Wawa’s newfound joy was strong enough to last through the early morning hours, when Mort(e) dropped his medallion in her outstretched hands as though it were contaminated with a virus.
Moments later, as the Archon entered the Golgotha for the last time, she assured Wawa that the medallion had found its true owner. The Archon told her that she already saw in Wawa the hope that her former masters — both human and animal — had taught her to extinguish. They passed through her life for a reason. They made her who she was, leading her to this moment. If she didn’t forgive them, if she wasn’t grateful for them, if she didn’t learn to love them, then she had made it this far for nothing. An enormous weight slid from Wawa, allowing her to stand upright and expand her chest. She told the Archon that she understood now.
Soon after that, when Wawa lined up in the chapel-turned-drop-point, she squeezed the medallion so hard her fingertips throbbed. She was so eager to join the attack that she neglected to mention until now that she did not know the first thing about parachuting. The humans’ response was simple: “Neither do we.” This would be the first and only drop of the Black Hats. Where could they have possibly tested their skills? On top of that, the officers warned everyone that the old chutes — stolen from an abandoned military base in Utah — might not even work. “We predict a one-to-five-percent failure rate,” the major said. He was a humorless, pale man with a flat head — or maybe that was simply the shape of his hair. Wawa couldn’t tell. The major said that there was still a chance that a trooper could survive the fall, if he or she landed in the water. “Tuck and roll,” he added, although he did not elaborate. No one seemed comfortable with this until another officer added, “God will decide who floats and who falls.”
Several officers went first, while two others stood at the edge of the former chapel and exhorted the recruits to make the jump. With each leap, the Black Hats let out a throaty cheer, like spectators at a sporting event. Wawa peered over her new comrades and saw a gap in the clouds. The Island passed underneath them, taking up the entire opening in the wall, spreading out like a horde of ants. A row of inflated parachutes trailed the ship.
One man jumped, and the cheers died down. His chute did not join the neat row that had formed in the sky. The next jumper hesitated. The major told him to go. Instead, the man raced to the back of the line, where Wawa was waiting. While the officer yelled at him, the man grabbed Wawa’s necklace, kissed the medallion, and whispered something in either Spanish or Portuguese. Then he ran in the opposite direction, leaping into the void. The Black Hats roared again when his chute opened. His arms flapped as he waved to his comrades on the ship — or maybe he had simply failed to operate the parachute correctly. From then on, they all kissed her medallion before jumping. The officers gave up trying to stop them. Instead, they moved Wawa to the very end of the line, so everyone could have a chance to kiss St. Jude before plunging toward the earth.
It was almost Wawa’s turn. One hand was on the rip cord, the other on the medal. When she finally made it to the front, the major yanked her hand away from the necklace. “Proper stance,” he yelled over the wind.
Mechanically, she tucked her chin into her chest and pulled in her elbows. She wanted to close her eyes when she went, but she knew that the officer was watching.
Go, she thought. Go!
She stepped into the whistling wind and fell.
And fell.
She counted in her head. One thousand. Two thousand. But she was going too fast. One one thousand, she corrected. Two one …
“Choke it,” she said, pulling the rip cord. The straps unraveled out of her pack. Then the chute deployed, jolting her body before stabilizing. She breathed again. Between her dangling feet, the surface of the Island expanded. She was part of this airborne pack, held up by the hand of God, bringing his justice to the earth.
THE SOLDIERS EAGERLY manned their foxholes, trenches, and pillboxes, desperate to pretend that their enthusiasm would make up for a lack of experience. Though Culdesac was drained from discussing his past — it felt like donating a pint of blood — the reaction of the soldiers seemed to be worth the trouble. They were excited. And afraid. And maybe even a little angry that this war was still not over.
The Alphas, however, remained motionless in their formation. They did not need the cover of barricades. Their presence alone was enough.
There was a command post set up at the rear of the mammal army. Instead of a tent, it was a cave that seemed to have been sculpted by skilled artists. The ants were able to manipulate the landscape. The surface felt strange to Culdesac’s feet. He thought of the ground as a living thing that could pull him under if he did anything that the Queen found suspicious.
The colonel, along with the coyote and several soldiers, met with the envoy inside. Two orbs made up of some bioluminescent material lit up the cave. From here, Culdesac had a perfect view of the soldiers and the sea. The overcast sky, though, was an impenetrable milky white.
A raccoon operated the radio. While he fussed with the machine, Culdesac readied the translator. He would be able to speak with the person on the radio while the device sent the exchange into the Alpha’s antennae. The chemical signal would eventually travel to the Queen in the Colony’s version of whisper-down-the-lane.
“Ready, sir?” the raccoon asked.
Culdesac took the receiver. “Speak, human,” he said.
“Good morning, Colonel,” replied a woman’s voice. Definitely human.
“Congratulations on getting this code,” he said. “May I ask how you acquired it?”
“Your lieutenant gave it to me,” she said. “The one you left for dead.”
Culdesac looked to the Alpha for some reaction. The creature remained still.
“She forgives you, Colonel,” the voice said. “And you’ll see her again before the day is done.”
“You have my attention, human,” he said. “Does this conversation have a purpose?”
“Yes. I’m calling to give you a chance.”
“A chance for what?”
“Salvation. Surrender now. We will forgive all debts, but you must join us or die.”
Culdesac laughed.
“Can you see me yet?” the voice asked.
Pulling the radio’s cord, Culdesac walked to the entrance of the cave. The Alpha lumbered beside him, still connected to the translator’s antenna. The sky was empty, a white expanse. But then, like a mirage, the ship cut through the clouds, its chameleon skin switched off to reveal a dull silver bullet heading straight for the Island.
“Do I have the pleasure of speaking with the Archon?” he asked.
“You do.”
“I thought the Vesuvius crashed years ago.”
“This is not the Vesuvius,” she said. “My ship is called the Golgotha. The place of the skull. Your island has never had a formal name. I’m about to give it one.”