Whispers

He stares at the ceiling. The wall’s plaster is old and crumbly. Past tenants have pried some loose, leaving crudely filled holes in corners and along the trim. The swirling breaks in the wall’s texture fight to abduct his attention. He’s been asking that it be painted every week since he arrived. It’s always pushed off another week, to the infinite future where time exists to discuss complaints. Now, however, his schedule ratchets around with the sun unfailingly.

His teeth gnash at wasting time, wasting potential, wasting plans. So much could be accomplished with focus. It’s so close; any step might reach it. If they would simply fix his walls. On the other side, an odd silence catches his attention. Why haven’t they bugged me about getting up? He drags his eyes past the plaster patches. The clock reads 11. It must be my lucky day.

Music wheezes over intercom speakers. He shakes his head. It’s familiar, but the name hides inside the fog of his mind. He can’t even tell Strauss from Gilbert and Sullivan anymore. An exaggerated morning bustle quieted a while ago, so he feels safe getting out of bed. The clock still reads 11. Still quiet. Too quiet? He massages his temples, then stands gently. Through pale green barriers, he finds a pale green cavern. Calming, but for the cracks.

Whispers come from beyond a windowed interior wall, both familiar. He closes his eyes, melting into the pale green, and listens.

“We can’t just leave them—” a female voice; calming, but for its stress.

“Everyone who had relatives was evacuated. We need to go!” A male voice, frustrated and frustrating. He curls his lip and wrinkles his nose.

“They said some government relief is on the—”

“Nobody’s coming!”

“But, it’s not—” The female voice cracks; his heart follows suit.

“We’ll leave the doors unlocked. It’s the best two of us can do.”

“Wait, one more thing.” The music stops. A news broadcast barges in. The whispers disappear into the distance, and he lands in an open room.

Empty chairs are strewn across the room; the rows pushed aside, into oblivion. An empty table is tangled among them, and a piano stands locked in the corner. He wonders who else remains, but doesn’t put himself out. He never does. It’s best if he doesn’t.

From the intercoms, a voice whispers among waves of hush, “Unprecedented storm surges are now expected … All coastal areas are being evacuated … Transportation for islands…” His mind teeters off of focus. He stands, restrained, unsure what to do next. Another whisper comes from behind, but it’s too small to distinguish. Suddenly, the world outside crashes in, thunder and lightning from the coming storm. His mind seizes him. Get out.

Right before the exit, he steps under the “Employees Only” sign. There’s a nostalgic rush, as from an empty classroom, from a teacher’s unattended desk, of answers not meant for his eyes. He grins to himself. Irreverence and autonomy; long lost in lost years, now within grasp. His thoughts totter back and forth, faltering against rooted fear. A portable radio sits in front of a lit red LED, its voice struggling to overcome the static. He grabs it with satisfaction, an act of pragmatism or defiance; he can’t decide. Outside, the sky crashes again. Get out.

The doorway stands open, courtesy of the wind. Through the frame are liberty and hazard; from behind more indistinct whispers; from his hand muffled static; in his mind fog; in his heart a sleepy yearning. He gathers himself. This is what you’ve been wanting. It’s time to prove it. Then he jumps through the invisible barrier. Nothing happens; he’s merely outside.

The pavement is dark with light rain. The air is unsettled, but without the hostility of warring rumbles and flashes among the horizon’s clouds. He’s chilled, but it suits him. It’s crisp, vast; dark, rich green leaps in front of the gray sky. It is alive, in sharp relief against the sterile, pale green he was used to. He stares, absorbing every sense. A whisper calls from behind, but he doesn’t listen; instead, he stares, losing himself in the scene’s vitality.

“Fishing boats are gathering at piers to the east and south of the island to ferry …” He presses the radio against his stomach, muffling the whisper until it dies out. The world stretches out before him, and he strides into it. The cocktail of excitement and peril trembles him, but he drives on. A whisper from the radio directs, a whisper from behind objects, but he presses forward, confusing progress for accomplishment.

Buildings fall back from the road, then the road’s pavement turns to gravel and mud. Shrubs and trees press into the roadside. He coasts forward, more momentum than power of will. Without warning, the brimming clouds unfurl; sharp winds slice through his soaked clothes, and a wall of rain falls over him. He awakens to a man shouting. He stares, every sense shocked and paralyzed.

The man shouts again, waving him away from a tired house; its screen door claps and walls groan against the heedless wind. A mother and her two girls cower inside the unlit entryway. A little voice from behind whispers, “Be careful Nolan, they’re dangerous.” He stands frozen, shaking his head free from the unsolicited warning. The man shouts again, holding fast. Neither understands, but neither can see the other’s fear through their own. Then his hand crackles, the radio cutting just beyond the wailing wind and pounding hearts. Everyone looks at the radio.

Nolan extends his hand, palm up, the radio whispering against the chaos. The man wavers, then looks back at the house’s unlit entryway. He takes a deep breath before inching forward to listen: “Piers are going to be under water within the hour, so evacuees should head inland toward…”

The man’s eyes saucer hearing the words. In response, Nolan steps to the road’s edge, extending the radio. The man nods, taking it, then runs back to the waning house. As Nolan watches, reticent, the woman gestures in his direction while she pleads with the man, her words eaten by the maelstrom. The whisper says, “Don’t let them leave with that,” a little louder; Nolan thrashes it away with his hand. His mind teeters farther. He knows the radio will help them. And he doesn’t need it; he’s fine. “I don’t need it. I’m fine.” He nods to himself, mouthing the words, clinging to the thought as the world outside dwindles.

