Free The Islands at the End of the World by Austin Aslan Page A

shakes his head. “Hey,” he shouts over to the clerk. “We’re trying to get to Hilo.”
    “We don’t fly to the Big Island. Moloka`i’s the best we can do. We’re booked up through Tuesday. We’re charging—”
    “Yeah, yeah.” Dad waves him off. “What do you mean you’re booked through Tuesday? There’s a half dozen choppers sitting on the pad right now!”
    “Most of those have tungsten circuit boards. Fried. Besides, the military is restricting our airspace. It won’t be long before they commandeer our whole fleet and gut our molybdenum parts. Now, you have cash?”
    Dad grimaces. The clerk turns to another couple.
    “You should go to the Marine Corp Base,” someone sitting against the wall says to us. He’s also sporting a strong tan line on his wrist. “I hear they’re collecting folks for transport. You’re in much better shape than the people who want to get back to the mainland. A few of the army planes work; they’re always landing in Hilo. You could hitch a ride on a cargo flight and be home in time for dinner.”
    I perk up, but Dad frowns. “And what’s your plan?”
    “I’m booked on a flight to Kaua`i later this evening. I’ve been here for two days.”
    Dad gives me a grave look. “I don’t like it, but he may be right. Maybe we should head over the mountain to Kāne`ohe.” The guy who was ahead of us in line overhears and moves closer. “No, no. Bad idea. I just escaped from there.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “They’re not flying a damn soul anywhere. I’ve been trying to get to Maui since Tuesday morning. I left Honolulu International on the first army bus Wednesday night. And I waited, and waited. Meanwhile droves of tourists are filling up their gyms and soccer fields. If you think this place is a zoo …”
    “They’re … they’re just shuffling people around?”
    “It’s like a refugee camp over there. I wasn’t supposed to leave. No one is. I escaped.”
    “What?” Dad says incredulously.
    “If they’re trying to help, why are they limiting private copter travel?” the escapee asks. “Every day the Orchid hangs there, taunting us, the panic multiplies by ten. We all know this island’s in deep trouble. They’re just collecting homeless people to keep us from going apeshit. They didn’t even evacuate for the tsunami. The military’s interests are not ours. They couldn’t give a rat’s ass how long it takes you and your daughter to get to Hilo. The gas has stopped arriving, you know. What, you think they’re going to expend all the fuel that’s left to schlep around civilian families?”
    Dad hangs his head, studying his shoes.
    “I don’t know. Maybe transport flights will start. But I was there. If you want to be back home in a couple days, or weeks—not months—I suggest you stay the hell away from the military.”
    Weeks? Months?
I ball my hands into fists around the duffel bags I’m carrying.
    “Well, dammit, what else are we supposed to do?” Dad says.
    The man shrugs. “You could always try one of the ferry companies.”
    The Kaua`i-bound listener guffaws. Dad slouches. We’re all in on the bad joke: it’s been years since ferry companies ran between the islands. Environmental lawsuits and bad politics shut them down. And the water’s too rough.
    The jokester pats Dad on the shoulder. “Hey, I’ve helped you all I can. That watch will have to get me and my wife out of here. Best damned investment I ever made. We may still be in the same boat as you, if the army siphons off private fuel. Same boat. Ha ha. Ain’t that the truth!” The man drifts away.
    We stand and stare at the floor. There’s a lump in my throat threatening to burst free. I choke it down.
    Home. I just want to be home
.
    “Come on, Lei.” Dad elbows me. “This isn’t going to work.”
    We return to the car with all of our belongings. Our rental’s almost boxed in to its parking spot. Dad jumps into the driver’s seat. “You okay?” he asks, wiping