The Compound Page 2

  I could only imagine how different things would be in the Compound if Gram had made it.

  For the rest of us, challenging Dad’s judgment was out of the question. And I’d stopped asking him the first year whether he’d been able to make contact with anyone on the outside, and how long our supplies of water, food, and power would last. “I’ve planned for every contingency” was his stock reply.

  And there was the way he would spend a week in bed, then all of a sudden not sleep for days. Weird. Even then, we never voiced our doubts about his leadership.

  Besides, would it have changed our situation? Made things better?

  No.

  So there was no point. We all knew it.

  Terese bent down to tie one of her shoes. They were the same white top-of-the-line cross trainers that we all wore, which lay stacked in boxes in every size in one of the storerooms. “I believe I do hate Father. He did this to us; he made me leave my friends and my school. He makes us stay here.”

  Usually I just let her motormouth wear itself out, but I was in an ornery mood. “That’s pretty stupid.” I tossed the ball from one hand to the other. “If we weren’t here, do you know where we’d be?”

  “Of course I do.” Terese straightened back up. “We would be home in Seattle with Eddy and Clementine.”

  Until that moment, I’d forgotten about Clementine, Terese’s rag doll kitten. Clementine was cute, acted more like a dog than a cat. As allergic as he was, even Eddy played with Clementine until he wheezed.

  “Eli, you’d be there with Cocoa.” Her tone was nannyish and condescending.

  Just the mention of Cocoa’s name stopped my breath for a minute. My chocolate lab puppy, a constant fixture on my bed and at my side. I missed her. But I pushed away the memories. “You’re being ridiculous. No one is there anymore. You know about the bombs, right?”

  “Eli.” Her voice got louder, but she was still matter-of-fact. “Perhaps we could find someone, perhaps others are alive. I hate Father for doing this to us.”

  I rolled my eyes and listened to the rant. Little Miss Perfect was losing it. I knew what the whole situation had done to me when I was nine, I couldn’t imagine what adverse effects it had had on an almost six-year-old’s mental state. (Actually I could, given the whole Mary Poppins thing.) Making up a scenario you could live with was easier than dealing with a reality you could not. I understood the benefits of that.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Her eyebrows went up in sync with the corners of her mouth. “So you do believe me?”

  “Of course.” Among other talents, I had always been a decent liar.

  Terese’s shoulders drooped. “I miss home dreadfully. I wish we were there with Gram and Eddy.”

  “Yeah, well, wish in one hand, crap in the other, and see which fills up first.” I’d also always been a stellar jerk. “Grow the hell up. Eddy’s dead. Gram’s dead. They’re gone. Forever. Deal with it.”

  My sister’s mouth dropped open, and then slowly closed. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not at all like Eddy.”

  It was definitely time for her to leave. My toes lined up slightly behind the free-throw line. Every day I shot three hundred of them. I started shooting them the first full day here. After six years, my percentage had improved to eighty-four. “You don’t even remember Eddy. You were too young.”

  “I do so remember him.” She tilted her head a bit, studying me. “He looked like you.”

  My follow-through was practiced and precise. “That’s a little easy, don’t you think?” Swoosh. “You see me every day.”

  Her hands were on her hips. “He wasn’t at all mean like you. He was nice. And he cared more about stuff.”

  My first thought was to protest, but I realized it wasn’t worth the breath. She was right. I got the rebound and lined up again. Tried to concentrate. Pretended she was a jeering crowd. It wasn’t much of a stretch.

  Terese continued to pounce. “At least he played with me. You never did. You always ignored me. You even teased him for playing with me; you said I was a baby.”

  There wasn’t much to say in my defense. In the old world, Eddy and I were so close that I never made a point of reaching out to our sisters. The reason was simple: I didn’t need them. Between school, ballet, and piano, Lexie wasn’t around that much, but Terese was. Eddy always saved time for her.

  The ball left my hands. The shot was good.

  Terese kept up her rant. “You ignored me in here until I was ten.” Her face was red, but I knew she wouldn’t cry. Early on she learned, as we all did, that tears didn’t help. They wouldn’t bring back anything or anyone.