But the heavens won’t be ignored; it crashes blinding white, winds slash, rain sheets fall, and the house is dark and empty. The screen door’s top hinge is loose from its frame, leaving the door screeching as it drags a corner across the empty porch floor. The clouds above flash and rumble, the wind whistling, rain pouring. He staggers, looking in every direction. Get — get where? “Higher ground,” the whisper returns. “We’ll be safe there.” Nolan looks around for an alternative, pushing the whisper aside, but decides he needs a better view.

Up the steepest incline he climbs, slipping and squishing and crawling through brush and tall grass laid low by the wind. He fights through under a dimming sky, and stumbles upon a dirt lane. It’s washed out and too muddy to use, but the ground ahead flattens and the brush is beaten back from its edges. He trudges on, legs burning and chest heaving. The grass passes underfoot, and he thinks of lying on it, but a whisper forbids it, “Just a little farther.” A hand pushes the weights off his eyelids, and Nolan nods in agreement.

The rain lightens, and a stretch of flattened earth sprawls ahead; maybe a thousand meters straight, but only a few wide. At the dirt lane’s end, a building stands, faintly lit. “Be careful,” the whisper says. “They already stole your radio, now they’ll finish the job.” Nolan stares intently toward the lonely structure and creeps forward.

The building is much larger than it appeared at a distance; but it’s lifeless. A couple of LED lanterns display a small plane. “Cessna,” he thinks aloud, walking straight to it. Trembling fingers fumble with the door handle until it’s freed. “Even better, Nolan,” whispers from over his shoulder. “We can get out of here before they find us.” Excitement, anxiety, and exhaustion leave his limbs shivering, and he takes several tries to climb into the pilot’s seat.

Nolan studies the cockpit briefly, then reaches for the key and turns it. The engine roars to life, and his stomach drops as the plane climbs. Winds crush the sound of the storm as clouds fly by. He could step out onto them, a welcome mat resting in front of a new world that’s always eluded him. The speed is impossible; everything bleeds together. Calm begins to overtake him. From these heights, he can see freedom, a word in some book he’s read. He doesn’t recognize it in person.

Wind catches a corrugated sheet and slaps it, setting the building’s skin a-ring. He jolts, clutching the controls. His eyes squint as the ring fills his skull. He wrenches the key again. Nothing happens. Puzzled, he looks around the cabin; gutted, empty. Through the windscreen, the cowling is missing and wires dangle over the engine. “We’re not going anywhere in this,” Nolan says aloud. “You would have broken it, anyway,” whispers the reply.

Nolan walks through the sheet metal hangar, scanning it, and is unsurprised. Tools scatter on oil-stained tables with parts of engines he doesn’t recognize. Crates and boxes and tarps form and fill nooks. Then a cleaner table, white-topped, off to the side, catches his attention. On it rests a plastic tray with a plastic knife; both blue. He thinks of a small white paper cup and beige ovals, varied in size and tone. He can hear the melody of being called, of chattering and commotion, and he clenches. “Let me see,” Nolan says, eyes absent, sticking out his tongue.

“Time to go to sleep.” Nolan recognizes the whisper, an old friend. The far wall has a couple of crumpled tarps, unused. He folds and refolds them. When the corners all match, he’s left with two rectangles; one is cot-sized, another pillow-sized. The tarp crinkles in his ear as he rests his head on it. He shifts uneasily. As he falls still, exhaustion overwhelms him.

Outside, the sun sneaks across the sky behind clouds, creeping out in the evening. He resists, trying to cover his face. The whisper goes to work, stoking apprehension, unrelenting. He stirs, giving in. It takes ages to straighten when he stands. His shoulder and thigh complain about the accommodations. Soon his stomach joins the fray, and he wonders when he last ate. “Nolan, we should go find some food.” Nolan nods and looks around, musing to no one in particular, “Where am I going to find that out here?”

Nolan chatters into the vacant, unfettered air. He rambles. The building stands solitary, absent amenities; he spirals down the rise. He babbles about a fantastic quest, about discovering implements of survival, constructing asylum; how he could recover other escapees. Across the smoky ocean’s surface, he sees liberty, grandeur, exotic beauty; all pale green to the horizon. “A little water won’t stop us, Nolan.”

Behind him, the hill remains visible, backlit by swirling clouds, all drenched in orange and pink. A heavier fog rolls in with a chilling breeze, and waves lap somewhere below. Crying muscles start aching, burning; teeth chatter. Lights carve across the water in the distance. A mournful horn echoes. “Get behind something, Nolan, they’re looking for you!”

Behind a bush, he kneels, body aching. Head too. A spotlight beam sweeps across a huge cargo ship. Its deck writhes with people pressing against the railing. The scene is striking. It doesn’t resemble casting off from movies or TV. Nobody waves, or jumps, or leans over the railing as if the shore is pulling them back. It’s a funeral. People paying respects to the lost. One. Final. Time.

A smaller boat leaves the fog a stone’s throw away. Its horn blares. A searchlight sears the fog, sweeping deliberately toward the bushes he cowers among. Nolan rocks on his heels. Knees cover his face. Nolan rocks forward. Heart pounds in his ears. Nolan rocks back.

“Nolan, you wouldn’t get far without me, would you?” Nolan nods as the light passes.