Convict Island
Page 3
The officer read my concern. “Can’t swim, Jhalon? Don’t worry, I’ll lend you a raft.” He pointed to one of his men, who chucked a bag overboard. It popped open and morphed into a bright yellow raft, the wind tossing and spinning it as it descended.
Mitch, Deonte, and I looked from the raft to each other. The game of survival starts now, I thought.
Nobody moved, despite the raft drifting further away. The officer pulled out his sidearm. “If you choose to make us force you off, you’ll exit with a bullet inside you.” He laughed. “Not sure there are any doctors on the island.”
Mitch and Deonte stepped to the ledge and jumped, cursing and spitting at the guards on their way. One guard aimed his weapon to shoot Mitch as he fell, but the officer told him to stand down. The two murderers splashed into the water, misjudging the distance they’d need to leap to reach the raft.
The officer pointed his gun at my forehead. “Jhalon?”
I took a deep breath and walked to the edge. The strong breeze threw mist into my face. I licked my lips, tasting the salt. Hoping to avoid the same mistake Deonte and Mitch made, I jumped as far as I could. My face hit the rubber side of the raft clumsily, and I heard the guards laugh. I probably looked like a moron, but I wasn’t in the water.
Clutching a rope that hung over the side of the raft, I sat and gazed at the island. It appeared big enough for me to avoid others for a while. Unless it was crawling with them. With us. The top of a mountain poked above the canopy in the center, its apex surrounded by smaller boulders blooming around it like a fist holding up a middle finger—which happened to coincide with my general feeling towards the island. The beach ran to the left for about two football fields, where cliffs then sprouted more fists punching the sky. Waves beat the rocks mercilessly, frothing like soda fizz. To the right was sand as far as I could see.
Deonte and Mitch struggled up and over the side of the raft to join me. They went to opposite ends, on either side of me, and breathed heavily for a minute. Nobody talked, which always makes me nervous. I broke the silence, trying to hide my fear. “This will be fun. What should we do first?” They gave me murderous looks. “I forgot sunscreen, so—”
“What the hell you starin’ at?”
My stomach dropped. I looked at Mitch and saw he was addressing Deonte, not me. Sitting on the front edge of the raft and flexing his well-endowed and tattoo-infested arms that gleamed in sweat and sunshine, Mitch repeated, “I said, what the hell you lookin’ at?”
I sensed we were moving to the typical “I’m stronger than you and will make you my possession and you will bow before me if I choose to let you live” prison talk, so I shut up. I mean, I was a teenager and they were men. Grown, convicted men.
Deonte—whose biceps were comparable to Mitch’s, though he’d clearly skipped leg days during his workout regimens because his skinny legs were no more muscular than mine—responded, “Ain’t sure, but I ain’t impressed. Maybe I’ll barbecue some white meat tonight—luau-style.” He rubbed his stomach as if he was hungry. “I’ll find an apple and shove it down your throat while you cook over my fire like a pig.”
“I doubt there are apples on this island.” They both looked at me like I was an idiot. “I wouldn’t think apple trees would be found on an island, but…Sorry. When I get nervous, words just sort of come out of my mouth and—”
“—Shut up.” Mitch then looked at Deonte and chuckled. “I’d love to see you try somethin’.”
A laugh escaped me, and Mitch shot me a nasty look. I put my hands up in surrender. “Sorry! It just sounded like a line from a tough-guy movie with The Rock or Vin Diesel or…ya know—car chases, explosions, and terrible dialogue. I’ll shut up.” I wriggled lower, hoping my dark skin would melt into the yellow raft, though I must’ve stood out like a black Sharpie in a drawer of yellow highlighters.
Deonte rose, literally and metaphorically rocking the boat. Mitch stood, and the waves and lack of a solid floor made the two idiots bob around like drunks trying to fight on a trampoline. Deonte swung his powerful fist, connecting with Mitch’s temple in a sickening thump. Mitch pushed Deonte away and staggered back to gather himself. Mitch is a big, country white dude, and he was big-country-white-dude pissed.
