Hopeless Doom

Chapter 3 Pulse and the Glass

Justin didn't look up. He just grabbed a file and started rhythmic, punishing strokes against the bracket.

Don stood by the gap, watching the metal dust settle into the dirt.

“Brackets are too damn wide,” Don said.

“They’re wide because you’re rowing with house beams, not oars,” Justin snapped, his breath hitching. “You need the leverage to clear the water, or you’ll just be splashing around until the drones find you.”

“If they’re loose, the wood slips. I can’t afford a slip.”

Justin dropped the file. It hit the bench with a heavy ring. He spun the lever, yanked the bracket out, and tossed it. Don caught the warm metal, feeling the vibration still humming through the iron.

“Measured ‘em twice,” Justin said, wiping his hands on a blackened rag. “The pins lock the wood. You pull the pin, the plank slides. You leave it, you’re solid. Just don’t drop the damn pins. You won’t find a hardware store out there.”

Don set the bracket down near the copper wire. “Pontoons?”

“Double-lashed with steel cable. That rig’s under the tarp on the lower shelf. Tide hits it in three hours. After that, it’s your problem.” Justin sat on a crate, his shoulders sagging. “You’ve got the boat. You’ve got the oars. Now you just need to survive a laser grid that can split an atom. That fence will cook you before you’re halfway there.”

“The fence has a vent,” Don said.

“You don’t know that. You saw some steam and made a wish.”

“I watched the water, Justin. The air shimmers. Heat rises off the surface when the machinery hits its limit. It’s a cycle.”

“A shimmer isn't a schedule. You misjudge that gap by ten seconds and you don’t just drown. You vaporize.”

“I’m getting the schedule.”

Justin stopped messing with a bolt and looked up. “The terminal is in the square. Rachel’s got her goons all over it. You can’t get close.”

“The screen is for the sheep,” Don said, turning for the exit. “I need the guy who actually feels the machine.”

“Who? Harry?” Justin scoffed. “Harry Bush sits in the dirt and talks to shadows. The elders say his brain is rotted out.”

“The elders say the Wall is a shield,” Don squeezed into the gap. “Harry’s not crazy. He’s just tuned in to a frequency we can't hear.”

The eastern ridge was a graveyard of rusted containers, their skeletons sinking into the bruised soil. Nothing grew here but the rot. Don hiked up the slope, his boots hitting the muck with a wet, sucking sound.

Harry Bush was sitting on a bucket behind a collapsed roof.

He didn't look up. He was staring at a patch of empty mud with a wide, fixed grin. His skin looked like gray ash, and a faint, scaly rash crawled up his neck. Harry raised his hand and waved at the empty air. Three times. Side to side. Then he dropped it. Ten seconds of silence. Then he did it again. Wave. Wave. Wave.

“They’re logging it,” Harry whispered. His voice sounded like gravel grinding in a tin can.

“Who’s logging it, Harry?” Don asked, stepping closer.

“The people upstairs.” Harry tapped his temple. “Checking the boxes. ‘Look, Specimen 894 is still in the mud. Check the box. Keep the feed running.’”

Don crouched down. He pulled a small wrap of dried fish from his pocket and set it on a rock. Specimen 894, he thought. Is that all we are? Numbers on a screen?

Harry’s head snapped toward him. The veins in his neck were rigid. He looked at the fish, then at Don, that terrifying smile never wavering. “You can’t bribe the glass, boy.”

“I’m not trying to,” Don said. “I want to know when the hum stops.”

“It never stops. It just breathes.” Harry pressed a finger against his own jaw. “Thump, thump. It rattles my teeth. It’s the pulse of the island.”

Don knew the stories—how the spores from the old world ate into the nerves. Harry wasn't a lunatic; he was an antenna. He was physically wired into the grid.

“When does it vent, Harry?”

Harry leaned in,“You’re trying to jump out of the bowl. Little fish. Wiggle, wiggle. Trying to hit the edge.”

“The Wall gets hot,” Don pushed. “The energy builds up. When do the lights go black?”

Harry grabbed his own hair,“It burns the air! You touch the fire, you turn into smoke. Like Edward’s brother. Poof.”

“When?” Don grabbed Harry’s wrist, forcing his hand down.

Harry’s skin was scorching. It felt like holding a heated pipe. His pupils dilated, swallowing the color of his eyes. He lunged forward, grabbing Don’s collar with a grip like a vise.

“Every seventh turn!” Harry hissed, spittle hitting Don’s face. “The moon pulls the water, and the machine chokes. It has to spit the heat out or it explodes.”

“The seventh tide,” Don repeated. “How long?”

“They’re watching, Don. If you scratch the glass, they tap back.” Harry shook him. “They don't like it when the bugs get out.”

“How many minutes, Harry?”

Harry let go of the jacket. He held up his hands, spreading his fingers, then closing them into fists. He started counting in a rapid, breathless whisper. One. Two. Three... He hit sixty, then started over. One. Two...

He stopped at the sixth count. The energy drained out of him instantly. He slumped back against the tin, the vacant grin locking back into place.

“Six minutes,” Don said.

Harry didn't answer. He just raised his hand and waved at the empty air over Don’s shoulder.

