by Mark Mosley
“I can do math,” I said sarcastically. It sorta slipped out. Really stupid of me. A good rule of thumb is to not be a smartass with someone that enjoys killing—especially when that person is detailing a story in which they went around hunting humans for sport.
“Well, I was not the only one enjoying the new freedom of murder without consequence. The other knife-wielder had killed two of his own. Since you ‘can do math,’” he actually made air quotes, “I do not need to tell you that it meant he and I were the only ones left.”
“Let me check.” I pretended to add, closing one eye, looking up while squinting, and flipping my fingers out. “Yep, that adds up.”
Why? Why would I be sarcastic?
Mason didn’t let it affect his story. “We left each other alone for a while—though I did some light hunting with no success. I grew bored. I built a fire on the beach one night. It was so large that if a ship was within a hundred miles, they would have seen it. The last survivor waited for hours to come—maybe hoping I would tire and drift to sleep. But I did not. I was ready to explode with energy.
“He emerged from the woods, straight ahead of me. He did not even try to sneak up—just strolled in. I had prepared a log for him to sit. The big Mexican sat across from me, a knife in both hands. The man had a shaved head, a teardrop tattoo slipping out from the outside of both eyes, and neck tattoos—swirls and nonsense of that sort.
“We talked. He was busted for the same crime as me. This similarity gave us a common ground. We talked about our pasts. Our goals. It was nice to have a civilized discussion once again.”
The window streamed rays of light into the bamboo hut. It was early morning. I realized I had been unconscious for a while. Mason rejoined me at the window. “Beautiful, eh?” he asked, referring to his little commune.
I nodded. “Impressive.”
We were surrounded by jungle, situated on top of a hill, overlooking other small crappy bungalows sporadically built through jungle foliage. Paths meandered from one cottage to another, winding their way down to a field with a creek slicing through it, sunbeams causing it to sparkle. A fire burnt near the water with an animal draped over a barbaric stick.
“This is what I have managed to build after I killed him.”
My face blanched. “Killed?”
“I am the one here, am I not?”
“Yep. You’re here.”
So much for relationship-building. I made a mental note that a friendship with Mason got you nothing but dead.
Mason stared at me. What did he want? His desire must’ve been to finish the story, to know I was completely engaged and interested and couldn’t live without hearing the end. So I asked, “How’d it go down?”
Mason thought—perhaps debating whether to reveal the story or leave me on the edge of my seat. His urge to share got the better of him. “After we talked, he asked ‘Do we kill one another, or do we build an empire? We will not be the only ones here soon enough.’”
I cringed inwardly at his second moment of tactlessness.
“‘Sharing has never been a strong characteristic of mine.’ I’d told him. ‘I think you’ll like what I can do for you,’ he said. I dumbed it down for him and reiterated, ‘I ain’t good at sharin’’. He said he would see me around and tried to walk away.”
He began talking fast, making motions as he described the fight. “I jumped on his back, stabbed him in his ribs. He threw me to the ground, jabbed forward with both knives but I rolled to the side and cut his calf. He dropped, and I ran at him. He threw sand in my eyes and then cut at my face.”
Mason turned his head to reveal a jagged scar running from his ear, through his eye, and down to his collarbone.
“Wow,” I said, feigning amazement at his boo-boo. I wanted to feed his gluttonous ego. “That must’ve hurt. What’d you do then? That had to be hard to overcome.”
“For most people it would be,” he boasted.
I nearly rolled my eyes at his narcissism.
“I played possum,” he continued. “I bent low and curled into a little ball. I even whimpered. When he got near me, I leapt out like a cornered tiger, faked a stab with my left hand, then ran my knife into his gut with my right—I did not stop carving until I reached his chest and felt his hot blood covering my forearm.”
Figuring that Mason wanted me to be impressed with his ferocity, I grimaced. Though I admit, only a part of my reaction was exaggerated. This freakin’ guy . . .
“The next day, my eye was swollen. A day later, pus oozed out, and I could not see through the tiny slit. The day after, the pain doubled. Brutal. Throbbing—it was like every time my heart beat, it was a needle into my eyeball. Thick and moist yellow liquid ceaselessly dribbled from my eye. I made a fire. Got my blade red-hot. And cut the bastard out.”
I grimaced again. This time 100% naturally. This dude . . .
“Later, I awoke to find two men staring down at me. They had been dropped off apparently; there were more drop-offs in the early days. These two men mended me while I was unconscious.”
“I assume it was Smiley and Nameless—I mean, Devin?”
He shook his head. “Negative. They did not arrive until Drop Eight.”
I nodded.
He finished, “I almost felt bad when I killed the two good Samaritans in their sleep that night.”
I furrowed my eyebrows, surprised.
