Convict Island

by Mark Mosley

  It stopped.

  My stomach dropped as I wondered if it could smell me. I crouched lower in the brush, praying the thing would leave.

  It didn’t.

  Smashing its snout into the dirt, it sniffed around like a bloodhound. My bones went cold despite the heat. After a harrowing minute, it moved in Mitch’s direction. I ran the opposite way, listening for a scream from Mitch or the triceratops, indicating at least one of my new companions would no longer be life hazards. But there was nothing but random screeches from birds and a cacophony of insect noises.

  Ducking to avoid the hanging and looping vines, I followed the trail. Scattered beyond the path were bright flowers of all sorts of color—purple, bright green, some with petals of yellow and white. The beaten path curled its way west, north, and then east, over and over, looping around to the heart of the island. Sometimes, I found another trail that shot out to the left or right, but I stayed on course, aiming for Middle Finger Mountain.

  The sound of running water popped up again, and my heart sank, afraid I’d gone in a large circle. But when I reached the running water, I realized it was a different part of the river. The path ended at a small cliff, where a crudely-made rope bridge with bamboo as the floor began. It looked like it was made by ten-year-olds with leftover wood scraps and rope from their dad’s garage.

  The bridge sagged across the river, which was maybe only thirty feet wide now and twenty feet below. I grabbed both sides, and it immediately drooped and rocked side to side. Flailing around on the bridge, I worked to steady myself. I took my time, slowly making progress and getting rid of the Jell-O in my legs. A fall from that height wouldn’t kill me, but there was running water, and for me, that was scary enough.

  About halfway across, a high-pitched whistle pierced my concentration. It was answered by another, deeper one. The first whistler called back in response and strolled out to face me on the other side of the bridge. It was as if he’d appeared out of nowhere—like he was nothing more than a bloom of the bushes behind him.

  “Well howdy. Firs’ time on a rope bridge? They c’n be tricky.” He kept a goofy grin plastered on his tanned face and spoke quickly with a southern accent.

  Uncertain how to respond, I nodded and continued swinging on the bridge, staring. He wore long, wet pants that were tied at his ankles, sandals made from leaves and rope, and no shirt—which allowed him to show off his white, scraggly chest hair. His huge grin revealed a lack of teeth. Stubble covered his cheeks and neck, his head was shaved, and his ears were massive. The dude had the body of a seventy-year-old and the mouth of a corpse.

  “I’m Smiley.” The man observed me in turn. Finally, he grinned and squinted as if in thought. “Let’s see now. I believe it’s Tuesday.” He said Tuesday like eww—Tewws-day. Then he corrected himself. “Naw. Naw, it’s Muhndee. Which means yer early. Ain’t s’posed to get a new shipment fer ‘nother,” he used his fingers to add like a kindergartener, “fohteen days.” Opening his eyes, he smiled as if proud of his arithmetic.

  “Maybe his lot is a real bad one.” The new voice came from behind me.

  I held on to the rope-siding but turned my head to look behind me. From the end of the bridge where I’d started, another man emerged. They could’ve been twins, though this guy had more teeth.

  “We’ll hafta keep an eye on ‘im,” the nameless man suggested.

  “Is that a joke about Mason?” Smiley asked. The other one looked confused. Smiley explained, “You said keep an eye on ‘im—like one eye on ‘im.” He laughed, wheezing quietly.

  The second guy got the joke and said, “’Cuz he’s on’y got one! Ha! I di’n’t mean to make the joke, but it fee-uhtz! Keep…AN eye on him!”

  They laughed for like twenty seconds, I swear to you. Then they stopped like telepathically-connected morons. The swaying of the bridge worsened when the idiots joined me. I was like a trapped animal with hunters prodding me. I thought about running at one of them, or perhaps jumping over the side, but before I could make a decision, Smiley tilted his head and stared at me. “Wellllll,” he drawled on, “gonna need to head back if we’s gon’ interduce ya to Mason. He always likes ta say ‘ello and give newbies The Choice.”

  He said The Choice darkly, but before I broached that subject, I furrowed my brow and asked, “Who’s Mason? Why do I have to meet him?”

