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You step outside, expecting to meet fire and pitchforks from people you thought were your friends. Instead, a scorpion sinks its stinger into your calf.
*
Your mailbox blinks. An unlabeled envelope waits. You’re relieved when you flip the flap and see the crisp blue stationery of Dodo Airlines.
Hey, Resident Rep
Apropos of everything: Birds of a feather flock together. And have sole proprietorship of the state-of-the-art Dodo Airlines postal service. Dodo Airlines: When Waddling Won’t Do.
Best, Orville
Beneath the typed message, And Wilbur is scrawled in handwriting that manages to convey gruffness in its crimped swoops and edges. Papa Sierra: watch out for mammals and keep an eye on your six. And your three, nine, and twelve, too.
*
Boots leans casually in your doorway, loose fitness tank hanging off their body. They reek of sweat, which is impressive given that alligators can’t perspire. They don’t have sweat glands.
They sip an orange soda, another fantastic feat for a creature lacking lips to channel the flavored fizz.
None of this strikes you as noteworthy because the time on your digital alarm clock reads 11:46pm. You have only impatience in your eyes as you regard them drowsily.
“I was hungry because I just finished doing my 9,999 burpee challenge and realized I needed to hydrate, but I gave away my plain sink after it got in the way of doing cool-down yoga, munchie.“
Your cute bed calls to you. “To the point, please.”
“When I tried to leave to go get some water and pocari sweat from the drink machine, my door was bolted shut, munchie. From the outside. Good thing I’d been practicing taekwondo, or I wouldn’t have been able to chop through it with my bare hands. The door will need to be repaired too, but—“
“Wait, hold on, your door was bolted shut?”
“I was getting there!” They hold up a long wooden beam with nails protruding every which way. “I brought it with me. It’s the funniest thing, munchie. There’s a logo on it. It’s—“
“Nook Inc.,” you finish the statement for them.
What on this island doesn’t have Tom Nook’s mark all over it?
“So long story short, I’m freakin’ out, munchie. I know it’s late, but it would be real muscular of you if you could help me figure out what’s up.”
“Let’s go to the source.” You unlock your window just in case someone gets ideas about boarding up your house in the same way.
Boots accompanies you. The loud chirping of a mole cricket provides cover for your footfalls.
Nook’s Cranny is closed, but the incandescents at Resident Services glow their eternal yellow across the plaza.
Inside, it’s empty. The pot of yellow tulip s on Isabelle’s side of the counter is freshly watered. Looking at the sticky sheen, you realize the liquid is blood.
“Something’s not right,” Boots declares uselessly.
“You don’t say.”
“Wait, I’ve got it. That door is never open, munchie.” They point to the lone door on the opposite wall.
It’s just barely ajar. Wisps of vapor creep from the crack before dissipating into nothingness.
“I don’t like this.”
You know what you must do.
The counter is locked in a down position, so you hop it. In your carelessness, the tulips’ pot slides inelegantly onto the floor and shatters, throwing an apostrophe of dirt and congealed blood onto the terra cotta tile.
“Hiyah, munchie!” Boots demolishes the counter with astounding grace. You only wish they could have been quieter about it.
The door itself is unremarkable. What makes your jaws drop lies behind it.
A lattice of floor-to-ceiling freezers covers each wall. These aren’t like any freezer that Tom Nook sells; they have elaborate temperature controls, a see-through door, and more compartments within them. Each one holds several bags of fat and flesh. Some are clearly organs. You can make out a lung, a liver... a pair of glasses? Others look like cuts of meat you might put on a barbecue.
One smaller bag says “short ribs - 164 - tiger.” Another, “drumstick - 297 - eagle.”
There are bags labeled for mice, sheep, squirrels, cats... You walk backward through a timeline of your island and have no doubts where these came from. Who they came from.
“Some of these animals were shredded. Look at the muscle definition,” Boots gushes.
“Boots,” your voice shakes, “is anyone moving out right now?”
“What does that have to do with this, munchie?”
“Did you ever have a pet that went upstate ? Moving out is like that.”
“Leapin’ lats,” Boots panics, “Vladimir was in boxes today.”
The wall clock reads 11:52pm. You bolt.
Boots is by far faster than you. They sling you into a fireman’s carry without losing speed.
Vladimir ’s pink house is visible even on a night this close to a new moon. Boots skids to a halt outside. There’s no bolt across this house, only another door ajar. The light is on. You hear yelling.
“What’s the meaning of this? You can’t do this to me, nyet,” Vladimir growls. “I know my rights!”
