Last Resort (23 page)

Nelson shakes his head in disgust. “Conner is insane. Curtis would still be alive if it weren’t for him.”

“I have to go back there.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Not if he doesn’t know I’m there. I can’t leave Gwen. I’ll sneak her out. We can stay here, in this home. It’s got access to fresh water and we can figure out how to grow our own food. This island has tropical fruit farms. If we work with the islanders, we can maintain them. Between fish from the sea and crops that we grow we will have enough food to survive.”

Nelson pauses from digging to catch his breath and consider my proposal.

“It could work, but what about the thugs?” Nelson asks. “They don’t want to work with us. They want to kill us.”

I lean on my shovel and with the back of my hand wipe a trickle of sweat from my eye. I wish I had an answer to Nelson’s question, but I have none. He is right. There is no chance of forming a community with the islanders as long as Action and his thugs run amok. The dwelling could protect us from the dogs should they decide to attack again, but it would not keep the thugs out. The safest place from Action and his men is the resort, and Conner ensures the resort is not safe at all.

I take an old sheet from the dwelling to throw over Curtis’s remains to spare Nelson from the gruesome sight. After a day in the heat, covered in flies, the putrid smell nearly makes me wretch. Dragging Curtis’s body to the grave is awful, grisly work—the kind of thing that causes someone to involuntarily shudder later on when they think about it. Gently placing him in the grave is impossible—he is too heavy—so we unceremoniously drop him in. Nelson looks traumatized by the crude treatment of his beloved.

“Sorry,” I say, and then grab the shovel to cover the body with dirt.

Afterwards, in the rusted shed, I loop the nylon rope from the shed around my shoulder.

“I can use this to lower myself over the cliff surrounding the resort,” I explain in response to Nelson’s questioning stare.

Skeptical, he says, “You don’t strike me as the mountain climbing type.”

“There’s no other way—not if I want to rescue Gwen. The night patrol will catch me if I try to swim across the lagoon, and because of the treacherous sea current, swimming along the coast and sneaking onto the resort via the beach is not an option. Lowering myself down the side of the cliff could work because they won’t expect it. They won’t see me after the sun goes down, and I can descend to the nature preserve.”

Nelson appears unconvinced. “Getting out of the resort will be much harder than getting in. I don’t see Gwen being able to climb up the side of a cliff.”

“I’ll climb ahead of her and pull her up on the rope,” I say with rising irritation, annoyed that Nelson finds flaws in my plan. “It’s a chance I have to take.”

“And how’s your backside?”

“Scabbing over nicely. Will you be here when we return?”

Nelson gives a mournful nod. “This is where Curtis is. I’m not going to leave him. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I reply and head off to rescue my wife.

Sunset is still a few hours away, so I am in no hurry as I walk along the road to the resort. Around the bend, I hear men talking—coming my way. I hide amidst the scraggly shrubs and tall grass along the roadside. Two tall island men walk past me, shirtless, their dark skin shining with perspiration. Gleaming machetes dangle from their belts.

“I get de tall skinny one,” one of the men says to the other.

“Which one is dat?”

“De one wit de long brown hair,” his comrade, who I recognize as Owen, replies. “Remembuh, I pointed her to you when she first arrived. De one wit de husband wit de blonde hair.”

They must be talking about Alexandra, not knowing she is dead.

The other man chortles. “I cannot wait for de night to come.”

Tonight? What do they mean? Discreetly, I follow them through the shrubbery to find out. The road forks and the men follow the branch leading to the sea. I stay far enough way to prevent the men from hearing my footsteps, but close enough so that the men are always in my sight. The land slopes as we reach the sea. The road ends at a boathouse and a bus sized wooden sailboat moored to a dock. Scores of thugs mill about the scene, all of them armed and seeming to have no purpose other than to kill time. Action strolls into view on the deck of the sailboat. This is no sleek rich man’s toy. It is a working boat with obvious signs of wear.