  The other one answered. “You’ll find out soon enough. He kinda runs this outfit. He’s the on’y one left from the first group that come here.”

  “Why’s he the only one?”

  “Now that’s a story I don’t wanta take away from Mason,” Smiley said. “He likes tellin’ it. Gets all excited-like. Be rude o’ me to steal his thunder. And I don’t wanta displease him neither. Last guy that displeased him—oh, I’d say ‘bout a week ago—well, he ain’t here no mo’.”

  I still hadn’t moved closer to either end, but the other guy, Nameless, had taken a step onto the bridge. Smiley stayed put, which I figured meant Mason was in Smiley’s direction.

  “Now . . . uh,” I tried to phrase my thoughts. “Umm, what if I’d rather not visit Mason? Can I, like, just cross this bridge and make a hut or something and live on my own? Or maybe turn back, go the way I came from?”

  They both giggled.

  Nameless was even closer now. Covering his thin frame, he wore a T-shirt without sleeves—like they’d naturally fallen away—a pair of shorts with holes torn in them like he was hit with machine gun fire, and no shoes—his feet were so gross they were almost black, and his toenails were long with dirt caked underneath. His massive eyes bulged out from his thin tan face.

  “You won’t live on your own very long if you turn down Mason,” Nameless advised. “That’d be disrespectful, which would displease him. The last guy that disrespected him—”

  “—Let me guess: ain’t here no mo’,” I mimicked.

  Smiley snapped his fingers and gave me a thumbs up. “Hey, you a fast learner.”

  I did the whole thing where I pretended my fingers were little legs running and said, “Then how about you let me on my way? And I won’t be a bother to anybody? Mason won’t even know.”

  The two convicts smirked. Smiley spoke in a grave voice, “Mason’d find out. He knows jus’ ‘bout ever’than’ that hap’ns on this rock.”

  “What’s The Choice?” I asked, trying to move past the fact that this Mason guy was evidently omniscient.

  “You try-na get me in trouble?” Smiley feigned hurt feelings. “If I gives you The Choice, that’d mean Mason ain’t able to give ya The Choice. An’ he’ll be hotter’n a bottle rocket in Joo-lie. He’d be displeased wit’ me!”

  “And you won’t be here no more, like the other ones,” I interjected.

  Smiley pointed at me with both index fingers. “I like you!” He leaned to his side to see past me, then yelled at Nameless, “Hey, I like this one. He gets stuff.”

  Nameless was within arm’s reach. He raised his dark eyebrows at me, suggesting the wise choice was to move towards Smiley. So I did.

  When I neared him, Smiley said, “Mason’ll be tickled pink ta meetcha.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bag that looked like a potato sack.

  Just as I registered what he planned on doing, he shoved the bag over my head and cinched it at my neck. I was about to object to the unnecessary treatment, then my brain registered a terrible pain in the back of my head, and everything went black.

  Chapter 7

  So, as you can see, not the best day. December 7th was slightly better—well, there wasn’t any drop off at an island filled with murderers, sharks, or getting knocked unconscious.

  I slowly woke up, and it felt like a sledgehammer was crushing my skull. Keeping my eyes closed in case someone was watching me, I listened for conversations. But there was nothing.

  Lying on the ground, the soreness in my body suggested that Smiley and Nameless dragged me behind them as they transported me, then dropped me like a sack of coconuts. I had
an urge to scratch the dried blood that spread from the back of my skull down to the crease of my left ear where they’d hit me. I slit my eyes open to see my surroundings, praying nobody was watching me. Through squinted eyes, I saw a wall of bamboo with a hole for a window. Sticks were wedged between the bamboo, poking out a few inches from the wall like hooks. I was disturbed to see a knife hanging from each hook.

  The wall on my left had a door and a shoddily constructed wooden table, on which was a large, hardbound book. Looking back on it, I should’ve questioned where he’d gotten a book.

  Above the table hung a crude map. I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like a little kid’s treasure map, complete with an X scrawled here and there in hillbilly crayon, as if they’d found buried treasure.

