The Serophim Breach (The Serophim Breach Series) (5 page)

Behind him, he could hear Brandon chuckling. When Kai glanced back at him, he had a ridiculous grin plastered on his face and was waving his hand in an exaggerated mimicry of his older brother.

“Heather!” he called, making his voice deeper to sound like Kai’s.

Kai faked a grin and then hurled a feedbag at Brandon, who caught it mostly with his chest and stomach, grunting loudly and screwing up his face like the wind had been knocked out of him. He sagged slowly to the dirt, exaggerating the look of pain on his face. Kai chuckled, hopping out of the truck bed to load the last four boxes into the backseat while his brother feigned injury. A warm gust of wind tugged at his shirt, and his thoughts shifted to the taro fields, running over the days since they had laid the rotten leaves and fertilizer out. He decided that they should have the cuttings ready to go in the ground in no more than forty-eight hours. If they worked hard, he was sure they could have the fields planted and underwater by the time his dad returned. He was mentally delegating workloads for himself and his siblings when Brandon finally heaved the last feedbag into the truck bed and climbed into the passenger seat.

“You need to stop by the hospital, make sure nothing’s broken?” Kai said with a smile as he got into the truck. He glanced at his brother, waiting for a response.

Brandon blinked lazily twice and said, “Sorry, what’d you say?” He looked tired and distracted again.

Kai started up the truck. “Never mind.”

~

In the restroom, the voice that came over the speakers was almost unbearably loud. Gary hunched his shoulders against the shrill female intonation, rinsing the gritty soap from his hands. He listened to the announcement as he pulled out several lengths of paper towels.

“
Attention, all passengers on flight 4296 to Los Angeles. The flight has been delayed due to a late arrival. Scheduled arrival time is now 1:15 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. If you have a connecting flight in Los Angeles, please make any necessary arrangements at the ticket counter.”

Gary closed his eyes for a moment, laying his palms on the cool countertop in front of him. After a few long breaths, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and began punching buttons. He made several mistakes as he composed his text message; it was not a form of communication he used often. Once he felt it was complete, he read over the message:

flight from hawaii delayed, out of my control.

i need more time to get to you.

can you adjust?

Gary hesitated, his finger on the green button. He considered trying for another flight, to another location on the mainland, but that could end up costing him even more time in the long run. And he couldn’t afford another plane ticket, not with such short notice. Briefly, he considered his credit cards, but then remembered that his luggage was already checked. He couldn’t leave without his bag. Finally he sent the message and watched his phone for a few long minutes, waiting for some kind of response. When none came, he returned it to his pocket and wandered back out into the busy terminal.

Paul called out, “Sorry!” to the jogger over the squeal of truck tires catching traction on the paved road. Greg had nearly flattened the heavyset man, who now stood hunched at the end of Paul’s driveway, unresponsive to the shouted apology. He worried for a second that the guy might go up to the house and yell at Sarah about his idiot friends, but just before they rounded the corner, Paul saw him straighten up and continue on his path down the street. Satisfied, he turned forward and greeted the others.

Sitting next to him, Jones howled into the wind and grinned. He was the only native Hawaiian in the group, and the smallest as well. He was a full four inches shorter than Paul, who stood over six feet, but his Mohawk-mullet made up half the difference. While Paul, Greg, Derrick, and Boomer were all tan, Jones’s skin was a deep mahogany color. He wore blue contacts, although his eyes were brown and his features Asiatic. Paul and Jones had become best friends in middle school after an incident involving the fire alarms during a math quiz. In high school they had started up the first surf club on campus, and after graduation had begun planning a six-month surf trip to South America. The destinations were chosen, but the funds had yet to be worked out.

Derrick sat beside Jones, still sunburned from their previous excursion. He had arrived on the island during their junior year of high school after his father decided to move his locksmith business somewhere more temperate than Michigan. They had all chuckled when he joined the surf club, but he took to the water like a natural, and his dad was known for leaving twenty-four packs in his garage fridge. Jones still made fun of him for his fair skin, presenting him with three bottles of SPF 100 every year on his birthday.