  She held up four fingers as I jogged after the ball. “Four years, Eli. Four years you didn’t even look at me.”

  There was a good reason for that. She reminded me too much of Eddy, the way he was kind to everyone, same as my mom. Part of me hated Terese for being so good, for being the one everyone adored.

  It made me miss him more.

  Despite the fact that I tended to treat Terese badly, she kept coming back for more. Maybe because I was as close as she was ever going to get to Eddy. Even so, I knew where she was coming from, missing Eddy like she did. I was sure she’d rather have him instead of me. Eddy was the kind of older brother anyone would want. He had always been the kind of brother I wanted. For nine years, he’d been the kind of brother I had. But I had screwed that up in a big way.

  I chucked the ball at my sister, hard, smacking her on the butt.

  “Ow!” She scowled.

  I laughed.

  “You’re so mean.” Her accent wavered when she got ticked off. She grabbed her ratty old Pooh from his spot by the door and left.

  Alone at last.

  But as I shot my free throws, I couldn’t stop thinking about what my sister had said. Stupid kid could make up stories. It was definitely a coping mechanism. But my gut was wrenched. Was it the mention of Eddy? Or the fact that someone besides me admitted they thought about him on a regular basis? Even though it was just Little Miss Perfect, someone besides me believed maybe he was out there somewhere. Alive. I tried so hard not to think of him. Not to believe he might have survived.

  People often talk about uncanny connections between identical twins. About twins raised separately who end up innately similar. That wasn’t the case with Eddy and me, as we were always together, everything in our environment the same. We took our first steps the same day. Lost our first baby teeth within hours of each other. Both grew two inches in the same summer.

  And we had our roles.

  He was the leader. I let him lead, because I liked to follow. Followers were rarely accountable for their actions. In addition to leading, Eddy was also my protector. Always had been.

  We were eight years old the last summer we stayed with Gram in Hawaii. One afternoon, we picnicked by a waterfall. Eddy and I lived in board shorts and rash guards that summer. Gram, smelling of White Shoulders, wore a red muumuu, her long hair loose, a pink pua flower behind one ear. She spread a dolphin print beach towel on the grass before laying out an appetizing buffet of Spam and rice, leftover kalua pork, Eddy’s daily ration of Jack Link’s beef jerky, which he couldn’t live without, fresh mangoes, and guava juice. For dessert a small cooler held my favorite strawberry mochi ice cream balls.

  We finished lunch. Eddy and I took a Frisbee and went off by ourselves. I followed Eddy up a steep hill and tossed the disk to him. The breeze from the falls pushed it back my way. I grabbed for it and missed, reaching so far that I lost my balance. As I tumbled down the hill, my back slammed into a tree. It stopped my downward progress, knocking away my breath. Arms waving, legs kicking, I struggled for air.

  Eddy stood at the top of the hill. Over the rushing water he called to me, “Eli! Stop. Stop moving.”

  Minutes passed. My breath came back. I moved to get back up on my feet.

  Again, Eddy called to me, “Eli, don’t move. I’m coming.”

  Like a crab, he inched his way down
the hill. As he came closer, his eyes narrowed at something past me. I twisted my head in order to see what he saw. The tree that had taken my breath was the only thing between me and the long, fatal drop to the rocks beneath the falls. I reached out for my brother.

  Eddy pressed both his palms into my chest to calm me. “Eli, I got you, I got you.” He gripped my arm and we crawled up the hill together.

  At the top, relieved, I rolled over onto my back, panting. “Don’t tell Gram.”

  Eddy was also winded. “Duh.”

  BEING IN THE COMPOUND WITHOUT EDDY SEEMED TO GET harder every day. We didn’t talk about him much. Dad had said early on that this was our life and we should move on, not keep thinking about the way things used to be. After talking to Terese that morning in the gym, remembering Eddy, all I wanted was to talk to him and pretend he could hear me. I tried to imagine our lives as they might have been. Sort of a What Would Eddy Do?