  In a chair facing me sat a man on a short three-legged stool. He was bent forward, slicing slivers off of a larger piece of wood, shooting them in my direction.

  He stopped. “I know you are awake.” He had a gravelly, cavernous voice, and he kept his eyes down at his artwork. “I can tell you are conscious. You can stop pretending. Not much gets past me. But I commend your foresight and attempt to scope out your surroundings—that shows intelligence and survival instincts. Fortitude.”

  Unsure if he was complimenting me or mocking me, I sat up and wiped away the blood on my head with the back of my sweaty hand. The man threw me a towel. Another item which I should’ve questioned.

  He looked up and I saw he had an eye patch, which made me want to snoop around for a parrot to go along with the patch and map.

  “I apologize for your rough entry into our little world here,” he moved his arms like one of the Price is Right models showing off the items in the Showcase Showdown. “But I hope you can respect my position as leader—I must not allow individuals into my coterie without being aware of their intentions, strengths, and tendencies. My men are instructed to use caution and not allow invitees to be conscious when entering our little island paradise.”

  If I wasn’t absolutely terrified of this guy, I would’ve told him his voice was a combination of Morgan Freeman and God—which many have argued are one in the same.

  A thick beard sculpted his square face, the color matching his pitch black patch. He rose, standing erect as if in the military. The guy even dressed like a drill sergeant: his dark green pants were pushed into his shiny, perfectly knotted combat boots, and his faded black shirt clung to his built upper body and was tucked tightly into his pants. I quickly ascertained that this dude could beat the crap out of me if he wished. I don’t know why I didn’t question how he had such nice clothes, despite being one of the first convicts on the island.

  Because of my silence, he continued his theatrical monologue as if on stage. “Dear me! I must apologize once again—that is twice in the first two minutes of our meeting one another. I certainly hope to prove to you that my rudeness is a rarity.”

  I mean, who the hell says, “Dear me”?

  “Apologize?” I asked.

  “My name. I have failed to introduce myself. I am deeply sorry for that oversight. I assumed you were aware of who I may be, but one must never assume.” Even his speech was strict—he still hadn’t used a contraction.

  The man stuck his hand out in a formal manner, both to shake mine and to help me off the ground. He shook my hand sternly. “Mason. Though no doubt you have guessed that by now—I am sure Smiley and Devin mentioned me.”

  Nameless no more, it would seem.

  He helped me up and patted me hard on the back. I remained silent, prompting Mason to add, with a touch of exasperation, “I would prefer this to be a two-sided conversation. That is, after all, what makes it a conversation. Otherwise, it would be me blabbering on long-windedly, uncertain as to whether or not what I speak of is being heard.”

  “Sorry. I’m Jhalon. And yeah, Smiley and Devin mentioned you. They were very concerned about stealing your thunder by telling your story. And there was the mention of a missing eye.”

  Morgan Freeman laughed. It made my heart happy, if only for an instant.

  “Yes, Jhalon, I do rather enjoy getting to share certain stories with my new guests. I dislike having my tales told by others—they never emphasize the right parts or accurately give the details. Do you know what I mean, Jhalon? Storytelling can be an art—not that I am a great artist, mind you, Jhalon, but if someone is going to ruin a story involving me—let alone a story that is about me—I prefer that I be the one to make the mistakes.”

  Because little things bother me, I found his formal way of speaking annoying. And based on the rapid-fire usage of my name, he believed when meeting someone for the first time, you say their name as often as possible to remember it. Or maybe it was his way of buttering up the newbies. Or asserting dominance. Whatever the reason is, it bugged the hell out of me.

  I nodded. “Yeah, Mason, I have known some guys, Mason, that could tell stories well, Mason.”

  I’m not sure why I decided to mimic him. I was inviting the guy to punch me in the teeth. Thankfully, he ignored my smartass-ness.

  “Smiley and Devin did not mention how young you appear. You cannot be more than twenty, am I right?”

  Just what I needed: to be known as the youngster on the island of adult convicts.