I heard some whooping and hollering, and I took my eyes off the fight to see the ship was turned, and the officer and his buddies were cheering like they were watching a Pay-Per-View bout.
Back in the ring, Mitch slapped another attack away and swung Deonte around, getting him in a hold from behind. It was freakishly fast—like Mitch was a state champion wrestler or something. I envisioned him bent over, circling the wrestling mat with the other guy, wearing his singlet that leaves little to the imagination. Mitch violently twisted his hands to snap Deonte’s neck. Game over. Then he glared at me with crazy eyes. “You’s next, boy.”
Chapter 5
No black male likes being called “boy” by redneck white males. But if Mitch could kill Deonte with relative ease, he could break me like a Kit Kat bar (the song played in my mind with new lyrics: Break me off a piece of that skinny black kid!). I had to get away. Unfortunately, the island was far enough away that I’d need to swim before I’d be able to stand, which was problematic for me.
Mitch flung Deonte off the raft. We both wobbled as the raft rocked from his sudden outburst of movement, the lifeless body floating face down, rising and falling with the ocean waves. Mitch advanced towards me.
“How often do you work out? What’s your max bench?” I asked, stepping back again, thinking stalling would be good—every second brought me a few precious feet closer to shore.
He got within pouncing distance and I shifted to my left, putting my back to the island.
“When you broke his neck with your Hercules hands, it reminded me of this kid that sat in front of me in math class that always grabbed the back of his chair and twisted his body to make his spine pop like a machine gun.”
He lunged for me. I turned, planted my right foot on the end of the boat, and leapt, leaving Mitch grabbing nothing but air. When I hit the water, it went up my nose and I choked and coughed and wanted to die. I pumped my arms and legs in terror, pushing my chin towards the sky to keep my mouth out of the water. Beneath the surface, my legs flailed wildly while my arms attempted a very emasculating doggy paddle.
The ship continued trudging away. It was in that moment of abandonment that the exile felt real.
The reassuring message of hope from the calm side of my mind (with harps playing in the background) whispered: The beach is close, and there will be a point where the sand under the water is reachable.
The doomsday prophecy from the irrational side of my mind controlled by fear (with the Jaws theme song playing in the background) screamed: The beach is eighteen miles away and beneath the surface are electric eels, piranhas, and mermaids with rocket launchers.
In the middle of my trying-not-to-die tantrum, there was a painful jab in my leg. My initial fear was that Mitch jumped in to kill me. I assumed he swam well, having learned the skill when he went to hillbilly swimming parties along a muddy river, wearing an armpit-stained wife-beater, drinking PBR, and listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd while his toothless girl sat on a Dixie Chicks towel working on her redneck tan.
But Mitch was still on the raft.
Fear of what could’ve injured me slammed into me like a tidal wave, forcing images of giant squids with hundreds of teeth sucking me down into the abyss. Something scraped my leg again, cutting me more. Then I realized I was an idiot. I was throwing a fit over coral. But in my defense, it was sharp as razor blades. Blood surrounded me. My own blood. If my fear was a fire I was trying to maintain, my blood in the water was gasoline thrown onto the flames.
The coral plant was so large that I climbed on to it, careful to not touch it with anything but the soles of my shoes. I eventually squatted on my haunches to catch my breath while the water rose and fell below my neck. Swimming is hard work. Trying to swim is harder.
There was nothing on the beach. Nothing on the surface of the water. I stood taller and looked into the water. Then I saw why he was smiling. Sharks.
They had dark lines on them, which meant they were tiger sharks—one of the more aggressive kinds. Thanks for the knowledge, Shark Week…
The razorblade ocean plant slicing into my skin, combined with Deonte’s body floating in the water, basically rang the dinner bell.
Mitch yelled from the raft. “You should jump in with ‘em. They’ll be impressed with your swimming.”
“They have names. That one’s Arthur,” I quipped, pointing to one nearby, trying to keep my voice steady. “How about you paddle over here and pick me up. Then maybe we can get to the island and go our separate ways?”