It appears the entire gang of thugs is here. I spot the two young women from the other destroyed resort, Piper and Willow, who shared my plane to Isla Fin de la Tierra. They sit in their bra and panties on the ground, back to back, their wrists bound together with rope. Even from afar, I see how bedraggled and forlorn they are. Two of the marauders hoist one of the young women to her feet. Head bowed in defeat, she makes no effort to resist as they lead her out of sight to the back of the boathouse.

Those poor women. The thugs must have been raping them for weeks, sparing their lives only to keep them as compliant sex slaves. That is exactly what they will do to Gwen, given the chance. Now I know what the thugs are waiting for: nightfall. They plan to use the sailboat to attack the resort from the sea, which is the one direction Conner would least expect. No doubt, Action’s familiarity with the ocean has him aware of the treacherous currents just off shore. Action would know that swimming to the resort for a surprise night attack is impossible. However, sailing a boat into the resort bay is a clever way to circumvent the problem with the currents. There is no way the resort could withstand an assault from the sea. Everyone would die, save for the unlucky few, like my Gwen, who would suffer a fate worse than death.

I think of my wife, on the other side of the ridge, unsuspecting what horror is about to unfold. I must stop this attack.

Back at the house where I took refuge from the dogs, I rummage in the rusted shed.

“You’re back?” Nelson enters the shed.

“Action and his men are about a mile from here.”

The blood drains from Nelson’s face. “We’ve got to hide!”

“Relax,” I take the gasoline canister and empty some of the contents into an empty, flask-shaped glass bottle. “They found a sailboat and they’re waiting till dark to sail around the cape and attack the resort from the sea.”

“The resort will be wiped out,” Nelson exclaims. “As much as I’d like to see Conner gutted like a fish, we need to warn them.”

Using the dirt encrusted edge of a spade I carve a section of foam from inside the orange life vest I retrieved on my way back to the house. After some minor alterations, the glass bottle filled with gasoline fits snugly inside the vest.

I turn to Nelson. “First, it’s doubtful if we warn the resort that they’d even believe us. If they tried to face the marauders on the beach, they’d be overrun. The best option for them is to evacuate, and where would that leave them? Wandering the island? Vulnerable to attacks from Action? No, Gwen and the others will never be safe so long as Action and his men roam the island.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“You’re going to stay here. I’ll try to stop the thugs,” I step outside to gauge how much time I have left before sunset. “We can’t outfight Action and his men, but I might be able to outsmart them. If I’m not back by tomorrow, it will mean I failed and I’m probably dead and you should try to hide as best you can.”

I bid him farewell and set off to confront Action.

Bold and purposeful, I walk towards the boathouse and all the thugs gathered there. Astounded or bemused, they stop whatever they are doing and watch my approach. I am barefoot and shirtless, with the black, rubber flippers that aided my escape from Goat Island dangling from a string at my waist. I carry the orange life vest in a sack. My legs are rubbery. I am about to hyperventilate, but it is too late to turn back now. Some of the thugs snigger and point at me. Three tall men saunter towards me.

I take a shuddering breath so that my voice will not squeak. “I want to see Acti—.”

Owen punches me in the side of the head. The world goes white like a camera flash in my eyes, and the asphalt rushes towards me. I am falling. Hands grab me just before I hit the ground. Through the fog in my head comes the sound of harsh, cruel laughter. The men drag me down the road, scraping the top of my feet on the asphalt.

“I want to see Action!” I manage to yell, though my words sound slurred.

The mental fog clears. I struggle but the men on both sides hold my arms in a vice grip. Lifting my head, I see other thugs forming a half circle before me. I repeat my demand to see Action, but no one listens to me. Someone shoves me to the ground. On my knees, they pull my hands behind my back, forcing my head forward and exposing my neck. Owen steps forth twirling a machete. It spins like a fan. Light glints off the blade.

I am a fool. My big plan is a complete failure. Facing my imminent decapitation, my mind races for someone to come forth and save me. Please, do not let me die like this! The man stops in front of me and raises the machete.

Chapter Twenty

“I know where they hid the liquor!” I shout.

I shut my eyes tight, tensing against that awful chop and the few seconds of horror I expect to follow as my head rolls, and I am still aware to what has happened. Hot urine floods the front of my shorts as I involuntarily piss myself.