  “I’m twenty-one,” I lied. If others knew I was only seventeen…

  The look he gave suggested he didn’t believe it, but he moved on. “Jhalon, I want to give you the option of which story I share. There are three from which you can choose, Jhalon. Story one chronicles what led to the loss of my eye. Story two explains the myriad of knives on my wall. Story three gives insight into the map. So, Jhalon, which would you prefer?”

  “Umm.”

  Was this a test of his—was this The Choice? Something he used to figure out what kind of person I am?

  Then I thought that maybe it wasn’t about what story I want to hear. It was about what story he wants to tell. I needed to play to his ego. The knives were freaky, but I assumed they were from people brought into his group—they looked the same as the one I was given. That’d be a boring one for Mason to share. The map was curious, but it focused on a piece of paper, not him. Mason liked to hear himself talk, struck fear into his followers (or at least the two that I’d met), and was the longest-tenured person on this island.

  The knives and map weren’t about him. I answered, “I’d love to hear how you lost your eye—if you don’t mind sharing it with me. Mason.”

  His single eye penetrated my soul like Sauron. Then he smiled a perfect Hollywood smile, hidden somewhat beneath his black beard and matching mustache. “That is an interesting tale.” He put his arm around my shoulder, making sure I was positioned on the side that could see his eye, and guided me toward the door. “I should start by mentioning that when I came to this island, I had two working eyes. My eye was the first thing this island took from me.”

  He closed his surviving eye, and his mood became dark as he morphed into character. Holy crap! Morgan Freeman was about to narrate a story to me. Best day ever.

  “The sea was choppy that day as they pulled close to the island. There were eight of us in the first shipment. Some were seasick, stinking the place up with their vomit. We stood in a single-file line, facing the island. An officer walked up and down the line, eyeing us as if he had not seen us before—an old guy with a short goatee, thick grey eyebrows, and a devil’s grin. No soul.”

  Same officer I had. Same drop off. But eight convicts? Versus our group of three? Again, more things I should’ve questioned sooner—I mean, it was a small group to ship all the way out there. And Smiley and Devin had mentioned our drop was early, too. So the inconsistencies were always there.

  The sound of voices mingling in the distance reached Mason’s cabin. How many convicts were a part of this commune? Mason looked away and gazed out the window, resting his palms on the ledge, really playing up the story.

  “Pulling out eight bags of sand, the officer gave one to each of us and e
xplained that four bags contained nothing but sand, while the other four had a hunter’s knife within the sand. Then he grinned and concluded, ‘Enjoy the rest of your life,’ and walked away.”

  Only half were given knives? Why had Deonte, Mitch, and myself all been given one?

  “We were not allowed to open the bags until we reached the island. When we got to the beach, we bolted from one another, uncertain who may stab us in the back. On the first night, only one was lost—a skinny, unarmed white fellow that lost his cool and tried stealing a knife in the middle of the night. His stay at Convict Island was cut short.”

  I laughed. “Cut short. I love puns.”

  Mason looked at me hard.

  “Unintended pun?”

  He ignored my interruption, then left me at the window and walked with his hands behind his back to the wall of knives. “That was the first life I ended with my bare hands. I had always pulled a trigger.”

  Mason paused, perhaps to see if I was surprised or frightened by the revelation that it was him that killed the guy. I wasn’t.

  He went on. “Killing in that fashion became easier. I found it thrilling—witnessing eyes become lifeless; hearing a final breath; feeling the body go limp. Nothing fills you with more life than being surrounded by death. Such a paradox. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Totally.” I tried to sound as if I had a clue what he was talking about. Or what a paradox was.

  “I hunted one on the first sunrise. Bashed his head in with a rock.” He chuckled. “That was messy. I found two more that night. They had made an alliance, which, I confess, was a decent idea. I came upon one on lookout. I slipped behind him and slit his throat while he stared at a fire like an idiot Neanderthal, while his partner slept on the other side. I strangled him.”

  He held his hands out and observed them as though magic coursed through his fingers. “My blood tingled with ecstasy, on fire with aliveness. I searched the bags after every kill. I had eliminated four, and one of them had a knife. With me having one of the four knives, that meant there were two knives still out there.”