Last Resort (18 page)

Several thugs reach our side of the bridge. Conner swings his long handled axe with both hands, smashing the skull of one marauder to a pulp. Another marauder tries to climb onto the bridge. Gwen buries a kitchen knife in his forearm.

Action paddles back to waist deep water. “Kill ‘dem!”

The rest of the marauding horde still on land bypasses the burning segment of bridge and plunges directly into the water. Trudging towards us, they shove the floating bodies of their comrades aside. We hurl bricks and rocks at the men. Behind me, someone cries for help as two thugs pull him from the bridge. Robby rushes to his aid, but the man goes under and does not come back up. Marauders swim at us from all sides. Our Molotov cocktails are useless at this close range. We resort to hand-to-hand combat. My weapon is a hammer that I found in the tool shed. A man lunges from the water, grasping for my legs. I tumble down. As he tries to pull me into the water, I hit him once on the top of his head. Instantly, he spasms violently, losing his hold of me. I push him back into the water where he drifts away face down.

Everything is a blur. Conner stalks the edge of the bridge. Men fall before his axe like wheat before a scythe. While Pamela hurls rocks at the struggling swimmers, Gwen stabs at those trying to clamber onto the bridge with us. A few marauders opt to avoid the heavily defended bridge altogether, swimming instead directly for the resort. The few that make it to the resort are bludgeoned to death before they get out of the water.

As quickly as it started, the battle stops. Action stands on dry land, hands hanging at his side, fingers curled as though ready to strangle someone. They cannot take the bridge, and the lagoon is too vast and deep for them to wade across. On the burning bridge segment, several bodies blacken in the flames. Bodies float all over the lagoon. Gwen is on her knees, gasping for breath. Conner stands as he did before, axe in hand, challenging Action to attack again. On the opposite side of the lagoon, the rest of the marauders trudge out of the water and mill about.

One of them says something inaudible to Action, perhaps suggesting they launch another assault, perhaps advising Action to retreat. Whatever he says, Action does not acknowledge him. He stares at the handful of us on the bridge, and then turns around and storms away. Within minutes the rest of the marauders follow him, dragging their injured, and forsaking their dead.

Conner lets out a raucous cheer, followed by all the elderly guests lined up at the resort who clap and hug each other. Gwen lies on her side and weeps.

Chapter Fifteen

The morning is as bright and beautiful as any other on Isla Fin de la Tierra. At a distance, one would assume our resort was a slice of paradise. Only upon closer inspection, would you see bodies floating in the lagoon, or see the guests wandering around looking as raggedy as scarecrows.

Ravenous after the harrowing battle of the previous night, I walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute—why is everyone already here before me, and why did they alter the arrangement of tables? Instead of rows of tables, the tables now form a giant square with an open floor in the center. One of the sides of the square contains the raised step the band played on. Now, instead of a group of musicians standing on that step, Conner sits there on a large rattan chair. The immediate impression is of a king on his throne overlooking his court. To drive this impression home, Conner’s axe, the symbol of his power, lays at his feet.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Conner sees me approach and motions for me to take a seat. “We’re having a meeting.”

I take an empty seat next to Nelson.

“Where’s the food,” I whisper to him.

He leans close. “You’re guess is as good as mine. I just got here a minute before you.”

“What we accomplished last night can’t be overstated,” Conner stands and addresses all of us in a relaxed yet authoritative tone. “We showed those miserable sons of bitches that this resort is not an easy target. We will not fall like the hotel across the bay.”

Many of the guests nod vigorously. Something in the way they look at Conner makes me uneasy. It is a look of blind trust and adoration. I imagine a parent would give such a look to a doctor who saved the life of their child.

“Make no mistake about it, this is not over,” Conner pauses for added significance. “The islanders will be back. We must be ready for them. Now I know we’ve all heard the rumors…our homes are gone, our families dead. Maybe those things are true. I pray to God they aren’t. In the meantime, there’s some things we know for sure. There is no sign that anyone is coming to rescue us. At this point, until given reason to believe otherwise, we have to assume that no one ever will. That means we’ve got to get serious about defending ourselves. Yeah, we did good last night, but you can bet the next time they attack they won’t be so disorganized. We also have to get serious about our food supply.”

