The Last Girl: A gripping psychological thriller with a killer twist Read online

I walk back into my room and dismiss the food on the tray. There is a window next to my bed. I am curious if I can get a better look at the island from here. The window is foggy and shows condensation on the inside. I wipe it with the back of my hand but can’t see clearly due to the heavy mist outside.

  But I can make out a few things.

  I can see the forest from here. Parts of it. It’s dense and huge enough that it blocks the view of the sea. Before it, I see the military base where the soldiers picked me up. The base looks like what you’d see in action movies, except that it’s on an island. Nothing special.

  I wonder where on the island Ward Nine is. It puzzles me why I was asked not to look west. I guess I keep forgetting it’s none of my business. The west side is obscured by the angle, anyway.

  “Miss June?”

  I turn and look. It’s the nurse from earlier.

  “I see you haven’t eaten.” He points at the tray on the table.

  “I was about to,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He is probably in his twenties and looks a bit shy. “The weather is horrible outside.”

  “I noticed. How long have I slept?”

  “Six hours. Three of them were good sleep.”

  “Oh? How can you tell?”

  “You stopped saying ‘toot,’” he says. “At first, I thought you were saying ‘food.’ Then I realized it was ‘toot,’ whatever that means.”

  “I said that one word—nothing else?”

  The soldier shrugs. “You also said something else. ‘Kill.’”

  “Ah.” I run my hand through my hair and let out an awkward laugh. “‘Kill toot.’”

  He is neither angry nor sympathetic. Suspicious, but in a polite and considering way. Why did my damn mouth expose me in my dreams?

  “So where can I find Ryan?” I ask.

  “Sergeant Ryan?”

  “Yes.”

  “He won’t be here for a while.”

  “I need to talk to him. He said he would take care of me. I need to find a way back home.”

  “Oh, that,” he says. “I’m sorry to inform you, ma’am, that it’s unlikely.”

  “What is unlikely?”

  “We can’t even fly our own choppers out in this weather.” He points at the window. “So you will not be able to leave the island for a while.”

  “But you can contact land, right?”

  “Not even that. The weather interferes with outside communication.”

  “That’s not possible. You must have a radio or something.” I have no idea how this works, but I can’t imagine the soldiers are unable to contact their families all over the world, at any time and under every circumstance. “There must be a way—”

  “Major Red can explain these matters to you when you meet him,” he cuts in. “He understands your situation, that you must have lost your passport in the crash. Otherwise, we never allow strangers to enter the island.”

  “Major Red will help me?”

  “Certainly. He will do his best to get you back home when the weather gets better.”

  I let out a sigh, realizing how tense I was. “That’s a relief. Thank you. So when do I get to meet him?”

  “First, you will have to fill out this form.” The soldier hands me a file with papers clipped together.

  “What is that?” I grimace.

  “Just formalities. Please write down your full name, where you live, occupation, address, and so forth.”

  12

  The shy soldier respects my wish when I ask him to give me a few minutes alone to fill out the form. I am left sitting with a pen in my hand, gripping it tightly, as if I am about to stab someone.

  What am I supposed to write? Would it be better to confess my amnesia now? Still, my damn inner voice disagrees. If I tell them everything, will I include the gun?

  I gaze out the window again, reminding myself that this island has its own secrets. I have no idea who they work for or why they don’t wear a specific insignia—let alone their request not to look west. Maybe it’s better for each of us to keep our own secrets.

  On the other hand, what if my wish comes true and we can establish outside communications? What if my identity causes more conflicts?

  Who are you, June? Why are you so paranoid?

  I take the form with me to the bathroom. It’s as if I can’t think straight in the room, knowing it’s not completely private. I lock the door behind me and sit on the edge of the bathtub.

  “Think, June. Think.” I bury my head in my hands.

  Taking my time, I decide that my instincts aren’t helping. If I forge this form and they later discover I am lying, things will get complicated. I doubt military folk tolerate lies. Never mind this feeling I have about not telling them—confessing my amnesia will at least show my good intentions in a place where I might be the only female present.

  I think I am losing my mind. What if I’m not as dangerous as I think? What if I just escaped an asylum or something? But how would I have been on a plane if that were true?

  I stand up, stretch my arms, and take another look at my reflection in the mirror. I feel as if my reflection is talking to me. The June in the mirror looks more collected than my perception of myself.

  “I have to fake an excuse not to fill out the form and meet with this Major Red and see how he can help me go home,” I tell the mirror.

  My reflection doesn’t reply, but a sudden noise outside does.

  Soldiers seem to be pounding away from my room, shouting and cursing. I pull the door open and carefully walk toward the blanket. Just when I am about to pull it back to look outside, I glimpse something on the floor. A white envelope.

  Seeing it makes me forget about the noises in the corridors.

  I kneel down and pick it up. I wonder if it’s a good idea to open it. Why do I think it’s for me? Did some soldier drop it while spying on me?

