11
Some guests from Building C escaped in a boat overnight. Well, tried their best to, anyway. It was the talk of the resort.
Tizoc Grand Islands Resort and Spa wasn’t known for its impressive fleet, having only six vessels to its name, and the boats they did have were mostly for parasailing and snorkeling right along the shore. Alan had called them prawn mowers on account of their small engines, the way they coughed up diesel, and the fact that they sounded more like lawn equipment than seafaring vessels. But still, a group of British dudes on a bachelor trip—they call them stag parties—had decided to take their chances with one, snuck down to the dock in the middle of the night, and made waves. Folks said they wouldn’t get far, that the boats weren’t made for the open ocean, and that the tanks didn’t hold enough diesel to get them to the next island, wherever that was. That sounded like sour grapes to Dan. He was only angry he hadn’t thought of it. Even if a rogue wave swallowed them up or they struck an iceberg or whatever, at least they’d die free men.
Why would they disable the other boats though? That was the part that didn’t make sense. They smashed up the engines and tossed them in the ocean. Dick move.
The Grab ’n’ Grow Breakfast on the Great Lawn was less impressive by the day. That morning, it was blueberry mini muffins and pomegranate juice, followed shortly by the Pledge of Allegiance, a new addition to the resort schedule. They weren’t even in America, but they had cobbled together a makeshift American flag using pool towels and printer paper and hoisted it. From atop a Jeep, Lilyanna covered her heart and recited the pledge like Reagan was listening. Guests shivered. The temperature had to be in the forties now.
Afterward, staff members, still adorned in black, separated guests based on their pitch-in cards. Dan and Mara received yet another new assignment—group sewing in the Main Building ballroom. Along with fifty or so other guests, their task would be to convert extra comforters and quilts into pants and coats and gloves and hats for the upcoming ice age. Before the morning assembly could break, Pete Collins, dressed again in a full suit, rejoined his wife on top of the Jeep. As usual, he was way too chipper.
“Hold on, folks, hold on just one more second, if you would.” He flashed a million-dollar smile. “Gosh, look at y’all, so eager to get to work. This lady over here’s trembling with anticipation. Ya love to see it.”
Rico appeared from behind the Jeep. He leaned on the hood and stared out into the crowd. Dan stepped sideways to avoid his gaze.
“Hiya, Rico,” Pete said. “Okay, now, I know we already had Worship Service this morning—and I don’t know about y’all, but I thought it was a pretty darn good one.” Pete laughed, then realized he didn’t give the punch line. “If I do say so myself!” He laughed again. “But before you go, I just thought—well, Lilyanna and I thought—we can really feel the Lord’s presence on the Great Lawn this morning. Would you indulge us in just one more prayer? One more prayer before we start the day, whaddya say?”
There was a smattering of applause from the more delusional among them.
Pete put his arm around his wife, and they bowed their heads. “Heavenly Father, we don’t need the sun in the sky to thank You for this beautiful day. We pray that You watch over our hands so we may complete Your work, watch over our mouths so we may only speak of Your glory, and gosh, You know what? Watch over our hearts so that they may only be filled with Your spirit.”
Gag. Dan looked around, like, Are you guys hearing this?
“Father, we ask that You help us work together as a team so that we may bring out the best in each other and so we don’t have to place anyone on one-tenth rations, which, as of this morning, Lord, is the new lowest level of rations one may be placed on for unsatisfactory work. In Your name we pray, Amen.”
Dan’s head rolled backward. More bad news delivered by prayer. One-tenth? They would really put someone on one-tenth ?
Two rows back, a woman fell to her knees, weeping. The guards were immediately on her.
There were only three sewing machines in the whole resort, and even fewer people who knew how to use them, so Dan, Mara, and dozens of others were given cardboard templates to place on top of quilts and cut around so that the more experienced sewers had a head start in completing the winter wear. Mrs. Betty Shannon, an elderly woman from Building A, demonstrated how. Her bony hands shook as she carefully cut through the fabric with a pair of scissors.
“It’s like anything else,” she said, sounding like that tree in Pocahontas. “Take your time with it. Go at your pace. Don’t look at your neighbor’s and think, Oh, she’s going faster than me, he’s already done with that, I have to catch up. No, no. That’s how you make a mistake.”
