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WEARING A DARK BLUE jumpsuit, the man is tall and broad. Rain runs down his face in rivulets and his dark hair hangs in damp tendrils, wavy as if it has recently come loose from a plait. One of his eyes is a cybernetic prosthetic. An early model, it swivels jerkily, not quite fitted properly. The erratic motion of it unnerves Mika, but she takes in the man’s narrow nose and skin, dark like polished rimu, and her unease reduces: he reminds her a little of Huia’s partner, Hoani. Leaping one-legged, the man bangs on the windscreen, waving her down.
So, stubborn like Hoani, too.
Mika puts Torua into hibernation and cracks opens the window.
‘What do you want?’
‘I could do with a ride.’
‘Why should we help you?’
The man turns his head to look at the chaos behind, then holds his hands palm-up in peace. ‘Because this blasted storm has meant I’ve had to work three shifts in a row until even basic supplies have run out. Because my own transport, parked round the back of the emergency centre, is completely blocked in and likely to remain that way until this storm blows over – probably even longer judging by that mess you left behind.’
‘Can you show us the way out?’
‘Yes.’
Mika gives him a hard stare. He doesn’t look like an axe murderer. But this storm has thrown the entire eastern seaboard into a state of emergency, and there are people who’d take advantage in a crisis.
‘What do you think, Bree?’ she says aloud. ‘Can we trust him?’
Bree tugs at Mika’s sleeve and, pulling her closer, whispers in her ear.
‘Hmm. Bree wants to know if you wouldn’t mind turning around.’
‘Why?’
‘Doesn’t bother me, if you’d rather not...’ Mika moves to restart Torua.
‘Okay, okay.’ Shrugging, he turns around, his left leg swinging out as if he has no knee, and Mika sees the letters EMT emblazoned on his jacket. At the four points of the compass, he pantomimes a little bow. ‘Is that it?’ he says, when he comes full circle.
‘Hang on, I’m conferring with a colleague up here.’
‘Yes, that’s a paramedic uniform,’ Bree whispers, her head ducked below the level of the dashboard. ‘EMT stands for Emergency Medical Technician.’
‘Well, at least that part of his story stacks up. He hasn’t shaved in a while either, which fits in with the bit about him working three shifts. Shall we give him a ride?’
The girl gazes at Mika through blonde lashes. She nods.
Mika turns back to the paramedic. ‘Where do you live?’
‘West of here, on the other side of Newark.’
‘If I drive you home can you point me to the highway out of town?’
‘Sure, where are you headed?’
‘Las Vegas.’
The paramedic grins. ‘Planning a road trip, are you? Well, you’re in luck because the I-80 is just around the corner from my place.’
‘Okay, hop in.’ Mika unlocks the door.
It takes most of the afternoon, and numerous detours into back roads and alleys, to reach Stan Aspen’s home. On the cheap side of Newark, he said. The expected dwelling never appears. Instead, the derelict buildings begin to show signs of life: the occasional door painted white, bright curtains escaping from broken windows. Mika finds it difficult to imagine lives lived so close to the edge. When Stan nods his head towards a large warehouse, Mika hesitates. The entrance is festooned in graffiti announcing the goods and services offered within; the coded language of illicit trade is not hard to decipher.
Maybe not a place for children.
‘Come in for a coffee. I owe you for the ride,’ Stan insists as he swings to the ground below. He must catch her look of alarm because he says: ‘It’s okay. It’s safe here. We’re like a family. A strange, dysfunctional family of lost souls. People here look out for each other as best they can.’
Nudging Mika, her eyes open wide, Bree whispers in her ear. She wants to see inside. Mika gives in despite her urgency to get going. Besides, the word family pulls like Maui’s hook in her heart. ‘Okay, but just for a minute.’
Inside the front doors, the world sheds its shroud of grey, revealing a carnival of colour.