God, I sounded pathetic.
“Nah. I wanna see what ya do.”
On a secluded coral island about the size of a school desk, I climbed higher to get further out of the water. I’d have to get in at some point, but at that moment, the only way the sharks could’ve gotten me was if they leapt out of the water and pulled me in. I didn’t think that was possible, but then I was transported to January 18th when I was seven and my brother and I watched Deep Blue Sea. There was a scene where—spoiler alert!—a shark jumped out of the water and pulled Samuel L. Jackson below the surface to be devoured.
My confidence waned.
I was between a rock and a hard place—a big white dude trying to kill me on a raft that should otherwise provide safety (well hello, Rock), and sharks in the water (what’s up, Hard Place). I figured I needed to tangle with the sharks—there was a chance they’d leave me alone. Mitch wouldn’t. The prick was standing on his raft with his arms crossed, smiling but still staring daggers. Staring daggers…dagger! That was when I realized, once again, that I was a moron. I’d forgotten the officer gave me a knife. I took it out of my pocket.
“Finally remembered your weapon, huh, idiot?” Mitch whipped out his knife. “Was tryna keep mine clean, but if I gotta get her dirty with your blood, I’ll rinse it off when I’m done.”
Ignoring him, I slowed my breathing and psyched myself up for the plunge. I wasn’t that far from the shore, but I’d heard most shark attacks occur in shallow water.
“How ya gonna play this?” Mitch interrupted my thoughts. “Doggy paddle to safety? Backstroke?”
“Gonna jump on Arthur’s back and ride him home.” I inhaled deeply, pretending I wasn’t about to soil myself.
Some of the sharks had discovered Deonte’s body and were enjoying breakfast, tearing chunks of flesh off, thickening the water with blood. More blood could mean more sharks. The sooner I got in, the better. I held tight to my dagger—a silver blade with holes on the handle for each finger—and…let’s say dove forward. Once in, my arms and legs chugged, keeping me up to feed my lungs. I was in for about four seconds when the first shark showed interest.
It was probably no bigger than four feet, but to me, the thing was the great white from Jaws. I kicked the baby monster and it left. Before my ego got too big for kicking a freaking shark, the little guy was replaced by Daddy shark…doo-doo-da-doo-da-doo…
It had to be a thousand feet long and made the first one look like Nemo.
Ten feet closer to land than when I started, I kept hoping my feet would kick sand, allowing me to start running in the water. Instead, the Loch Ness Monster came right at me. Jabbing my knife into the water, I hit the top of its head, probably having about the same impact as throwing a watermelon at a moving train. But it was enough to make the thing turn around and leave me alone. So to recap: I beat away two sharks—I’d like my testimony to note that I’m a freaking legend.
Then Godzilla came from my left. It was like I was playing that Whack-a-mole game, hitting one shark away only to have another pop up.
My foot hit the ground—heavenly ground. I high-kicked and ran but felt like I was moving in slow motion. I swung my arms, pumping my extremities to escape the water—where I assumed sharks were inches away from ripping into my calf muscles. The rough, rubbery skin of one brushed against my leg, and I screamed like a six-year-old girl. Mitch rolled in the raft with laughter, but I didn’t care—especially when my knees came out of the water. I reached the beach and collapsed onto the sand. Looking up at the cloudless blue sky, my chest heaved up and down.
Before celebrating the fact that I’d overcome Mitch and sharks, I reminded myself that getting to the island was just the beginning. I wanted to create as much space between me and Mitch as possible, so I grabbed my knife and looked at Mitch to see how long it’d be before he reached land. I didn’t have much time.
“See ya soon, Jhalon,” Mitch said over the waves. He blew a kiss at me, then made the neck-slicing motion with his blade. I went middle-school on him and flipped him off, then darted into the jungle, feeling Mitch’s eyes watching me.
Chapter 6
Beneath the canopy of the jungle, the heat punched me in the face.
