The Lost Country, Episode Four

by | Wayne Kyle Spitzer-2

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Because our days were so exhausting, I was usually out the instant I hit the pillow, entering a deep and perfect sleep the dreams of which I could not recall; on other days, the work continued—the only difference being that in the dreams I flew over the island like a hawk (rather than search it house by house, or, just as often, beach café by tiki bar); and was able to spot a bread crumb even while soaring high enough to see most of Alice Town (though not so far as Bailey Town). And always, always, I returned to the Bimini Big Game Resort and Marina, with its ruined, capsized boats and broken, shattered docks (now undulating against the seawall); its multiple floors and long, red roof—which, only weeks before, had been the only thing standing between Búi and I (and Amanda, too) and the tsunami. Nor did I merely revisit it in my dreams, for it was where I started and ended each day’s search regardless of how much of the island we’d cleared (we’d reached Resorts World Bimini—the approximate halfway point between Alice Town and Bailey Town). It was where I was at, looking at Búi’s many half-filled water glasses, when I heard Amanda’s voice crackle suddenly, startlingly, over the walkie: “Sebastian, I’m a few houses past Resorts World—on the state-side of the key. And, ah, you’re going to want to see this.” She quickly added: “It’s not a body, nothing like that. It’s nothing to do with Búi. Just—get over here.”

I stared out across what was left of the marina; at the crystal clear water and the reddening sky—in which a solitary pterodactyl whirled—and the golden clouds, like heaps of fleece pillows. Her tone of voice had given me pause. “Sure. I—I was re-checking the Big Game. The Bar and Grill. I’ll ... I’ll head up right now.”

And I went, hurrying to where the Jeep was parked in front of the Sue and Joy General Store and laying the flare g*n on its passenger seat—before turning the ignition and heading up Bimini Bay Way, staring between houses as I drove and peering into their tall windows (although for what I wasn’t sure; we’d already checked them for Búi and their original owners had long since vanished in the Flashback). It was easy to do; driving so carelessly—there weren’t any other drivers or pedestrians to think about; only the Compies scattering before you like flightless gulls or the occasional newspaper or plastic bag. That’s how it had been since the Event; and, as a consequence, you tended to get to where you were going quickly and effortlessly, before the melancholy of the place could really sink in (it was the seeing of it all at once that did it; the sheer totality of all that emptiness blurring past), something I was immensely grateful for as I turned left on Queen’s Street and jounced onto the beach—and saw Amanda’s Prius parked next to the overturned truck and custom boat trailer; next to which lay, well, whatever it was. Because it looked like a kind of miniature submarine, only shaped and painted like a shark, replete with rows of sharp teeth. It even had a dorsal fin.

“What the hell is it?” I asked, getting out, then hurried to help her as she shouldered her rifle and gripped the thing by a fin.

“Seriously?” she asked. The sand loosened and slid from its hull as we pulled the object upright. “It’s a Seabreacher.” She stood back and dusted her hands. “Sort of a jet ski, only enclosed. It—people use it to dive under the water ... then breach the surface, like a dolphin.”

I stood and looked at it—at the Seabreacher. “Okay. Great. And this helps us—”

“Don’t be obtuse.” She moved forward and tried the hatch handle, which turned—then opened the cockpit, slowly. “Seats two. Might even be able to slip in a third. Knew a guy before the Flashback, said he could pilot his all the way to Miami. That’s what I meant by, ‘Don’t be obtuse.’ It means we’re not stuck here.”

I must have looked—unenthused.

“That’s a good thing,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”

“A good thing,” I said, and looked back the way I’d come.

“Yes, a good thing.”

I focused on the small church further back along the beach—Gateway Outreach Ministry—which we’d already checked. Except for the sacristy, which had been locked (this had been before we found the rifle). Wasn’t it at least possible she’d taken refuge inside it?

“Sebastian ...”

The answer, of course, was no. She’d have responded when we called out (and we’d called out a lot). But what if she were sick, or wounded— unconscious, even? What if she’d been unable to hear us, or to respond even if she did? What if she’d been too debilitated to reach the door? Was it really magical thinking to suppose—

Amanda exhaled, defeated. “Sebastian ... what can I do?”

I turned to look at her as she shrunk down in the sand, looking more tired than any twentysomething had a right to—more haggard, her eyes vacant and puffy, her cheeks sallow. “I mean, how long do you think they’ll last? One small, overgrown grocery store ... and a mini food-mart? (by ‘overgrown’ she’d meant the ubiquitous moss and vine—presumably prehistoric—which had come, along with the Compies and the pterodactyls, immediately after the Flashback) Six months? Couple of years—if we’re lucky?”

I scanned the nearby homes. “Longer than that. Plus there’s the bars and restaurants—not to mention all the houses.” I looked at the darkening horizon. “It’ll be light for a while. We should keep searching.”

I felt her eyes follow me as I walked toward the Jeep.

“Sometimes I don’t know what you want from me,” she said.

I paused before climbing in. “I want you to help me find my wife,” I said.

After which, realizing how cruel that had been, how unfair (for she’d been helping me tirelessly), I added, “You should get some rest. It’s—it’s going to be dark. I’ll push on from here; okay? Don’t wait up.”

And I put the Jeep in gear.

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