“You signed them away when you agreed to come here,” Isabelle says in a voice far too calm. “and besides, we’re not in the territory of any country. What laws will protect you?”
“International law. My tape deck gets public radio, nyet. You don’t gotta do this.” Vladimir bargains.
“Yes, yes, why don’t you dance for us before you go?” Tom Nook suggests. Isabelle swings a fishing rod at Vladimir’s toes.
Vladimir gyrates their hips in a way that overwhelms and scars you at once. You’re pretty sure this is the same villager that was incapacitated for an hour because they forgot to take their arthritis medication. They were always open about having secrets. You never thought they meant this .
Isabelle claps. “Isn’t this lovely?”
“Any minute you feel like intrudin’, youngin, be my guest,” Vladimir yells at you.
Tom Nook and Isabelle turn and notice you and Boots. Vladimir sighs relief.
“Hello, resident representative. What brings you here?”
“We saw the freezer.” Your voice is thin like a thread-worn sweater.
“No matter, yes, yes, the Able Sisters will take care of you. You’ll be back in it soon enough, I’m sure of it.”
Mabel and Sable stand behind you, holding all manner of sharp and shining tools. You don’t recall seamstresses or tailors ever needing to use an axe or hand saw.
Sable looks at your feet. “Looks like we’ll have more to clean up tonight than we were planning. Oh well.” She looks into your eyes. “It’s not personal.”
“You don’t have to do this,” you plead to Tom Nook. “What happened to the island getaway paradise you promised?”
Tom Nook has only laughter in reply. “Oh, resident representative. I am disappointed. Yes, yes, I set out to create a paradise. I didn’t charge you interest on your construction costs. I stocked the land and the sea with resources. I found friends for you, so many friends. But outside my utopia, things have a cost. Bells? What kind of currency is that?”
You shrink into your shoulders in shame. “This whole setup is a fraud.”
“I hope you believe me when I say it started out with the best of intentions. Yes, yes, it was going so well. All you had to do was not notice the gritty underbelly.”
“It really was villagers we saw in the freezer then, munchie.” Boots does a set of stress-bicep curls. “I don’t believe it!”
Tom Nook holds a paw to his chin. “Boots, you’ll make several fine purses. Vladimir, hm. If you had a normal fur color, maybe you’d be a rug? But since you’re an unattractive pink, maybe children’s toys are in your future?”
You look guiltily at the pink toy box you gave them, but don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself.
“Hey, who are you callin’ unattractive?”
Vladimir hurls a manhole cover at Isabelle and punches Tom Nook in the teeth. Pulling the wall-mounted tool board off its hooks, they shield themselves with it and take off.
Mabel throws dagger-sharp scissors after them. They embed themselves in the cork.
You run, flitting through the orchards you planted.
A faint buzzing grows louder. A wasp’s nest has fallen from every tree. The inhabitants are agitated and angry.
If only your feet could carry you faster.
“Where are we going?” Boots asks, sprinting alongside you and Vladimir.
“We’re on an island. We gotta get off.” Another set of scissors whizzes past Vladimir’s face. “Now that’s what I call a close shave, nyet,” they huff.
Isabelle ’s pleasant inflection blares across the island intercom. “Good evening, it’s 11:58pm. Hostile residents are making their way to the Airport. We’re activating the island defense system to neutralize the threat to our tranquility.
As you run, the island comes too alive. The earth shudders and quakes. The wails of a million robust cicada surround. The river beside you froths with too many fish, crucian carp and black bass.
“Veer left, munchie!”
The ground opens beneath you. Boots pulls you from the crater of a pitfall seed you don’t remember burying.
You only know you’ve made it to the dock when your footfalls change from crunches to clacks. You’ve made it.
A lone moth circles the door to the Airport. Inside, an air conditioner hums. Orville plays solitaire on the desktop computer at his station as if the situation outside were a dream.
He perks up when you approach, steps so urgent you’re stomping. “Hey hey hey! Welcome to your one and only gateway to the skies, the Airport. How can I help—“
You cut him off. “I wanna fly. Anywhere but here. we gotta go.” You set down a pile of Nook Miles Tickets so large that strays fall from the table and curl on the floor.
His eyes well with distress. On the desktop computer he opens a word processor and blows the font to 72 point. Heavens above, I wish I could shut up, but it’s like I’m on puppet strings and need to say this every time — His beak chatters away, “So...just to get the paperwork all official, where didja want to go?”
The bell at resident services chimes the town tune. It’s midnight.
In the same moment, the dock starts to rumble. The lights flicker. Wood groans.