“Do not look at me like that, Jhalon,” he said, as if my look offended him. “They had observed me at my weakest moment, which cannot be had when establishing an authoritative and absolute rule of dominance. Jhalon, if you want to rule, your followers must see you as nothing but mighty.” He formed a fist. “Strength. Power. That is leadership. Vulnerability. Weakness. That is subordination. If they were smart, they would have killed me rather than repair me. They showed weakness. Their deaths were their own doing.”
“They showed…kindness. Humanity. Care.”
He waved his hand at me. “Those are the same as weakness. After them, I killed the six others from their drop.”
Eight on that drop too.
“I prepared for the next drop, ready to build my empire,” Mason declared. “I will not bore you with the rest of the details—”
“Thanks.” I swear, I did not have a death wish. I’m just really stupid.
He looked at me. “Do not cut me off again when I am talking. Ever.”
I said nothing.
“I am teasing you,” he said, without a trace of humor. “What do you say I introduce you to the rest of our group? Yes?”
“Sounds great.” Time to meet a fun bunch of psychopaths blindly following a half-blind lunatic. My hands trembled.
Chapter 8
As I left Mason’s bungalow to meet his followers, tapping into my recollections of my prison time, I drew on my wealth of knowledge and appreciation for having allies when surrounded by potential enemies. I geared myself up for making friends with a bunch of murderers, refusing to relive the hell I’d endured in prison without alliances.
I could go back to every day of my time in prison and tell you the exact number of times Chris visited me, but suffice it to say that it was a lot. Too often, in fact. The last day I saw him was November 19th—a week before I was told I’d be heading to the island.
Chris was on the other side of the fog-stained glass, holding the black phone that probably had thousands of diseases on it from all the previous visitors. “You look like crap,” he told me.
It’d been twenty-five days since I was sentenced. I felt the stitches above my lip. The result of not making my roommate’s bed properly—Mitch wanted to make sure I didn’t fail again. “Funny. That’s how I feel,” I said. “Think I’ll get a scar that makes me look like a badass?”
He laughed without joy. “Gonna make ya look like ya got an ass-whoopin’.” He chuckled.
“What’s new at home? Anybody askin’ about me?”
He gave me a sly look. “Like Nicole?”
I shrugged
. His eyes told me that nobody had been checking in. Some friends…
I’m sure word at school spread like wildfire: Jhalon killed someone. But the spread of news has a way of inflating inaccuracies. My classmates and teachers have no way of knowing it wasn’t me that killed anyone. I wondered if they heard it was a gangster. Not that it’d matter—it was murder, gangster or not. We all know how rumors work, especially in high school. By the time this story made the rounds, I probably hadn’t killed a gangster, but shot my way into an orphanage.
Chris couldn’t stop looking at my wounds. “The guards don’t do anything about it?”
I shook my head. “They couldn’t care less. In their eyes, I’m not a high school kid getting picked on. I’m a murderer.” A knife to Chris’ gut. “Why would they worry about me getting beaten up by grown men?” A twist of the blade.
At that point of my time in prison, I’d had two concussions, four broken fingers, twenty-three stitches, and both eyes had—at different times—been blackened.
Chris looked down at his hand. “I can’t live with you taking my beatings. We thought you’d go to juvie not…” He trailed off as he looked at our surroundings. Grown men. Murderers. Rapists. “Not here…”
I wanted him to remember my imprisonment so he would avoid falling into the same hole again. But he needed to be a good husband and father—if he couldn’t get over the guilt and live his life, my sacrifice was for nothing. “Well, you’re gonna have to cope with your guilt because it’s still the smart play. Your toddler and unborn baby need you. We both know what it’s like growing up without a dad.”
“But I’m guilty,” he sobbed.
“Yep. And you better remember that. No more stupid decisions. Every time you think of doing whatever the hell it was that got me here, remember that I’m serving your prison sentence.”
“Right.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Listen, Chris.” I squirmed in my chair. “Maybe…maybe stop coming to see me so often. The visits don’t help either of us.”
I still feel bad for saying it. But I’d always left our visits with tears in my eyes, making me an easy target for inmates. And he’d go home to rebuild himself, only to be devoured by guilt again when he came back. When he was about to object, I stood. “I love you.” I hung up the phone and walked away.
That severing of our communication hardened me. It kindled the survival instinct I didn’t know I’d had.
As Mason walked in front of me to introduce me to the others, I put on my game face readying myself for not becoming anyone’s enemy.
Middle Finger Mountain towered above, watching us as we made our way towards the creek and pig roast. Mason pointed to the first cottage on the left. “That’s Smiley’s place. Devin’s next door.”
The outside of both cottages was bare. It wasn’t like they could go to the nearest Target and buy décor. Other wood and bamboo cottages surrounded us, all similar. I wasn’t sure if one would end up being mine, or if I’d have to share. Or if, God help me, I had to build one myself. If that was the case, I may as well live in a tree—I’m not exactly an expert in construction.
