—
The third catamaran didn’t come back.
“The outriggers?” Milo asked Carver.
“They’re fine. They’re faster, so they go farther out, take longer to return. They’ll find food while they’re out.”
Incredibly, they found the tsunami drum, wedged between boulders, its skins and ribs intact. They rolled it to the nearest bluff and assigned a watch—a woman named Jane Eyre, whose husband was missing—and left her there.
The Rebuilding Committee took an inventory of tools they had and tools they needed to make. Milo and Suzie volunteered to dig the new latrine. Cracklin’ Rosie, Red Wine, and Matthew left to scout for freshwater.
High tide and low tide came again, and went.
At sunset, they remembered the dead.
“Polly Wolly,” read Carver. “Jim Shunk. Justinian the Third. Bead Woman. White Chick. Mr. Henry. Caspar. Big Brad. Old Brad. Shakespeare. Sarah the Librarian. Siamese Cat. Conan the Avenger. Leave Me Alone.”
Out of the weird golden twilight, the outriggers rode in and slid ashore. The sailors walked up the beach and came among them without a word, except to join in the litany.
“Boo-Cherry. LoopsyDoll. Captain My Captain. Vaughn Gillespie. Indigo. Demon Rum. Word Salad. The Last Scientologist. Doris Fubar. Danny Bo-Banny. Good Grades, McDonalds, and Pookie of Nazareth…” and it went on, seventy names, spoken and repeated and not spoken again.
—
Things got back to normal.
Things changed.
Like their name. The Rock ’N’ Roll Hall of Fame became Sly and the Family Stone, after a famous ancient band.
Seven days after the tsunami, a cartel sled came burning down from space. The Family Stone barely had time to gather on the beach before the Monitors emerged.
“Line up!” barked the commander. “Everyone!”
Uuuuuu-uuuuu-rrrrrrrrp! He fired his burp gun into the air. Empty cartridges rained on the sand.
They came running from everywhere.
This isn’t about fruit, thought Milo.
“We lost a ship,” the commander said. “Where is it?”
Sounds of confusion up and down the line.
The Monitors were not playing. All four of them aimed their guns at a little girl named Mango.
“I saw it go down with the wave,” said Milo. “It waited for stragglers, and it got in the air too late.”
“Where is it now?” asked one of the deputies.
Milo shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.
“Chances are it was swept into open water,” said Big Bird, right behind him. “At least three waves washed over this island.”
“Shut up!” yelled the commander, stepping through the front line and pressing his muzzle against Big Bird’s forehead.
“Why didn’t you warn us?” he asked. Then, screaming: “Why didn’t you fucking moon niggers warn us?”
An angry buzz rose up and down the line.
“You heard the drum, same as everyone else,” someone said. “You know damn well what it means.”
Aw, shit, thought Milo.
Uuurrp! Big Bird’s head came apart in a red cloud. Her body hit the sand.
Because, Milo wanted to say, the cartel suits and their nerds and goons had been too busy yelling and drinking and trying to drag kids into the woods.
The commander stepped back.
“Because you chose not to warn us,” he said, “a disciplinary action will be levied, beginning at sundown.”
Fearful muttering in the line.
The Monitors climbed back into their sled, rocketed into the air, and burned out to sea.
—
Carver and Jale stepped over Big Bird’s body, through the front line, and turned to face the Family Stone.
“Listen,” said Carver, “those of you who know what’s going to happen and know what to do, go do it. If you’re new or not sure, listen up.”
About half of the population left and walked back to the huts.
“Here’s what’s going on,” Jale told the rest. “It’s not going to be easy. The cartel goons are going to be here in an hour, and they are going to come into our homes and force us to hurt each other.”
“What do you mean?” someone asked.
“It’s something tyrant governments used to do back on Earth,” said Carver, “before the comet. So people used to switch houses. They’d send their children to the neighbors or to less-immediate relatives. That way, if the soldiers came and made them do things, at least they didn’t have to cut their own child or whip their own mother.”
Milo’s eyes stung.
We could run, he wanted to say. We could hide. But he knew what Jale would say.
They’d make it worse.
What do you do, he wondered, when you scratch around for courage and it won’t come?
You fake it, said the voices in his head.
So he said, “All right.”
And Suzie said, “All right.”
The whole Family Stone said, “All right,” and the line melted back into the village.
“Suzie,” said Jale, “you’re going to come with me. Chili is going to Rose’s hut. My father is going with Milo.”
She ticked off other arrangements, but Milo barely heard.
The twins. Dammit, how come they were always out of sight when things got crazy? Then he remembered what Carver had said. They were smart. They’d figure it out. And there was nothing he could do for them, anyway. But—dammit! His mind went in circles this way.
He and Suzie kissed. Around them, other families kissed and parted.
He walked to the hut where Jale’s dad, Old Deuteronomy, was already waiting.
The sun passed behind Jupiter, and the stars came out, and some of the stars moved and circled, and came in low, and landed on the beach.
—
In the dark, Old Deuteronomy groped for Milo’s arm and gave it a squeeze.
They heard voices among the huts closer to the beach.
There was the sound of the sea on the shore and insects in the jungle.
Waiting. Maybe they had gone?
Voices exploded, shouting. One brief scream, followed by the unmistakable smack of fists on human flesh.
Milo and Old Deuteronomy both leaned forward, almost rising, almost yelling out.
Be wise, said Milo’s head. He subsided. So did the older man.
Through the door, Milo watched a tableau of shadows and silhouettes. Mostly still…the shapes of the village huts, the trees near the beach, with stars beyond and Jupiter’s ghostly crescent. But other shadows, too. A helmet, the blunt shape of a burp gun.
Another hut—closer this time—erupted in curses and something shattering.
And another hut, farther down the beach. And another.
Sometimes it sounded as if every single one of the islanders had been pounced on at once, as if the night itself had gone bloodthirsty. Other times there might be just one or two huts getting attention, and you could hear every thump of a club, every scream or whimper. Some of the soldiers must have brought whips or belts.
Now and then, gunfire.
Once—for ten minutes straight, it seemed—a small child screamed a singular high-pitched wail of agony, and Milo heard muttering then, all around.