Lounging in the passenger seat, Boomer had his bare feet propped up on the side-view mirror. He wore his sunglasses tight against his face and had one arm thrown over his forehead.
Hungover,
Paul thought. His hair was flattened to his head on the right side, as if he had passed out and slept in the same position all night. While the rest of them had walked at graduation a few months earlier and were now putting off college plans indefinitely, Boomer had been sentenced to a remedial program to get his GED after too many unexcused absences. Today was his fourth time skipping class in the last two months.

Greg turned up the radio and gave the truck a little more gas, whipping around another gentle curve in the road. He was the only one of the guys who had a vehicle big enough to carry them all and their gear, and so had been pressed into service for the surf club sophomore year. Ever since, he and everyone else assumed he would always be the driver. In three weeks, they would have to figure out some other way to get around, since Greg was scheduled to leave on a two-year mission for the Mormon Church. In anticipation of twenty-four months of weekly haircuts and daily side parts, he had let his curly, sun-bleached hair go to seed since May. Everyone had recently taken to calling him Bodhi, after Patrick Swayze’s character in
Point Break
.

Jones crowed again when a new song came over the speakers.

“Turn it up! This song gives me a boner!” He started grinding his hips to the beat.

Greg glanced in the rearview mirror. “Hey, Jones,” he shouted over the wind and music. “Jones!”

“Yeah!”

“Everything gives you a boner.”

“You should know! Zing!” Jones threw a hand up in the air and kept grinding.

“You just zinged him for giving you a boner. I’m not sure you understand proper zing usage,” Paul yelled.

Making a face, Derrick stuck his fingers in his ears. “I hate this song,” he complained.

Jones shoved his shoulder into Derrick’s side, rubbing against him. “Next time, bring along your Chumbawumba CD, and we’ll all get down to your favorite song,” he said.

Derrick raised his eyebrows, grinning. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time I caught him singing along to ‘My Heart Will Go On’?”

Jones gasped loudly. “Eff you, dude! Celine Dion is an artist.”

“I’d go with Celine before Chumbawumba,” Greg said.

Boomer dry-heaved, and everyone erupted in laughter.

“I agree with Boomer,” called Paul.

Boomer swallowed hard, making another retching noise. “Pull over,” he gasped.

Greg swung the truck onto the side of the road just as Boomer clapped his hands over his mouth and puked. The spray shot between his fingers onto the dashboard, liquid running from his chin onto the seat.

“Shit, dude!” Greg shouted.

Boomer retched again, and Greg leaned over him to open the passenger door just as he vomited again. Pale, chunky liquid slid down his neck onto his shirt, splattered the windshield, and stuck in Greg’s hair.

“Ew, dude, get out of the damn car,” Greg growled, shoving Boomer out into the weeds. He landed on his feet, just barely, then crouched and hurled into the bushes.

Immediately Paul’s stomach started to churn. The violent sound of Boomer choking up his breakfast made him wince, and the stench of sour vomit on the front seat quickly became overpowering.

To his right, Jones was laughing. “Look at him go!”

Derrick leaned forward to watch for a moment, then turned away with a weak, “Holy shit.”

In the front, Greg was digging through the center console for napkins and shouting, “You got it in the car, douche bag!”

Saliva was beginning to pool in Paul’s cheeks, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. Even Jones had stopped laughing.

“Oh, it . . .” Jones dry-heaved briefly. “It’s gonna make me barf.”

Paul jumped out of the truck, escaping the sight and stench of the puke long enough to get control of his churning stomach. The breeze was cool on his damp skin, and he tasted the salt from the ocean in the air. After a minute or so, he walked around the back of the truck, hoping to find that Boomer had finished. Paul found him sitting cross-legged against the back tire, his hands pressed to his forehead, vomit covering his chin and chest.

“You okay, man?” he asked, staying a few feet away and downwind; if he caught a whiff of the puke, he knew his own breakfast would join Boomer’s in the bushes.

Boomer turned his head weakly and spit, then wiped his chin with the sleeve of his ruined shirt. “Yeah, I think I’m okay now.” He took a deep breath. “God . . . I thought I was gonna drown.” He spit again, putting his palms on his stomach.