  If things were normal and we were in the old world, going to high school, Eddy would probably have a million girlfriends. He’d had all the friends in grade school and I knew I was in the mix only because of him; high school wouldn’t have been much different. I’d be getting dragged out on double dates with his girlfriends’ friends. Knowing Eddy, he would probably insist on it.

  Sometimes my thoughts took a different direction: What Would Eddy Do If Eddy Were Here?

  I hit my fiftieth free throw.

  Despite knowing he and Gram had perished on the outside that night six years before, I never truly felt our connection break. There was emptiness, of course. Along with a huge feeling of loss. But that feeling of connection only a twin could understand? That I still had.

  Lining up my next shot, I started to release the ball.

  “That’s off.”

  The voice startled me even as I tried not to show it, although my lousy shot was proof enough.

  Dad walked out of the shadows underneath the basket as my air ball went past him. He let it bounce off the wall before catching it, then tossed the ball from one hand to the other. “You and Terese have a nice game?”

  “Huh?” That caught me off guard. Had he heard our conversation? “Um, yeah. Her game needs work, though.”

  Dad chuckled a bit, then tossed me the ball. “She has a grand imagination, that one.”

  I nodded, unsure what to say.

  Walking toward the door, away from me, he paused but didn’t turn around. “I’m sure you can set her straight.”

  “Set her straight?”

  “Basketball.” One hand raised in the air, the wrist flipped a bit. “Her game.” And he left.

  Although he didn’t come out and say it, I sensed he had heard me and Terese. And after the exchange with my sister that morning in the gym, I wondered what Eddy would do if he were in the Compound instead of me. Despite believing I was dead, would he trust that feeling of connection and still hold out hope for a miracle?

  Through 250 more free throws, of which I made 227, I already knew the answer. If there were even the slightest chance the world was not as it seemed, a tiny slice of hope that his twin might still be alive, he would find out. Or else die trying.

  I WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN FOR DINNER, NOT EXPECTING to be greeted with rainbow-colored balloons and streamers. My family sat on the red leather banquettes in the breakfast nook, all eyes on me. Mom and Dad were on opposite sides, of course. As far away as they could get from each other while still putting on the illusion of a happy family.

  Lexie was in her usual place, right at Dad’s side. Maybe she thought she had a shot at becoming queen of the Compound. Her dark braid contrasted with the white of her T-shirt. She fixed me with a glare, even more piercing than usual.

  Terese had a big smile on her face, definitely fake.

  Mom’s wasn’t. Her dark hair was piled on her head and she wore red velour. Even a touch of red lipstick. Perhaps it was due to the occasion, but for whatever reason, she stood and her arms widened to give me a hug.

  “Happy Birthday, Eli.”

  She noticed the dread in my face and the smile on hers wavered. She backed off.

  No one touched me. No one ever touched me. I didn’t allow them to. I didn’t touch them either. Not since the night we arrived here.

  I sat down on a stool by the granite counter away from everyone else.

  Dad yawned. His hair was a blond helmet of bed head, and he wore his ancient bear and elk shirt. Arms crossed, hands spread out on his shoulders, he looked like he was chilly. “Your fifteenth birthday, son.”

  Not just my birthday. Eddy’s, too. That’s why I had been thinking of Eddy so much. My gut had realized it was our birthday even though my brain didn’t. I didn’t own a calendar. And I sure as hell didn’t mark off the days like some survivor on a desert island. I pretty much just waited for Mom and Dad to announce the holidays, the only Compound days that differed from regular ones.

  Most holidays in the Compound were a welcome departure from the routine. Even though we lived in a microcosm where things never strayed from the unremarkable, holidays still held some surprises. The day after Thanksgiving we put up an artificial tree and decorations, hung stockings by the fireplace in the family room. On December 25, we awoke at some ungodly hour by Terese’s cheerful “Happy Christmas, everyone!”

