Station Eleven

While they were reading it, she was waking in a clearing from an unnatural sleep. She had been dreaming of a room, a rehearsal space at college, an impression of laughter—someone had told a joke—and she tried to hold on to this, clinging at these shreds because it was obvious even before she was entirely awake that everything was wrong. She was lying on her side in the forest. She felt poisoned. The ground was hard under her shoulder, and she was very cold. Her hands were tied behind her back, her ankles bound, and she was aware immediately that the Symphony was nowhere near, a terrible absence. She’d been filling water containers with Jackson, and then? She remembered a sound behind her, turning as a rag was pressed to her face, someone’s hand on the back of her head. It was evening now. Six men were crouched in a circle nearby. Two armed with large guns, one with a standard bow and a quiver of arrows and another with a strange metal crossbow, the fifth with a machete. The sixth had his back to her and she couldn’t see if he had a weapon.



“But we don’t know what road they’ll take,” one of the gunmen said.



“Look at the map,” the man who had his back to her replied. “There’s exactly one logical route to the Severn City Airport from here.” She recognized the prophet’s voice.



“They could take Lewis Avenue once they reach Severn City. Looks like it’s not that much longer.”



“We’ll split up,” the prophet said. “Two groups, one for each route, and we meet up at the airport road.”



“I assume you have a plan, gentlemen.” This was Sayid’s voice, somewhere near. Sayid! She wanted to speak with him, to ask where they were and what was happening, to tell him the Symphony had searched for him and Dieter after they’d disappeared, but she was too nauseous to move.



“We told you, we’re just trading the two of you for the bride,” the gunman said, “and as long as no one attempts anything stupid, we’ll take her and then we’ll be on our way.”



“I see,” Sayid said. “You enjoy this line of work, or are you in it for the pension?”



“What’s a pension?” the one with the machete asked. He was very young. He looked about fifteen.



“All of this,” the prophet said, serene, “all of our activities, Sayid, you must understand this, all of your suffering, it’s all part of a greater plan.”



“You’d be surprised at how little comfort I take from that notion.” The clarinet was remembering something she’d always known about Sayid, which was that he had trouble keeping his mouth shut when he was angry. She strained her neck and saw Dieter, lying on his back a few yards away, unmoving. His skin looked like marble.



“Some things in this life seem inexplicable,” the archer said, “but we must trust in the existence of a greater plan.”



“We’re sorry,” the boy with the machete said, sounding as if he meant it. “We’re very sorry about your friend.”



“I’m sure you’re sorry about everyone,” Sayid said, “but while we’re discussing strategy here, there was absolutely no reason for you to abduct the clarinet.”



“Two hostages are more persuasive than one,” the archer said.



“You’re so bright, the lot of you,” Sayid said. “That’s what I admire most about you, I think.”



The gunman muttered something and started to rise, but the prophet placed a hand on his arm and he sank back to the ground, shaking his head.



“The hostage is a test,” the prophet said. “Can we not withstand the taunts of the fallen? Is that not part of our task?”



“Forgive me,” the gunman murmured.



“The fallen walk among us. We must be the light. We are the light.”



“We are the light,” the other four repeated in murmured unison. The clarinet shifted painfully—the movement brought a storm of dark spots over her vision—and craned her neck until she saw Sayid. He was ten or twelve feet away, tied up.



“The road is fifty paces due east,” he mouthed. “Turn left when you get there.” The clarinet nodded and closed her eyes against a wave of nausea.



“Your clarinet friend still sleeping?” The archer’s voice.



“If you touch her, I’ll kill you,” Sayid said.



“No need for that, friend. No one will bother her. We’re just hoping to avoid a repeat …”



“Let her sleep,” the prophet said. “The Symphony’s stopped for the night anyway. We’ll catch up to them in the morning.”