A murmur ripples amongst the guests.

“How much food do we have?” A middle-aged man with white, wiry hair and nervous blue eyes asks.

Robby sits near Conner on a less ornate chair, much like a second-in-command. He rises to speak to us. “How much food we have depends entirely on how quickly we consume it.”

“That’s right,” Conner agrees. “We’re in no danger of starvation—so long as we follow a few simple rules. From now on, we don’t eat whatever we want, or whenever we’re hungry. We will serve food at specific times, and in rationed amounts. The all-you-can-eat-buffet is over.”

“Who rations the food?” Pamela asks.

“I do,” Conner pulls a chain from around his neck upon which dangles a key. “This is the key to the supply room. From now on, anyone wanting food has to come to me.”

In shock, I say to Jonas, “How could you agree to this?”

Jonas opens his mouth, preparing to answer, but the words disappear and he hangs his head.

Ignoring Jonas, I turn to everyone else in the restaurant. “I agree we should ration the food. You might recall I was the first to suggest the idea, and at the time, many of you laughed at me. We can ration the food without it being under one person’s control.”

Several people agree with me, albeit more quietly than I prefer.

Conner puts his hands on his hips and flashes a smile that is all teeth and no mirth. “Fine. Let’s say we follow your suggestion, Phil. How are you gonna enforce it? I suppose you expect everyone to be on some kind of honor system, taking no more than their fair share. Do any of you actually believe for a second that would work?”

No one speaks up to support my suggestion.

Conner continues. “Tell you what—I’d give it a week and all the supplies we have would be gone if we try it Phil’s way. Listen to me people. The food is our life. Without it we die. In a situation like this, we need a strong hand.”

Conner’s words seem to sway any who had objections, and if any still agree with me, I doubt they have the backbone to defend the point. Robby is not the only one backing Conner. At a quick glance I count at least ten other people—mostly middle aged men and their wives/girlfriends—who have thrown their lot with the strongest man. Curiously, Alexandra is absent.

Robby details the meal schedule: three times a day with long, hungry gaps in between. He does not ask for feedback or approval. Conner stands beside him, hands still on his hips, nodding occasionally, watching us, and practically daring anyone to raise an objection.

“From now on we’ve got to think like a team,” Conner picks up where Robby leaves off. “And there is no “I” in team.”

I cannot believe he actually laid this tired, corporate pep talk cliché on us.

“Anybody who still has any supplies back in their bungalows needs to bring it to the supply room as soon as this meeting is over,” Conner continues. “I don’t care if it’s something as small as a breath mint. If one person hordes food it’s a crime against all of us. Another thing, every one of us has got to contribute something to the resort every single day. That means catching fish, making weapons, patrolling the grounds, cooking, cleaning, so on, and so forth. We can’t afford to carry any dead weight. Anyone hording food or failing to contribute to the welfare of the resort will be considered an enemy of the resort.”

Conner does not elaborate what will happen to those considered “enemies of the resort.” The threat hangs in the air.

With any naysayers successfully intimidated, Conner softens his stance, “Look, I know this is hard and none of us expected to live like this. The only way we will survive is by working together.”

Working together, I immediately discover, means following Conner’s orders without question. Robby, Conner and a handful of their supporters dispense what counts as our morning meal. My share amounts to a cup of plain red beans and a cup of flat, warm ginger ale. Robby informs me that my duty is night patrol, dusk to dawn, along the lagoon.

“You’re the first line of defense,” Robby tells me. “Take two pots with you on patrol. You see anyone trying to come across the lagoon you bang the pots together. Got it?”

He does not wait for my response before he is onto the next person, doling out assignments. Conner tells Gwen that she is on fishing duty.

“But I don’t know how to fish?” Gwen says.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he hands her a bowl of beans that is twice the size as anyone else’s. I can tell that Gwen notices the difference, but she says nothing.

Curtis glances at his meager meal and balks. “This couldn’t feed a pygmy.”