  Down in the family room, we found our bulging stockings. I admired Dad for managing to think of every detail. There was always something to open. Terese would get a doll or toy she didn’t already have. I’d get a video game. Lexie, some sheet music or ballet shoes. Although I knew where all the supplies were, Dad was able to keep a whole store of things secret, things he could bring out on birthdays and Christmas to make us feel like normal kids. And most of the time it worked. Even if it was just for one day.

  My birthday wasn’t something I wanted to be reminded of, let alone celebrate. July 16. Once we were in the Compound, I found it ironic that Eddy and I were born on that day, the umpteenth anniversary of the inaugural nuclear explosion at the Trinity test site. Most dads had hobbies that they passed down to their sons; hunting, fishing, auto repair. Dad’s hobby was nuclear war, which meant his sons knew everything about it.

  To Eddy and me, it was cool. War was exciting, especially nuclear war. But it was exciting in the same way a California earthquake might be exciting to a person from the Midwest, or a tornado might be exciting to someone who lives in New England, where they never occur. We thought it was something we would never experience, so we weren’t afraid.

  Those scientists didn’t really know what they had created at first. Even their name for the atomic bomb was innocuous: the Gadget. But when they saw it brought to life, they realized soon enough. Oppenheimer himself later quoted some old text: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

  Yeah, they realized soon enough. They probably realized weeks later on August 6, when the United States bombed Hiroshima, and then August 9, Nagasaki. The events of July 16 paled next to those.

  July 16 wasn’t just my birthday. It was also the anniversary of the day we entered the Compound. That terrible night when, because of me, Eddy was gone forever. If it were up to me, I would never acknowledge the date. Celebrating the worst day of my life was insane. But I think celebrating the day only as my birthday—nothing else—helped the rest of the family in some way.

  Mom handed me a package. “It’s from all of us.”

  My fingers tore away the wrinkled white tissue paper. A first edition of On the Beach, a 1950s classic about the world after a nuclear war. It would have been valuable if the real world still existed. Of course I’d read it before; there was a paperback copy in the library.

  I forced myself to look pleased as I opened the cover.

  Dad had written the inscription, dated of course. Never without a black fine-point Sharpie, he always dated everything. In the old world, he dated boxes of cereal when the groceries were delivered. He dated packages that arrived in the mail. Whenever we went through the Starbucks drive-through to get
his coffee, he’d date the paper cup. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d Sharpied the date on my forehead when I was born.

  I flipped the page.

  Like the first time I’d seen them, T. S. Eliot’s cruel words struck me. That was the only passage I would ever read of this edition. Of course I would set it among the others on a shelf in my room, but it was a work I never wanted to read again. The survivors in the book stirred up jealousy in me. They saw the end creeping toward them, but all the while they were still in control of their own destiny. Yes, they were doomed, but they had the opportunity to choose when their final breaths occurred.

  I envied them that, having cyanide as an option. Not that I would have chosen death over life in the Compound. But at least they had a tangible choice. I didn’t.

  I felt Dad watching me so I forced a smile as I shut the book and thanked everyone. Then we had dinner, spinach salad alongside vegetarian lasagna with fresh peppers and tomatoes from hydroponics. The noodles were in pieces, they were so old, but it still tasted good. I didn’t look forward to birthday cake because there wouldn’t be any. We no longer had all the ingredients.

  That had come to light a few weeks before. I had been in the kitchen, doing Mandarin vocabulary at the booth.

  Mom was at the espresso machine, making her third Americano of the morning. For her, Dad had stockpiled what must have been tons of Tully’s whole bean French roast coffee. Decaf.

  I was on my first, and only, of the day.

  She took a sip out of her green-plaid insulated mug. “Eli, I want to show you something.” Still holding her cup of noncaffeine, Mom stood at the door to the pantry and beckoned. Inside, she pointed out a sack of flour. “Look in that.”

  The burlap was folded open. The grayish flour stuck to my fingers. “I thought flour didn’t go bad.”

  She took a drink. “I thought so, too. I’m wondering if it’s not entirely wheat. Maybe something else got mixed in.”

  I held my hand to my nose and sniffed. Didn’t smell right. Didn’t smell that bad, though. “Is it all like this?”