Hannah, Einar, and Ray head north.

They creep through the dark under the cover of tall tulip trees and scraggly ohi'a lehua trees—the branches black against the blue-dark sky, against the spray of stars and moon-painted clouds. Hard earth and twigs crunch under their feet, mosquitoes take their blood, and once Ray steps face-first into a spider's web, freaking out as he pinwheels his arms against the invisible silk.

All the way, though, Hannah isn't worried about the mosquitoes or the spiders. All she can think about is
them
. Creeping, crawling underneath. Have they gone underground? Are they hiding in the dirt now? The darkness of the island—gone deeper here under the trees—is like the darkness of her knowledge. Everything is an unknown quantity. Have they killed everyone? Have they gone on to other islands? Her short conversation with Hollis was almost twenty hours ago, and what little she heard strikes terror in her heart even now.
They're everywhere. People have died. Shelter in place. Quarantine
.

She shivers. She's wet. She's cold. She's terrified.

“Look,” Einar says.

Lights. Bleeding through the trees. It takes a moment for Hannah's eyes to adjust, but there it is—a house. No, an
estate
. Houses don't have wings, don't have pool houses and in-law suites and multiple decks and massive garages, but this one does. Hannah's first thought is to march over, throw a rock through the window, and find food.

That inclination gives her pause.
How quickly we descend,
she thinks. She's a law-abiding person. She works for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And her response during the start of a crisis is to break into a rich person's house with nary a thought? Steal? Pillage? Kill?

Maybe her parents were right. If society collapses, even the most law-abiding will find their eyes and hands wandering. Morality and civilization are facades that crumble quickly, exposing the raw rock and jagged stone of mankind's true nature underneath.

Ray says, “We could go inside, get food—”

“No,” Hannah interrupts.
Hold the line. Maintain civilization. Do not become your mother.
“We keep moving. We have a car to catch.”

Highway 50 is a dead line carved through quiet black space. Guardrails stand rimed with the red dust that Hannah remembers from what seems like a lifetime ago but was only a handful of days before. Grasses sway in a gentle breeze.

Everything is quiet. It is the quiet of corpses. The quiet of graveyards. Power lines above hum and buzz, but otherwise there is no sound of traffic, no planes or helicopters. Though they cannot see them from here, she knows that the sea is home to boats—coming in on the raft, they saw twinkling lights out there on the water. A smart refuge, she thinks, from the scourge of the Myrmidon colonies.

For now, they stand and they wait.

It's Ray who breaks the silence. “Whoever your driver is, he's not coming.”

“He'll be here.”

“We should think of an alternate plan.”

“We don't need one.”

“That house back there. We'll go, break in, get some food—maybe we can find the keys to one of the cars. Maybe—”

Hannah interrupts, her tone sharp. “The driver will be here. If Einar says he's coming, then he's coming.”

“So, now we all just trust Einar.”

Einar pivots. Smirking. Amused by the outburst.

“You don't?” Einar asks. “Even still?”

Ray looks cornered. Like he's not sure he should keep going down this rabbit hole. Hannah's not sure he should, either. Now's not the time. She's not sure she trusts Einar, but this is a battle best fought later. They're tired and hungry and their nerves are frayed like old carpet. With that, Ray says: “I'm just saying, the oversight here hasn't exactly been top-notch. This all happened because he didn't
keep control over his own people. He let psychopaths play in his big money playground and, surprise, surprise, they went psycho. Besides, how do we know he's not trying to play us? Maximize his profits? He said he didn't want other companies involved because this is his responsibility. But maybe it's also his payday he cares about.”

“My payday?” Einar asks, then laughs. He extends both arms out like he's beseeching the heavens. “You above others know how my companies work, Ramon. I lose money on nearly every transaction. The batteries? The wind farms? I'm trying to change the world, not get rich.” He says that last sentence like the very idea tastes like bile. “The world is
run
by the rich.
Over
run by them. My home country was almost ruined by the wealthy. The disparity between those with all the money and those with none is a widening chasm and we're all
tumbling
into it. I'm trying to save the world and you're here doubting my intentions?
Farðu í rassgat!
Fuck. You.”

“Fuck you,” Ray mutters.

“Guys,” Hannah says. “Our ride.”

Down the highway: headlights.

The Lincoln Town Car is prepped for the end times. Pono went buck wild with duct tape, covering dashboard cracks and vents, plus all along the exterior of the vehicle (covering up the gaps caused by trunk and hood). And the whole thing stinks of bug spray.

In the backseat sit Hannah and Einar, with Ray crammed between them.

Moana, Pono's sister, stares balefully at them from the front seat. Her jowls are tight, and her scowl hangs between them. “You da richie-rich one,” she says to Einar. He smiles politely and nods. “You pay big for this ride.”

“I will, yes.”

“Moana. Shush,” Pono hisses. He laughs pleadingly. He's nervous.
Like he doesn't want to upset anybody, even though for all intents and purposes it's the apocalypse out there. “Don't you worry, Mr. Einar, we got you covered. Where we headed today?”

“North Shore,” Einar says. “Wainiha.”

“Ha, okay, sure. You know,” Pono says, licking his lips, “
wainiha
in our language means ‘unfriendly waters.'”