It was not supposed to end like this. For once in my life, instead of shrinking from adversity, I tried to be brave. Some people are just not cut out to be the hero.

The blow does not come. I dare to open my eyes and see four legs standing before me instead of two. I look up. Action grips Owen’s wrist, staying the blade from descending.

“What dat, you say?” Action demands.

“The…the liquor,” I stammer. “Conner…the big man with the axe…he controls the resort and hid all the liquor. I know where he hid it.”

Action nods to the men holding me down, and they raise me to my feet.

Action takes a knife, presses it to my throat, and leans in close enough for me to smell his sour breath. “Where is de liquor?”

“I won’t tell you,” I swallow hard. “But I
will
show you. You are attacking tonight, yes?”

Action does not answer. Everything I said is a lie. Conner never hid the liquor; it remains locked in the supply room. Conner has the only key. When Action and his thugs overrun the resort and break into the supply room, they will realize this right away. His baleful stare scrutinizes my face for any sign of trickery.

Fearful that something in my silence will reveal my bluff, I press on. “Conner took my wife from me and drove me from the resort. I want to see him dead as much as you do. Take me with you when you sail tonight. I will show you where Conner hid the liquor. Without me, you could search the resort for days and not find it. In return, you will not harm me or my wife. You will let us go. I don’t care what you do to the others at the resort, but you will not touch my wife.”

The remaining captive young woman glares at me, disgusted by my craven treachery. I turn away from her.

“He lyin’,” Owen says.

I shake my head. “Bring me along when you sail. If I am lying, you can kill me at the resort as easily as you can kill me here. You have nothing to lose.”

I glance at the other thugs. They gathered to watch a man’s head roll and they do not want to be disappointed, but Action weighs my words and removes the blade from my throat.

“For de liquor, we let you live,” he says.

“And my wife, too,” I insist.

Action gives me a nonchalant nod. His assurance of our safety is worthless. Just as I lie to him, I know he lies to me. As far as Action is concerned, I am as good as dead—whether it is now or later tonight is irrelevant.

“He comes wit us,” Action announces. “But first, dunk him in de sea. I don wan him pissin’ up de boat.”

The thugs hoot and clap as two men drag me to the dock that runs alongside the ship and hold me under the water, nearly drowning me in the process of rinsing the urine off me. Finished with their sport, they haul me to the boat but I resist.

“Wait!” I pull back, and point to the bag I dropped on the road when the men struck me. “I need my life preserver in the bag.”

Action crosses his arms, clearly losing patience.

“I can’t swim,” I lie, praying Action did not see me snorkeling around the resort prior to the E.M.P. blast. “This boat is too deep to sail right to shore. You’ll have to anchor off the reef and swim the rest of the way to the resort. Without that vest I won’t be able to come with you.”

Action considers my words.

“Which means I won’t be able to show you where the liquor is,” I seal the deal.

Action tosses the vest to one of his men who toss it to me. Clutching the vest, with my flippers still tied to my waist, I huddle on the bow of the deck and wait for nightfall.

Night comes with a new moon. Thousands of stars sparkle in the sky like crushed glass sprinkled on black velvet. Still damp from my dousing, I don the life vest—both for added warmth and to ensure I will not part from it again. One of the thugs lights a lantern. Anxiously, I wait to see if the two captive women will join us on the boat. To my relief, a man stays behind to guard them. Every member of the gang—save the one left behind to guard the sex slaves—crams onboard. Action sits across from me, our knees close enough to touch. No one speaks to me. Packing tightly together, arm to arm and leg to leg, I smell the stale sweat from their unwashed bodies.

The thugs lift anchor and unfurl the sails on the creaking vessel. Slowly, we gather speed and cruise into open water. I peer over the railing, gauging our distance from land and how much time I have left to enact my plan. Other than the sound of the water slapping against the hull and the occasional flutter of the sails, there is no other sound. My heart beats faster. I gulp air, trying to steady my nerves. We approach the halfway point between the mainland and Goat Island. Soon, we will round the cape that separates the resort from the rest of the coastline. I have to act now.

“I have to piss,” I stand up, preparing to walk to the bow in the hopes I can be alone.