After a few minutes, she held up a piece of fabric in the shape of a mitten, and guests passed it around like it was the Venus of Willendorf . “Nice and steady now,” she said, “and if a few of you will help me pass out templates and scissors? That’s a dear. Thank you.” Dan was given what looked to be a coat, Mara a pair of pants. They sat across from each other at one of the many rows of tables that lined the ballroom.
Dan slipped into a terrible mood. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, maybe it was the impact this was all having on Mara, maybe it was a week without a hint of natural light. Or maybe—maybe it was these stupid fucking scissors. He couldn’t get them to cut right. He clamped down, and they folded sideways, barely leaving a dent. Mara was rounding the crotch of her pants template while Dan hadn’t even reached the jacket cuff. What were these, safety scissors? For construction paper? After a maddening few minutes, he tossed the project onto the table.
“I can’t do it. My scissors blow.”
Mara rolled her eyes. “You have the same scissors as everyone else. Here, you just—” She walked to his side of the table, made a few easy cuts. Slices of blanket slid away like Easter ham. “See? Easy. Just go steady.”
Dan scowled as she returned to her seat. His talents were wasted here. Maybe he should be out chopping trees with the men. He snatched the scissors with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could. It wasn’t long until he’d lopped off the arm of his template.
“Christ, Danny.” Mara shook her head. “You’re like a gorilla. Listen to instructions. Slow down.”
Dan pushed the materials aside. He glanced around the room, studied the top of people’s heads as they toiled away. He’d been able to keep his cool the past few days, but after blowing up on Mara last night, he felt antsy. Uneasy. He became aware of his hand tapping his leg.
After a moment he asked Mara, “Hey, remember that episode of Disappearance Report where the couple climbed that mountain in Alaska but the wife disappeared?”
Mara nodded but didn’t look up. “I still think the husband had something to do with that.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” He drummed the table. “How about the one with the navy pilot? In Florida.”
“Jane MacCallum. I joined a subreddit about her. I actually think that one’s solvable.”
Of course Mara joined a subreddit. While Dan was content to just watch the show, shrug his shoulders, and think, Geez, that’s a mystery, alright, Mara immediately had to go about solving everything.
Dan studied the ballroom chandeliers. “Hey, remember that one where—”
Mara’s head snapped. “Danny. If you’re not going to work, don’t distract me. What happened to keeping our heads down?”
Right. Heads down. Dan picked up his scissors.
Five days. They hadn’t heard from Alan in five days. What if Charles was right—what if they’d hurt him? They wouldn’t hurt him, right? He was Lilyanna’s only hope of getting off the island too. Well, unless—unless they found another engineer in Building A. Dan’s heart pounded. It was feasible that there were two people on the island who could fix a plane. What if…?
Dan clicked off his brain. “I just miss TV,” he said. Old Lady Betty hovered behind them like a ghost. Her fingers coiled atop Dan’s shoulder. Mara raised her eyebrows at him.
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Betty said, poking Dan’s ruined template. “No, no. What happened, hon?”
“Sorry. I went too fast.”
Mrs. Betty handed him another. “Remember: your pace.” She looked at Mara. “My husband is the same way. Can’t stand to be outdone by anyone. How long have you two been married?”
Mara smirked, on to another pair of pants already. “He takes his time on some things.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Betty craned over Dan, looked him in the eyes. He wished she’d go away, he had more templates to ruin.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Danny’s twenty-nine,” Mara said. “I’m twenty-seven.”
“Hmm,” she said, like that was much too old to be unmarried, like she doubted their parts worked anymore. “And how long have you been together?”
Why was this any of her business?
“It was two years in October,” Mara said.
“And do you live together?”
Mara slouched. “I moved in at the end of my lease.”
What was that tone in her voice? When’d that start? They’d talked about marriage before. Plenty of times, obviously. He explained this to her. He wanted to wait until he found a new job, something that paid more than Marvel Maids, and he wanted to really start writing, maybe, and—
“We were just waiting for the right time,” Mara said.
Mrs. Betty touched Dan’s shoulder. “Well, are you in love with him?”
This lady had some nerve. When people reach eighty, their filters need changing. Air filters in cars are changed every fifteen thousand miles, so. Way past due.
Mara bit her bottom lip. “Most days.”
“And look how pretty you are. I know he must love you.”