Conner walks over, eyeing Curtis’s ample belly. “By the looks of it, Slim, you could stand to skip a meal or two. From now on, you’re on fishing duty. You and your…friend,” he glances derisively at Nelson.

Conner walks away and Nelson whine’s to Curtis. “But I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

It is going to be a long day.

Chapter Sixteen

At the far end of the shore, Curtis drapes his massive bulk over a low-legged beach chair. His thick calves splay out in front of him, toes buried in the sand. He wears a tropical print shirt, unbuttoned, exposing the enormity of his red belly and his droopy man breasts covered in white hair. There was a time when I would cringe at such a sight, but over the past several weeks, I have seen enough cellulite, varicose veins, and hairy potbellies that I am nonplussed. Curtis wears a ratty canvas hat, a strip of white zinc across the bridge of his nose and a sour expression.

He fans his face with his hand. I am shirtless, too, my shorts barely hanging onto my hips. Several yards out into the sea, Nelson awkwardly paddles about with flippers, goggles and a spear, searching for a fish. Nelson removes his goggles to check his position in relation to the shore and sees me observing him.

“Nelson, I would have thought after all this time you’d have gotten the hang of it,” I quip.

“What’re you talking about?” he hoists a mesh bag that appears to hold two or three fish. “This should make a fine supper tonight.”

“Yeah, except it took him all day just to catch that,” Curtis says, his voice low.

Nelson walks to shore as gracefully as possible considering the massive flippers he wears.

“Here, look at this,” he opens his bag of fish with pride.

“They’re a little puny,” Curtis teasingly lifts one by the tail for inspection. ‘Not exactly a feast fit for a king.”

“You’ll have to forgive my companion,” Nelson says to me with mock indignation. “His appetite exceeds his fishing ability.”

Curtis gives a melodramatic sigh. “It gets tiring swimming around out there, waves slapping me around, jabbing a spear at those little fish. And those buggers are fast! There must be an easier way to dine. I wish we could just order room service.”

“We are room service,” Nelson grins and helps Curtis to his feet. “We should get our prize haul to the kitchen. They’ll need it for tonight’s meal.”

The three of us, in no particular hurry, walk towards the restaurant.

Curtis shields his eyes against the setting sun and says, “I wonder what day it is.”

“I lost track of the calendar a long time ago,” I add. “It’s actually ironic if you stop to think about it.”

Nelson arches a dubious brow. “That you lost track?”

“That anyone bothers trying to keep track of time at all,” I answer. “I mean, what’s the point? Who cares? There are no hours, nor weeks or months. Hell, we don’t even have seasons here. The only thing we have is daylight and darkness.”

We take a few more steps, and then completely ignoring the point I just made, Nelson says, “Jonas has a calendar. He could tell us what day it is.”

“And if Jonas tells us that it’s Wednesday instead of Thursday will it make a damn bit of difference?” I retort a bit more sharply than needed. “It’s been what…a month since we lost all power?”

“Maybe a little under a month, I think,” Curtis reckons.

“OK, a little under a month, and since we lost power you know what?” I hold up my arm with the only working wrist watch at the resort. “I hardly look at this thing. There’s no reason. I get up, patrol till dawn, go to bed when the sun comes up, and do it all over again.”

Nelson looks thoughtful, and then says to me, “Young man, since you’ve lost all interest in time, can I have your watch?”

I pull my arm back. “Not a chance. Someday, I may need to trade this watch for a slice of bread.”

I am only half joking. Hunger is a constant companion; at least my cheekbones and jaw line look fantastic.

Our chuckles subside.

“The people who sailed for Barbados…” Curtis trails off. “Do you think they made it to Barbados?” He scans the sea as though anticipating their ship to appear at any moment. “We should have heard something from them by now. How long does it take for help to come back from Barbados?”

“Maybe things in Barbados are as bad as they are here,” Nelson suggests, though I detect a note in his voice that he does not believe it.

I think of Don and Amy, and then I recall Dawson Hartford’s warning about the radiation clouds hovering over the ocean. Grim thoughts fill my head, but I keep them to myself.

“So how is the night time patrol, anyway?” Nelson asks me, more to divert Curtis’s attention to something else than out of any real curiosity about my nightly vigil.