“Come on!” you urge, increasingly exasperated.
“We don’t have time for this, munchie.” Boots runs through the turnstile. As alarms blare, they lift Orville onto their shoulders. “We gotta say the thing. We wanna use a Nook Miles Ticket, duh!”
Orville waddles ineffectually in the air, squirming in Boots’s arms, the inflection in his voice warped uncanny. “So you wanna use your Nook Miles Ticket? Roger! I’m ready to get you in the sky right this minute, but let’s just check—you all packed? tools ready? Alright! Let’s get you airborne.”
With Vladimir, Boots and Orville, you scramble down the splintery dock and squeeze into the plane. Four of you into one of two seats in the plane is undoable. The three animals sit in the luggage area behind you. Orville scrambles to find detachable seatbelts and safety placards in the overhead bins.
Wilbur, wearing pilot shades inside and at night, sits ready in the cockpit. His voice is level and low, but you think you see him cry behind the darkened frames.
“Bellbottom flamenco, this is stovetop rubber band, it’s time punt pontoons. We’re leavin’ everything behind... you ready?”
The engine sputters to life, another part in the cacophony.
“The plane has a capacity of two,” Orville whispers. “Our fate is in the hands of physics.”
Takeoff. Newton’s third kicks in. The cushions push up against your rear.
The dock collapses into the shallows. Cracked like a wood egg, the Airport collapses on itself. Orville cries.
As you gain altitude, you see glowing pores opening across the island. In moments, the whole night is threaded with fire and smoke. Each one ends in a rocket-propelled contraption that looks like a miscolored cactus. In unison they stream towards you.
You don’t recognize them.
Vladimir and Boots gaze out the window and sigh as if recognizing an old friend. “Gyroids,” they say together.
One of these gyroids pierces the right wing clean through. An alarm screams. Red light doesn’t flood the cabin, but comes from a single indicator.
Another hit. A burst of dark smoke and the cabin door is blown clean off. Wind howls inside and out.
“The plane can’t take our extra weight,” Wilbur screams, “we’re going Delta Oscar Whisker November. We’ll be making a water landing, and not the okay kind!”
You empty your pockets out of the emergency exit. Furniture, flowers, and tools sproing into existence around you in poofs of dust and plunge immediately into the awaiting ocean.
“A life ring can be found under each seat!” Wilbur yells. “No one’s fighting the barn tonight!”
Vladimir undoes his seatbelt and faces you. “I’m no spring chicken with the rest of my life before me. You need to make it out alive, nyet.”
Boots flexes and breaks the buckle on their seatbelt. “Never in my life have I regretted being so swole. Think of me when protein powder sticks to your tongue, munchie.”
Your friends have no time for grand gestures of self sacrifice.
The waves rise up to embrace all of you. The plane smashes into the whitecaps.
How did you live on an island for so long and never learn to swim? The water was right there. Every sand dollar you plucked from the beach, you picked up without setting so much as a pinkie toe in the water.
Salt in your eyes, nose, mouth. Where are you? The fuselage remains in one piece. You all float to the surface, cold, dark, and shivering.
Wilbur counts heads. “Thank Golf Oscar Delta. Follow after me.”
He moves his legs as if riding a mountain bike and doesn’t stop, so you don’t either. You tread water for what feels like hours.
“Resident Rep,” Vladimir sputters, choking on water they can’t paddle over anymore, “it ain’t much, but before we go on...” They hand you a soggy picture of themselves from their wallet and sink beneath the waves.
“Oh no you don’t, munchie.” Boots hands you a photo of themselves from college. They’re in a tank top before a meet, muscles bulging. They take a deep breath and throw themselves into the lurch.
You see neither of them again.
You can’t hear Wilbur or Orville anymore. You don’t know what time it is, only that it’s still dark and you’re delirious.
A twinkle in the sky above catches your eye.
Reflexively you put your hands together and stop treading. You sink.
You wish to be taken to solid ground.
You get hooks.
The first digs at the flesh of your forearm. You know the oblong lure of a sporty fishing rod anywhere. Another hook finds your stomach.
In the salt water, it hurts. In your exhausted state, it doesn’t hurt.
A kind voice, soothing in the storm, says, “Affirmative, We’ve retrieved the resident.”
After some time, sand slides beneath your back.
A lower voice says, “it’s alright, yes, yes, you’re home now.”
The soft trumpets of K.K. Slider’s newest release, Welcome Horizons, brap in your last sparkle of consciousness. The chaotic world around you fades to a warm, welcome black.