Kudos to the guys that selected this island for their prison, because I’ll tell you something right now: the island made its guests miserable. Welcome to paradise, Jhalon! For your convenience, following the viewing of murder (on the house!), we’ll provide you with complimentary seawater up your nose (with extra salt!), razorblade plants to pierce your skin (recently sharpened!), a free shark attack (no upcharges for the additional sharks!), and a lovely punch in the teeth courtesy of our improved sun (now three-thousand times more powerful than ever!). Enjoy your stay!
I moved forward at a brisk pace, passing under beams of light shooting through holes in the ceiling of the jungle, which created a hazy green outlook. Needing a stationary point to aim towards, I focused on Middle Finger Mountain. I wanted to get a feel for the island, and climbing the mountain could give me the view I needed. I mean, I’d already become an expert swimmer, so why not an expert mountain climber?
My view of the mountain was occasionally blocked by bamboo and palm trees, but the sporadic glimpses of the mountain’s apex kept me on a somewhat clear path. Unseen island birds squawked in the distance. A thin trail sprouted from my left and continued in the direction I’d been going. I followed it, ducking below jungle branches and stepping over fat bushes that sprouted from the dark brown earth. The path curved and rose, and when I heard running water, I stepped off the trail to get a drink.
I reached the stream and put my face into the water like a horse, figuring that I was probably sucking down some virus or something that’d kill me before Mitch—or other murderers on the island—had the chance.
Rather than following the stream downhill (east-ish), I decided to go against the grain and continued towards Middle Finger Mountain. The river thinned and the current slowed. I figured it was a good spot to cross. I envisioned piranhas and alligators waiting beneath the surface, but brushed the fears aside, hoping I was being irrational.
A vine dangled from some trees, and the crazy thought of swinging across the water—or at least partially across—entered my head. Grasping the vine, I climbed a small incline so I could build up momentum. I pulled the vine to test its strength, judged it to be good enough, then took a deep breath and leapt.
I’d always laughed at videos of people attempting to swing, only to have the rope snap, sending them face-planting in the dirt five feet from the water. I never anticipated being that person, but that’s how it played out. Add skinned knees to my growing collection of misfortunes.
As I prepared for another try, I wrapped the vine around my hand to give me a better chance of hanging on. But I lost my focus when Mitch burst through the foliage, sprinting towards me.
I decide
d immediately that running would be pointless—he had a full head of steam and I’d only be revving my engines by the time he reached me. I got in an athletic position, and when I pulled out my knife, I kinda felt like a badass. Time to act like the killer they think I am, I thought.
I inhaled deeply as he ran at me, wondering if I had it within me to stab another human. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat, and…was that fear? This was one emotion in his eyes I hadn’t seen yet. He got near, and I screamed and raised my arm.
But when he was within striking distance, I couldn’t bring my arm down.
Mitch lowered his shoulder and knocked me to the leaf-covered ground. I braced for the finishing blow. Instead, he sprinted past me. There was a smear of blood on my shoulder. Blood that wasn’t mine.
I wasn’t sure if he was hurt or if the blood belonged to someone—or something—else. I watched Mitch as he ran away, straying every now and then off the path, clipping and breaking limbs and crashing through bushes like a tank through a young forest. He was hauling ass, but he had a slight limp.
Then I realized that if he was running scared, I probably should, too. I bolted.
Following Mitch would’ve been dumb—if I outran whatever Mitch was fleeing, I’d be stuck with Mitch, who I assumed still wanted me dead. As I was about to jump back onto the beaten-down trail, I heard leaves shake and branches snap, followed by animalistic grunts. I stayed in the brush, motionless and holding my breath while I waited to see what sort of creature was on the prowl.
A boar appeared. It was a four-foot long monster, not counting the tail swinging like a pendulum behind it. The shoulders of the bulky Minotaur would reach my knees if I stood next to it. He had stubby, thin legs and a short but large snout wedged between matching tusks that must’ve been half a foot long. The only boar I’d ever seen was Pumba from The Lion King, and I doubted this one had plans of singing “Hakuna Matata” with me.