  I realize that I’ve already opened the envelope while thinking. It reeks of some kind of oil. A black, greasy oil that slowly seeps through my fingers. I reach inside the envelope and come out with a note.

  Words are written in the same black oil. It looks like someone has dipped a quill in oil instead of ink to write it. It’s a short sentence. One I can’t comprehend at first. When I do, I stand there frozen for a moment.

  I dash outside. Most of the corridor is empty, except for a few soldiers gathered in the far end.

  Advancing with careful steps, a soldier stops me.

  “Please go back into your room,” the soldier requests. “We had a car accident. It’s nothing, really.”

  I nod and retreat without turning around. Whatever the accident, I have a feeling it’s the work of the person who sent me the note, to keep the soldiers busy while they entered my room.

  Who could it be? How is it possible he knows about the things he mentioned in the note? I go back and sit on my bed, staring at the writing. It reads:

  Kill Manfred Toot. Trust no one.

  13

  When the nurse returns, I am back in the bathroom again, ripping the note into pieces. I flush it down the toilet, feeling like a spy burning a letter after reading.

  “Miss June,” he calls out. “Are you ready?”

  “For what?” I fake a vomiting sound.

  “Major Red wants to see you. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Just a sec.”

  “Of course. I’ll be waiting.”

  I take a minute, trying to remember if the name Manfred Toot means anything to me. Manfred Toot. Such an unforgettable name, it seems. And who sent me this note? Does that mean there is someone on this island who knows who I am? How can I find them?

  I grip the door handle, not sure what my next move is. “I’m ready. Shall we?” I say when I step out.

  “Have you filled out the form?”

  “I did,” I lie.

  “Could you pass it over, please?”

  “I’d prefer to show it to Major Red myself.”

 
The soldier hesitates for a second. “Why not? Please put this raincoat on, and wear those boots. It’s messy outside.”

  I do as he instructs me, and we leave the room.

  The corridor is bustling with soldiers again. I inspect each and every one carefully, wishing I could figure out the note’s sender. Then I prefer not to make eye contact at all. It’s obvious that I am not welcome here. Only the nurse and Ryan don’t mind my presence. It would make sense if the soldiers’ stares were out of lust in an all-male facility. That’s not the case, though. I have the feeling they want me to fuck off and leave this island.

  “So Major Red is in charge of the island?” I ask as we leave the building.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “May I ask what is happening on the island?”

  “Can’t say, ma’am. It’s above my pay grade. Please step inside.”

  He shows me into another Jeep, and I climb in.

  “I’m sure you’ve been told not to look west, ma’am. Right?”

  “Yes.” I sit in the back, squashed between two other soldiers, like before.

  This time the ride is short, right between clusters of L-shaped tents, barely visible in the mist. I still haven’t seen one woman anywhere.

  The Jeep stops.

  The soldier ushers me into Ward Six, a larger building among the others. It’s still old, but with a more exquisite style. I follow him into a clean corridor. He shows me into a large meeting room, and instructs me to wait for Major Red.

  14

  The room is huge. It’s exquisitely furnished, air conditioned, with an oval meeting table at one end. Not only is the furniture impressive, but it’s also Victorian—or at least an imitation of the style.

  Hands behind my back, I catch a row of framed certificates on the wall. I’m surprised they are medical certificates, not related to the military. All acquired by Major John Red. When I near the wall for a better look, a voice from behind stops me.

  “Miss June.” A deep voice resonates in the room. The authoritative voice of someone who is not used to opposition.

  I turn and gaze at the massive figure of Major Red. He has a broad chest and big hands. His face is rugged, his wrinkles stiff lines of hardened, sunburned flesh. He wears a slightly different version of the grey uniform everyone wears on the island. No insignia.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling the need to tiptoe around like a little girl.

  The major doesn’t show interest or empathy. He strolls toward his desk, hands behind his back, then sits. He peeks at a few documents in front of him as if I am not in the room. An uncomfortable moment later, he raises his icy blue eyes to look at me.

  His gaze is sharp and penetrating. He sizes me up from top to bottom. Then he suddenly stands up again and walks around me to a window. I watch him violently pull the shutters down. A deep breath fills his nostrils. Then he closes his eyes to calm himself down.

  I watch him return to his desk. It occurs to me that perhaps the window was looking west, but I can’t be sure. Major Red doesn’t feel the need to explain himself.

  Another silent minute passes before he speaks again. “I assume you’ve been told we’ve lost all communication with the outside world.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Which means we’ll have you on the island for a few more days.”

  “I thought military bases have ways to contact—”

  “We don’t. We’re not an ordinary…military base, as you put it. So don’t call us that.”

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I’m not fond about having you here, Miss June.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “A woman among my soldiers is quite a challenge. But the tides of the Atlantic Ocean have sent you over.”

  At least I know my plane crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. Was I maybe flying from New York to London? Does this mean the island is in the middle of the Atlantic?

  “So I have a few questions—” I begin.

  “I have only one.” His gaze sharpens. “Have you filled out the form?”

