V. H. King's Ink

Day 17

“Geck?”

“Shh.”

Sanders sighed, but listened.  Except listening wasn’t anything to go by, with scream storms.  By the name, you’d think it would be as loud as a waterfall, but higher pitched.  No, the sneaky thing about scream storms was that they could be completely silent.  The mist was your best clue, if you happened to spot it fast enough. 

“I need to get you out of here,” Gretchen muttered. 

“Are they gone?”

Even if Gretchen got Sanders out of the shed, where would the two of them go?  There was still nothing from the radio.  There was a chance of better supplies at The Villa, but they were stranded all the way on the other side of the forest.  Sanders tried to quell the panic with a deep breath, but the bandage on their side stung like a wasp.

“I think I know who gets out alive, Gecko.”

“You’re not dying.”

“Gretchen, look at me.”

A risk, given the storm wasn’t over.  But Sanders rarely calls Gretchen by his first name.  Gretchen looks at them, forcing his face smooth.  He can’t help the little twitch by his temple though.  The one that means he’s trying very, very, very hard to keep it together. 

“I haven’t been able to sit up in days, let alone stand.  I can’t stay awake for more than an hour.  Based on the facts—”

“You’re. Getting. Out. Alive.”

That’s and order, Sanders.  Gretchen doesn’t say it, but it’s in his eyes. 

“Well you’d better not die either, then.” Sanders managed a half-smile.  “It’s going to be a while before I’m walking again.  You might have to carry me to the ship, when it gets here.”

“I’d prefer a helicopter.”

“Not enough fuel.”

“I know.  And higher probability of crashing.”

Gretchen used the bottom of the stone sundial to etch another mark against the concrete wall.  Eleven days, so far.  Eleven days past the first two weeks that the plane had been delayed.  Storms in the gulf, which had come straight to the island.  Except here, the atmosphere was a bit different. 

The shed had been used for storage or a field lab, from what Sanders could tell.  Groggy as they were, they hoped this little hut was still on the map.  It had been abandoned for one reason or another—and Sanders tried very hard not to think about why.  Looking at the eleven lines on the wall, a lonely company of soldiers, their hope felt just as slim. 

There was supposed to be a plane.

The boats wouldn’t come close.

Were they really stuck here, then?  It could be that Sanders was already trapped.  Dreaming.  Turned into a screamer at some point when they weren’t paying attention.  But was this their nightmare, or Gretchen’s?

Before All This…

“Do you think we’ll see an actual screamer?”

Gretchen narrowed his eyes.  

“We might get lucky,” Sanders said, grinning.

“If we’re lucky, we won’t see any.”

“Awwww, come on Geckie—”

“You know better than to call me that.”

“And I know you don’t really care, so you let me do it anyway.”  Sanders rested their chin on Gretchen’s shoulder.  “How many screamers you think we’ll spot?  Three?  Five?  You think they travel in packs?”

“Just getting a glimpse is ambitious,” Gretchen said.

“Not even the tabloids or lab coats would bat an eyelash at a full-faced sighting.”  Sanders rolled their eyes, but there was no room to stretch out their legs in economy class.  “On the other hand, if you were to have a conversation with one—”

“Sanders!  You are not going to try talking to them!”

“You didn’t even think we were going to spot one.”

Sanders’ grin only hinted at smugness.  Gretchen sighed and shook his head.  His list of flora to find on the island would never get done, if he had to put up with Sanders’ chatter.  Nevermind the list—he would be able to do any proper indexing of species if he had to make sure Sanders wasn’t tempting fate every thirty seconds.

“I don’t think they would want to talk.”

“Screamers might be friendly!”

“Ever the optimist.”

“Maybe they’re just shy like you, Geck.”

“I’m not shy.  You know this.”

“Selective—right.” 

Sanders leaned against the window, ever rearranging their posture. 

Gretchen had a lot of reasons for not speaking so much—and none of those reasons seemed to be sufficient to anyone.  He had decided to stop trying to explain himself.  Sanders was one of the few people Gretchen attempted to share his thoughts with. 

“Calling them screamers probably doesn’t come off well to their ears,” Gretchen said.  “There’s got to be a nicer way to name them.”

Except the world wasn’t a nice place.  Gretchen had known that since the first day of preschool, when all the other kids had pointed and called him Gecko.  Bright green goggles with purple polka dots didn’t have anything to do with him as a person, until they had.  His abnormally large eyes in his smaller-than-average face had become what everyone knew him by.  That, and the fact that he rarely said much. 

“There should be a better way,” Gretchen clarified in a low mutter, mostly to himself.  “Sometimes niceness is just a different kind of bad.”

Sanders hadn’t laughed.  Sanders was a pain about a lot of things, but they were good.  Golden.  Which was why Gretchen didn’t want to lose them to whatever haunts might hold Sanders hostage on the island. 

“So what do you think is a good name?”

Gretchen pressed the eraser end of his pencil to his cheek.  He hated the impulse to nibble when he was thinking.  He’d made a practice of putting all of his efforts and energy into being still.  Pacing through his thoughts, one by one.  Sanders, on the other hand, could throw fifty ideas in a minute, only short of a perfect idea-per-second ratio because they had to breathe.  Sometimes, Gretchen wondered if Sanders managed to even do that. 

“Land Sirens—but don’t quote me on that.”

“No?  Well, it’s neutral enough, right?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve not asked on their opinion on it.”

“If I meet one with a propensity for vocalizing, I’ll be sure to ask if it’s okay to call them that.”

“Knowing you, you’ll end up talking for an eternity.”

“Nu-uh, I have to come back and tell you all about it.”

“You’ve told me plenty for now.  Shut up and let me finish my list.”

“Which list is it?”

“The list of things I’m going to do if you don’t stop talking.”

“You always act like you’re tired of listening to me.”

Gretchen aimed his pencil at Sanders’ throat.

“Say one more thing.  I dare you.”

“Okay, okay!  Good luck with your listing.”

Gretchen huffed and went back to his notebook, his shoulder touching Sanders’.