‘Welcome to my home,’ Stan says, holding his arms up like a ringmaster introducing the next act. He leads them through the warehouse. Makeshift stalls form parallel lines in front of living spaces that have the appearance of found art. Mika recognises the cast-offs: pieces of timber, tin, glass and cloth, scavenged and brought here to become a part of the covered shanty town. A place for forgotten things, for the city’s forgotten people.
The banter of people buying or selling – some openly, others less so – distracts her from the oddly beautiful constructions. She holds tightly to Bree’s hand, fearful the girl will be swallowed up by the crowd. They may be here with Stan, but the wary glances tell Mika that she and Bree are newcomers, and newcomers engender mistrust. At last, near the end of the thoroughfare, Stan ducks behind a stack of caged animals, guarded by a rather smug cat and an unsmiling old woman, who sits cross-legged on a woven blanket.
‘Good trading, Grandmother.’ Mika can’t tell if it is a question or a statement, but her eyes catch the smooth exchange of something in a folded piece of paper as Stan cups the old woman’s hand in his.
‘This is me here.’ He fumbles with the lock and then swings the door open, revealing a snug and simply decorated room. He grabs a dirty T-shirt off the couch, balls it in his hands, then throws it in a corner.
‘Sorry, it’s not much. My wife wouldn’t come when I split the reservation after...’ Mika spots the items linking him to his home: various brightly coloured tribal blankets scattered here and there, and a couple of carved wooden bowls on the bench. Several decorative weapons, wrapped in leather thongs and decorated in feathers and beads, hang on the kitchen wall. ‘Well, it’s all I need. I’ll get the coffee on.’
Another nudge from Bree. ‘Is it safe for Bree to visit the pets?’
‘Pets?’ Stan looks confused for a moment and Mika realises the animals in the cages outside are destined for someone’s pot, not their lap. ‘Oh, the animals. Sure, just don’t let them out of their cages or you’ll end up owning them.’
Mika nods to Bree. Stan sets about pouring coffee into the filter. There are washed dishes in the drying rack, and the toaster is out on the counter, an old piece of toast still in one of the slots. Mika enviously eyes the lonely apple in the bottom of the carved bowl; it’s been a long trip and she’s missed fresh fruit.
‘Here. Catch.’ Stan tosses it to her.
‘Thanks.’ Mika takes a bite and leaves him to his coffee making. Popping her head out the front door, she checks the alley. Bree is crouched beside the cages, chatting to a puppy. Satisfied that the girl is safe, Mika returns to the living-kitchen area, her finger dragging along the thickly woven blanket draped over the couch. The indigenous design is beautiful, the lines and angles so different from the curves favoured by her own people. She knows her dad liked them too – he’d brought one of these blankets back to Aotearoa with him when he fled the United States all those years ago. She’s making a mental note to ask Stan about the story behind the pattern later, when she’s drawn to the large window, cut in half by the wall of the adjoining bedroom. The glass is so thick with dirt that Mika can barely make out the remains of the dismantled machinery outside.
Skeletons. A graveyard of dreams.
Mika nibbles the apple to its core, swallowing the seeds in pleasure, then turns back to Stan. The paramedic has switched the machine on. He leans back against the bench.
‘She’s a great kid.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Bree.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Mika agrees.
‘Quiet though.’
‘She has some stuff going on,’ Mika says vaguely. Stan opens the tiny beer fridge. Apart from a couple of unidentifiable jars, Mika notes there’s no food in there. Mind you, Stan did say he’d worked three shifts in a row. Since the storm broke, he probably hasn’t had time to shop, or maybe he eats at the food stalls outside. He takes some sachets of powdered milk from a compartment in the door, pouring one into each of the cups, ready for the coffee.
‘Bit of trouble with her dad, huh?’
Mika sees a flash from this morning, the man’s face, and his ruined, gouged-out eye. ‘Um...something like that.’
‘If you don’t mind me saying, you seem too young to have a daughter Bree’s age.’