Mara and Mrs. Betty stared at Dan, like he had to answer, like why hadn’t he already leapt on the table Tom Cruise–style and professed his love so that the whole Bahamian sweatshop could hear him.
“Of course,” he said.
“Well, then!” Mrs. Betty patted his back. “Sounds to me like the timing is perfect. You know, my husband asked me to marry him after three dates .” Probably wanted to fuck before you both succumbed to typhoid fever, Dan thought. “And we’re here because it’s our sixty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“Wow, Mrs. Betty,” Mara said. “Congratulations.”
“You can just call me Betty, darling.” She drifted away from Dan. He hoped she was gone for good, but she materialized on the other side of the table. She wanted to sit, so Mara helped her sit. “I have a wonderful idea. What if you two were married here?”
Mara and Dan laughed, but Mrs. Betty’s gaze was steady.
“Now, I’m serious. Pete Collins could do it. He could marry you.”
“Right here,” Dan said.
“On the island, yes.”
“Gonna make a wedding dress out of beach towels?”
“Oh, I’m certain we could figure something out.”
Dan waved her off. “You’re nuts, lady.”
“That’s sweet,” Mara said, “but I want my mom at my wedding.”
Mrs. Betty patted her hand. “The sun’s exploded, dear, and you’re already twenty-seven. Now’s not the time to be picky.”
There was a timed restroom break around ten—guards banged on the stall of anyone who didn’t poop quickly enough—and then it was back to the ballroom for more garment construction. Dan’s technique hadn’t improved. Piles of completed templates swelled throughout the room, but his remained embarrassingly small, and the ones he did complete looked less like coats and more like baby ponchos. He was risking some serious rations, here.
Dan had just sliced through the collar of another coat when a man sidled up next to him.
Oh, God.
Beard man.
He was a fidgety type, one of those guys who always has to play with something, part house cat. He juggled a length of thread in his fingers. His eyes protruded from their sockets like someone was squeezing the sides of his head, and, goodness, his breath was less than fresh. That was one thing they didn’t touch on in postapocalyptic movies. Human beings turn rank in a matter of days. We don’t keep well.
“Remember me?” he said, and he stuck out his hand, and Dan looked at him, blinked, shook the scissors from the indentations in his fingers, and took it. It was moist. “I know we got off to a rough start, dude. But remember, I was the one who played ukulele at Julio’s funeral.”
“And in the gardens the other night,” Dan said. “Sorry about your ukulele.”
Heartache flashed briefly across his face. He ran his fingers over the cut on his head. “I didn’t get to say anything to you then, but I really liked what you said at the funeral. And, you know, when you were up on the table that first day. Spot on. Thank you for that, dude. I’m a big fan.”
Fan?
“They said your name was Dan. Is that it?”
“Yes,” Dan confirmed.
“Yeah, that’s what they said. Hey, uh, listen, Dan. Is it true what I heard about the other night? ’Bout you gettin’ dragged back to your room in handcuffs? What were you doing? Some of the guys think you were trying to take another one of those boats, but I told ’em you wouldn’t leave everyone like that.”
From the corner of his eye, Dan watched a smirk curl across Mara’s face, the first one in days. She loved that he was having to meet this guy again.
“All nonsense,” Dan said.
Beard guy nudged Dan’s arm and winked. “Yeah, I gotcha. Hush, hush. The DL. Word. But listen.” He leaned in closer, whispered. It smelled like a mouse had crawled into his gut and drowned in ammonia. “I see what you’re doing. I see the ring around your eye. Fighting the power. Pushing back on the man. The wo man, right? A lot of these people are too scared to say something, but know that we’re with you, Dan. And…we want in.”
In? In what? There was nothing to get in. Dan shouted into a megaphone for a few seconds five days ago and then got caught sneaking out after curfew, that was it, that was the extent of his defiance. Now, unless Alan came through, he was going to freeze to death in the Bahamas with his girlfriend while making baby ponchos.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean I want in .”
“Yeah, my ears work. Nose too, unfortunately. But I don’t know what you mean.”
“The resistance , man. I want in .”
Resistance? This guy really was insane. Dan couldn’t have anyone using the r -word in his vicinity. Guards near the door of the ballroom noticed the whispered conversation, stepped nearer. Dan subtly looked away from beard man, came up for air.