Don stood up and wiped the purple grit from his knees. Harry hadn't touched the fish. Don turned and walked down the slope, the silence of the empty Canteen weighing on him. The island was in perfect order—buckets stacked, people hidden. A perfect cage.

He reached the southern cliffs as the light died. The ocean was a beast here, slamming into the limestone with a rhythmic, violent thud. Don climbed down the rock face, finding the handholds by memory.

He reached the shelf and ripped back the blue tarp.

The raft looked brutal. Ugly. Heavy. It wasn't a boat; it was a prayer made of timber and scrap metal. Don grabbed the iron brackets and slid them over the side, driving the steel pins home with a heavy rock. He slid the iron-pipe oars into the locks. They fit.

He sat on the center plank and looked out. A kilometer away, the silver Wall was a massive shadow, cutting the world in two. He counted the surges. He watched the water level drop on the limestone, exposing the black, slick moss.

The sixth tide was ending.

Don pulled the glassless watch from his coat. He ran his thumb over the exposed, clicking gears. He leaned forward, his heart hammering a rhythm that matched the island's pulse.

Rachel Lyly poured a cup of lukewarm water into a basin and started scrubbing the wooden table. The tablet sat there—a slab of dead glass staring back at her.

“He missed the drop,” Marcus said from the doorway. He was wrapped in the heavy, moth-eaten wool of the Council.

Rachel kept scrubbing. “I’m aware.”

“He was at the eastern ridge. Whispering with Harry Bush.”

Rachel stopped. She squeezed the rag, dirty water blooming between her fingers. “Harry’s a short-circuit, Marcus. He’s just static.”

“The kid was tuned in.”

Rachel set the cloth down. She looked at the tablet’s empty face. He’s looking for a seam, she thought. Just like my father. Just like everyone who ever looked up. “Put a watcher on the south rocks,” Rachel said. “The caves, too. If he touches the water, bring him to the square. If he touches the wood… we end it.”

Marcus nodded and melted back into the shadows.

Don watched him go from the cover of a rusted shack. The wind was a low growl, rattling the tin panels. They’re twitchy, he thought. Good.

He didn't head for the caves. Not yet. He headed north, toward the only building on the island that wasn't a piece of junk: the Sanctuary. It was a block of solid iron salvaged from the ship’s hull. To the others, it was a temple. To Don, it was a vault.

Two guards stood out front, clutching pipes. They looked bored, their eyes drifting toward the Canteen as the noon siren began its mournful wail.

“Go get your slop,” one guard muttered. “I’ll hold the fort.”

Don didn't wait. He moved fast, boots hitting the soft mud to kill the sound. He slipped behind the iron block to the vent Justin had mentioned—an old exhaust duct choked with rust. He gripped the grate and pulled. The screws gave way with a muffled snap. Don slid into the dark.

He crawled on his stomach, the metal teeth of the duct snagging his jacket. He kicked the inner vent open and dropped onto the stone floor of the Sanctuary.

The room was a tomb. The only light came from a single lantern on a pedestal. And there it was. The Tablet.

Don stepped up. His hands didn't shake—they were too cold for that. He grabbed the frayed copper wires and touched them to the contact points. The screen flickered. A sickly green light washed over him. It was the symbol Rachel showed the crowds: the Circle. The Shield.

Liars, Don thought. He swiped the glass. The circle shattered.

Lines of text blurred past—code, logs, gibberish. He tapped again. The screen went black for a heartbeat, then it opened like a wound. It was a video. Grainy, loud, and terrifying.

A man filled the frame—David Duncan. In the island’s stories, he was a giant. Here, he was a wreck. His face was a map of soot and dried blood. He was crouching behind a concrete pillar, chest heaving.

“We can't hold!” a woman screamed off-camera. Sarah Peggy. The ‘Healer.’ She slid into view, her white coat drenched in a color that wasn't white. “They’re clearing the grid, David! They’re not taking prisoners!”

“Get them to the lower decks!” Duncan yelled back. He raised a rifle and fired at the sky—a sky that was a brilliant, painful blue.

The camera jolted. Don watched as that blue sky split open.

A massive, geometric shadow fell over the world. A red beam struck a hundred yards away. The ground didn't explode; it simply ceased to exist. A shockwave tossed Duncan like a ragdoll. The camera hit the dirt, the lens cracking.

Through the splintered glass, Don saw the "God of the Island" pinned under stone, reaching for a woman who wasn't moving. A mechanical hum filled the speakers—the drone sound. Then, text appeared:

[Specimen resistance neutralized.]

[Cataloging survivors.]

[Initiating perimeter quarantine protocol.]

The screen went black. The green circle returned, blinking lazily.

Don stared at it. It wasn't a message of hope. It was a digital lock.

They weren't the chosen ones. They weren't being saved from a plague. They were the leftovers of a lost war, herded into a pen and tagged like cattle. David Duncan didn't build the Wall. He was the one the Wall was built around.

Don pulled the wires. The light died. The Sanctuary went back to being a dark, iron box.

He crawled back through the duct, knees sinking into the mud as he emerged. The noon drop was still going. The islanders were still down there, bowing to a lie.

Don looked at his hands. They were stained red—not with blood, but with the rust of the "temple."

He looked at the silver Wall on the horizon. For the first time in sixteen years, he didn't see a shield. He saw a fence.