Mika laughs at that. ‘Oh, she’s not—’
A brick caves the window in, the panes shattering in a rain of glass. The fragments hit the floor, tinkling like a piwakawaka. A stray shard glances off Mika’s face. She wipes it off. The back of her hand comes away bloody.
‘Shit!’ Stan yells as a man swings in through the gaping hole. He is dressed in black shinobi shozoko. Dark eyes scan the room for his target. Mika’s breath catches in her throat.
What on earth?
She needs to get Bree, and get the hell out of here.
‘Out the front!’ screams Stan, as if reading her mind. ‘Hurry!’
But, recovering from his Tarzan-like swing from the roof, the brute has found his feet. He raises his gun and aims it at Stan.
‘Where is it, you cheating—?’
Stan doesn’t wait for the rest. Two-handed, he picks up the coffee maker and pitches boiling black liquid into his aggressor’s face, blinding him. The man shrieks, throwing up his hands, dropping his gun. Stooping instinctively, Mika picks it up and runs for the door.
‘Mika!’ Bree appears in the opening, a dog cradled in her arms. Her face pales.
‘Run for the transport!’ Stan urges. The scalded man hurls himself at Stan, fuelled by pain and rage. The two men wrestle violently. Stan searches for a weapon.
The stone adze.
Mika watches, paralysed, as Stan rips it from the wall, bringing it down on his aggressor’s skull. It lands with a hollow crack, the noise finally wakening Mika from her stupor. She grabs Bree, and bustles her towards the door. They need to get out.
Suddenly, Mika’s hair is yanked from behind. She’s pulled backwards, and twisted about bodily, where she comes face to face with a second intruder.
‘Go, Bree,’ she shouts. But she’s horrified to see Bree duck and run for the bedroom.
No, the transport – head for Torua!
But it’s too late. Bree’s in the bedroom and now Mika can’t flee. Not without leaving the girl behind. They’re trapped.
Seeing her anguish, Mika’s captor smiles malevolently. He shows her his switch blade. It’s long and curved. Mika feels her breath leave her.
She’s nobody. Whatever these men are here for, Mika knows nothing about it. She’s just an unfortunate witness, in the wrong place at the wrong time. But that doesn’t mean her captor won’t enjoy slicing her. His unhurried smile says as much.
But she has the gun, held down low, following the line of her leg. Mika feels her fingers tremble on the trigger as her aggressor steps closer.
She raises the gun and fires.
And is thrown backwards into the wall by the gun’s recoil. Crashing hard, Mika has the wind knocked out of her. By the time she’s scrambled to her feet, her assailant’s blood is pumping red all over the concrete floor.
Panicked, Mika searches wildly for Stan. His back to her, he’s rummaging inside the fridge.
What are you doing? Forget the coffee, Mika wants to scream.
But her voice is stuck in her throat.
The first man is back on his feet, his hood slipping back, revealing a protective helmet. Not dead. Not even unconscious. The adze had bounced off the helmet, stunning him, but only briefly. Now he rushes at Stan a second time, like an enraged demon, his face and neck a mess of angry boils.
‘Stan, look out!’ Not expecting the assault, Stan is caught off-balance as the man slams into his stomach, ramming him backwards into the kitchen cabinets. Grunting, Stan attempts to wrench himself free, recoiling at the sight of the puckered blistering skin. Mika’s jaw drops as, silently, the man pushes a knife to Stan’s ribs. Stan’s eyes open wide. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead.
‘This is not what the Brotherhood agreed, Aspen!’ the man hisses.
‘It wasn’t my agreement,’ Stan says, his chest heaving in defiance. Over the man’s shoulder, Stan’s eyes swivel desperately to Mika.
‘We’ll see what headquarters think of that. But first, I think I can change your point of view.’ Mika watches in horror as the intruder repositions his knife. ‘What do you reckon, Stan, will this help you see things our way?’ He draws a line of blood beneath Stan’s remaining eye.
Mika supports herself against the wall. This time, when she fires, she’s prepared for the recoil.