“I’m cutting a coat from a jizz-stained quilt,” he said. “Do I look like I’m resisting anything?”
Beard guy laughed, not getting it. “Yeah. But man, what’s next ? I heard that your neighbor hasn’t been here the past few days because—”
“What’s next is I’m going to plant these scissors in your kneecap if you don’t take your breath and go fumigate someone else.”
Beard man’s mouth sealed shut. He opened it again, considered saying something else, but Dan’s grip tightened around the scissors. Beard man stood and walked away, and the guards returned to their posts.
Dan wouldn’t have done it, of course, he didn’t even like stabbing frozen vegetable bags, preferring instead to open them carefully along the perforated edges, but it felt invigorating to threaten someone. His first successful intimidation. The secret was crazy eyes.
He looked at Mara, like, Can you believe that guy? but she was having none of it. Her head shook as though on a swivel, not a good sign. Her cheeks were flushed too, like everything she’d wanted to say for the past few days was stockpiled just inside her mouth.
“That was exceptionally rude,” she said. And then, “You’re a dick, Danny.”
“ I’m a dick? Did you hear him?”
“He was looking to you for help.”
“I’m not in a position to help anybody.”
“Everybody’s in a position to help somebody.”
Oh, come on. Is that the nurse creed, or something? Do they recite that each morning with their hands over their hearts while facing the Rod of Asclepius? Dan turned away. This was actually shaping up to be his best baby poncho yet.
Mara scoffed and got back to work too, but Dan knew better than to think she was done. It was never that easy. After a moment, she tossed her scissors on the table.
“You weren’t always this mean to people.”
“I’m not—”
“What about that woman at the ice cream place before we left?”
“Oh, come on. She asked for a sample of vanilla . She doesn’t know what vanilla tastes like?” Ugh. Just recalling that made Dan angry.
“And that guy.” She signaled to rejected beard man, who’d returned to his seat. “A week ago, at the amphitheater. He was just making conversation .”
“Jesus, Mara. His shirt said, WITH GREAT BEARD COMES GREAT RESPONSIBILITY.”
“Who gives a fuck?” she shouted. Then, because the whole room was staring, more quietly: “ Who gives a fuck? So if someone doesn’t share your sense of humor, that means you treat them like shit? Because they’re somehow beneath acclaimed humorist Daniel Foster?”
“I didn’t say—” Dan stopped himself. Damn. She was going in.
“I’m super curious which part of your white middle-class life made you hate everything, Danny. Was it your parents’ healthy marriage? The car you got on your sixteenth birthday? Oh, I know!” She did a baby voice and twisted her fists under her eyes. “Aw, I was in smawt classes gwowing up , and now I hate my job. Waah.”
Okay, that last part just wasn’t productive. And when he turned sixteen, Dan received a 2001 Saturn Sport Coupe purchased from a GameStop manager off Craigslist. Not exactly a Range Rover. But he hardly complained about it. Besides—
“You’ve lived a blessed life, Danny. Why are you so miserable?”
Dan cleared his throat, the question rattling his skull like an overloaded washing machine. “I think the sun exploding has made you a little tense. That’s perfectly—”
“You’d think the sun exploding would put things in perspective for you. Aren’t you supposed to receive some type of wisdom in your final days? Some clarity? The apocalypse just turned you into more of a miserable dick.”
She’d worked herself into a huff. She folded her cardboard template into her completed pieces and stood, blew hot breath from her mouth to push the hair from her face. The guards walked her way to see what the commotion was about.
“Mara,” Dan said, standing too, his hand out. “Come on.”
She leaned in. “That beard guy—everyone—is just looking for something to believe in, Danny. That’s what we need right now.”
“I’m not—”
“I know, Danny. I know.” She almost lost control of her swaying pile of fabric but recovered. “Story of your life, right? People think you’re someone you’re not.” She walked away, past a dumbfounded Mrs. Betty. “You can forget about that wedding, Mrs. Betty.” Then, to the guards who stepped in to stop her from leaving the ballroom: “I’m just working over here now. Jesus, don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just doing my work over here now, thanks.”
She sat at the end of the table and got back to cutting, her foot real fidgety, and Dan could tell she was singing “Linger” by the Cranberries softly under her breath.