  I am hesitant to answer, having not decided what to tell him yet. I thought we’d be discussing if we can contact the outside world first.

  “I thought so.” He pulls open a drawer next to him.

  “Thought so?” I tilt my head.

  “I knew you would not be able to fill out the form.” His gaze is so tense. My heartbeat quickens. I have a feeling he knows more about me than I do. Is it possible he knows about the oil-stained message? “You have a lot of explaining to do, Miss June.”

  “Explaining? Like what?”

  “How is it possible you’re the sole survivor of the crashed plane? When we saw it fall over the island with an engine in flames, we were sure there’d be no survivors.”

  “I don’t know how. I guess I am lucky.” I’m trying to imagine the scene of the soldiers watching the plane crash from the beginning.

  “Not lucky. It sounds like a miracle to me. Tell me what you remember.”

  The hardest question of all. I try to summarize it: “I woke up underwater, strapped to my seat. Somehow, I managed to break free and swim up and hang on to a log, probably a broken piece of the plane. It was a horrifying experience. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  “Are you expecting me to believe that?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? I’m standing here in front of you.”

  “But I have no proof you were on the plane.”

  “Major Red, why would I lie about this? How do you think I arrived here?”

  “Never mind. Tell me what happened next.”

  “I passed out on the log and woke up on shore.”

  “That simple, eh?” He taps the desk again, glancing at the drawer.

  “It’s a miracle, like you said.” I nod. “I feel like Robinson Crusoe.”

  “You know what the odds are, you surviving the plane crash and the tides spitting you out on shore?”

  “Slim to none, but it’s the truth.”

  “Do you know how far the island is from the plane crash? It’s impossible that you’ve made it this far.”

  “Major Red, what do you want me to say?”

  “The truth.”

  “I just did.”

  “Try once more.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “This is what it’s supposed to mean.” He points at the drawer next to him. Slowly, he pulls out my gun and Kindle and throws them on the desk before me.

  15

  I realize I can’t take my eyes off the gun on the major’s desk. It’s as if I am hoping a longer stare will refresh my memory. I think it’s time to tell him all that happened—in detail.

  “Did someone send you to spy on the island?” he says.

  I grimace. Not only did I not expect that, but it complicates my inner conflict. Am I actually some kind of spy or assassin sent to kill Manfred Toot?

  “No one sent me, Major Red.” I fist a hand behind my back. “I survived a plane crash.”

  “Always fly with a gun on board?” His laugh comes out like a bark. It’s not just mockery. I feel disdain—hatred? “Who are you? Tell the truth.”

  “The truth is…” Am I being paranoid about the vibe he is giving me? I make sure he sees me staring back. “I don’t remember.”

  “Wow.” He clamps one hand over the other. His hands are thick. “And yet another lie.”

  “It’s the truth.” My voice pitches up. “I woke up underwater and couldn’t remember who I am or what happened to me. I don’t even know what my destination was or what month it is. Certainly not why I carry a gun.”

  “Oh?” He leans forward on the desk and grunts. “Then how do you know your name is June?”

  I show him the necklace, which I had wrapped around my wrist. My steps are reluctant when I approach the desk. “I was wearing this when I woke up on shore.”

  Major Red flips it in his hand. Closer to him, I notice a foul smell of sweat. He takes his time to inspect it. Front and back. He weig
hs it upon his palm. Shakes it. Lifts it up near his ear and listens to it. Then he runs his dirty hands upon it, wipes it with the back of his hand, grimaces and squints, and pulls out a magnifier to check out the name.

  My breathing slows as he takes his time. The thorough examination will prove nothing is wrong with the necklace. He should believe me now.

  Major Red smiles bitterly, showing his uneven teeth. “On shore, you say?”

  “Yes.” I nod.

  “Were you wearing it at the crash site?”

  I shrug. “I think so.”

  “And you had no ID in your pockets? No ticket or passport? No documents about where you were flying?”

  I shake my head.

  “Only a Kindle and a gun?”

  “And the necklace.” I point at it.

  His gaze darts back to the Kindle. “We fixed it.”

  “You did?”

  “One of my soldiers is a tech geek. He brought it back to life. Only it’s locked with a password.” He taps it with his thumb. “You know the password?”

  I glare at him. “I. Don’t. Remember.” I sigh. “Look, I can still try. Maybe I’ll remember.”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. He rubs his chin, not taking his eyes off me, checking me out from top to bottom again. I feel stripped and naked. “Are you telling me you have no idea where we are?”

  I can’t understand how this man thinks. The order of questions doesn’t make sense. “Somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean,” I say. “You just told me—and I remember now that one of the soldiers said something about the ocean.”

  “That’s it? You have no idea what this island is?”

  16

  “What?” I say. “I am not sure what you mean.”

  “Never mind. What about the gun?” He holds it up.

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You don’t know how to shoot it?”

  My right eye twitches. “Actually, I do. But this doesn’t mean—”

  “Then it must be yours,” he says. “But you are sure you don’t know anything else about this gun?”