Paul frowned. There were streaks of red in the vomit on Boomer’s shirt.

“You bleeding?” he asked.

Boomer glanced down at himself and shrugged. “Don’t think so,” he replied, his voice gravelly.

From inside the car, they heard Jones groan. “Oh, dude . . . I can smell the Jack Daniel’s.” Derrick and Greg voiced similar complaints as Boomer forced a weak smile. He took one more deep breath, then slowly got to his feet and trudged back toward the passenger seat. Greg frowned at him.

“Take off your shirt,” he said.

Boomer gave him a tired glance.

“I’m serious, man; it’s got barf all over it.”

~

After they left Mike’s, Kai kept the windows down and the radio on, so there wasn’t much of an opportunity for small talk. He was annoyed with himself for his lack of finesse, and irritated that Brandon was making life so difficult for everyone. Silent, Kai and Brandon simply watched the scenery change as they drove farther away from downtown Honolulu toward the Central Valley. Eventually, Brandon dozed off again, leaving Kai to stew alone in his thoughts. Inland, a massive gray rain cloud lay on the mountaintop; it would move down to the farm in an hour or so, and down to the coast by the evening. Kai made a mental note to check the soil saturation when they got home. They were five exits from their off-ramp when he pulled off the highway, and Brandon stirred groggily.

“I have to make a quick stop,” Kai said.

Blinking blearily, Brandon raised his eyebrows slightly as they slowed to a stop at an intersection. To their left, a group of shabbily dressed teenagers were milling around in a convenience store parking lot. The side of the road was littered with trash, and an angry-looking man wearing soiled jeans and a parka was stomping around near the overpass.

Brandon hesitated for a moment and then asked, “What for?”

“Paycheck.” Kai gripped the steering wheel tighter, hoping his brother would drop the subject.

“I thought you just got paid.”

“Yeah. I’ve been working part-time for Trent.”

He gauged his brother’s reaction by the length of his silence. Sensing that Brandon was working to keep a calm demeanor, his own frustration built with each second that passed.

“Why?” Brandon finally asked flatly.

Trying not to grit his teeth, Kai answered, “Don’t worry about it. I should only have to do this for a couple more weeks.”

Finally the light turned green, and he stomped on the gas. They quickly pulled into a neighborhood where the dilapidated houses sagged from moisture and age. Some sat high on struts to keep above the waterlogged ground; most without struts had crumbling porches and cracked cement walks. They all had the same sad pastel shades of peeling paint and rusting security doors, the same ragged grass cloth on the porches, and foil in the windows. Kai kept his eyes on the road and the truck windows down.

Brandon cleared his throat, then said, “I was just gonna say, if you need some money—”

“I don’t need any money.” With a clenched jaw, his brother turned away to look out the window. Kai returned his focus to the street and watched for his next turn; there were no street signs, and the rotating cast of parked cars made the neighborhood look different every time he came. Just when he was beginning to think he’d missed it, he saw the house with the peeling green paint and satellite dish, and hung a left.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t fair to blame Brandon for being surprised, even disappointed. Being gone for the last four years and never really involved in the farm’s finances, Brandon couldn’t possibly know what it took to keep the family going. Watching for his next turn, Kai racked his brain for a change of subject.

“I didn’t know Dad met someone,” he said suddenly. The bitterness behind his words surprised him.

Brandon shrugged. “He’s on this Christian dating site.”

“What? Dad’s barely even Christian.”

“I know. But he wants ‘this one to last.’”

“When did he tell you that?” Kai hoped he didn’t sound as petulant as he felt.

“I don’t know . . . like, two months ago.”

“Huh.”

Brandon was quiet for a moment. “It’s not a big deal,” he said finally.

“I know. I just would have thought . . . something like that would have come up.” Surprised and embarrassed by the hurt in his voice, he reached out and changed the radio station, hoping that would end the conversation.

~

Sarah sighed, stretching her cramped legs. She had been sitting on the floor since Paul left, and was longing to get outside for some fresh air. Lani, however, seemed content in the position she currently occupied, nestled into the corner of the couch, a nail polish tube pinched between her knees. The chemical smell was making Sarah’s already foggy head hurt.