More paths sprouted from the main one, though I couldn’t see where they led, only that they disappeared in the dark jungle. We reached a large circular area of short grass surrounded by taller grass and random, thin trees. The fire licked the pig dangling above it, and a sweaty, shirtless, middle-aged white guy with tribal arm tattoos stood on the side of the pit, rotating the stick so the pig was cooked all around.
The group was loud, mingling amongst one another as they waited to eat. Mason strutted to a small boulder and stood on it. “The talking needs to stop. I have something to say.”
Silence. They gathered around, eyes fixed on their leader. It was amazing—he got everybody’s attention without even raising his voice. Control…Mason had it. Say what you want about the guy, but he owned those people. Mason happily announced, “This is our new ally. Jhalon.”
Ally? I wondered if that meant I could’ve been—or might be in the future—an enemy. Did the group have enemies?
Mason swept away my thoughts. “Jhalon just arrived. Be polite and introduce yourself at some point.”
His followers nodded, looking at Mason the entire time—never at me. Mason pointed with his thumb to the roasted pig and grinned. “Now, let us eat.”
There was thunderous applause. Mason whipped out a knife and a Bible—it was the book I’d seen on his table. I hadn’t realized he’d walked out with it. He held it up and everybody bowed their heads. I was thrilled that I managed to get surrounded by Christian convicts…
Or were they bowing to Mason?
Mason prayed, “God, we thank you for this breakfast and the hands that brought it to us. Thank you for the safe arrival of Jhalon—may he bring prosperity, hard work, and most importantly, loyalty to us all. Amen.”
Loyalty. The most important of those three things was loyalty. I thought back to Smiley and Devin being worried about displeasing Mason.
He hopped off the rock and walked to the pig, then hacked at the carcass, ripping and slicing off two thick slices. Steam escaped as the knife slid across the pig’s meaty hindquarters. He stepped aside and nodded to the others, and everybody else followed after Mason seemed satisfied. Mason strolled over to me. “Jhalon, you will never have ham fresher than this! Please enjoy it.”
“Thanks, Mason. I didn’t expect to eat this well during my time here.”
“Yes, Jhalon, we do quite well.”
I ate it without hesitation, staring at Mason’s Bible.
“You surprised I am a God-fearing man, Jhalon? This book,” he held it to his heart, “has all the answers.”
He probably idolized some villains in there—Cain, Herod, Judas. Satan. But I assumed that the important thing he referenced was salvation. Thirteen days later, I’d be proven wrong on that last assumption. An assumption that nearly got me killed.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s special. A lot of good stuff in there.”
“Amen to that.”
Thinking of the hypocrisy now makes me want to barf. That can go on record.
People came to Mason and thanked him for the meat. I hadn’t realized Mason was the one responsible for it—the hands that brought it to the group that his prayer referenced must’ve been his own. That meant the guy literally thanked God for himself. Either that, or he had the group so well-trained that anything positive was a result of his leadership.
The warm, slick meat was hot in my fingers, so I moved the large slab of food from hand to hand. “Where’d you get the bacon?” I asked between my juggling.
“Actually,” Mason said, “the arrival of this bounty coincided with your arrival.”
“Oh? That’s cool.”
“Yes. In fact, I have something you may find interesting.” He whistled, and Smiley and Devin were at his side within seconds, like eager little pups ready to please their master. “I would like to take Jhalon to the pit.” They stopped chewing in shock, then almost regarded me sympathetically. Mason read their looks. “He is not going in, guys! He just got here! Did you not hear me say Jhalon is an ally? Have some sense. I would like to show Jhalon our dinner’s friend.”
The pig’s friend? Another animal? Maybe they’d caught a whole family of boars. But why would I care?
They led me towards Mason’s cottage and turned down one of the paths I’d seen earlier. It wound its way towards Middle Finger Mountain, then veered right and died at a squared-off area of clearing. A pit about twenty feet long and ten feet wide sat in the middle of the opening.
“We found this man with the pig,” Mason explained. “He was about to be gorged until we saved his precious little heart. We have yet to decide what to do with him. Maybe you have a suggestion.”
He nudged me forward. My feet crunched on massive jungle leaves and loose bamboo, but I kept glancing behind me, fearful Smiley, Devin, or Mason would run at me and push me into the hole.
I reached
the edge of the pit. In the bottom was Mitch, sitting cross-legged with his head drooped. He lifted his head, and I saw his red eyes. He looked down again, defeated.
Chapter 9
Mitch had been through the ringer. There were bruises on both sides of his face, lacerations on his arms and legs, and the once-proud convict sat with his wide shoulders slumped and eyes glued to the floor.
I couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to get on Mason’s bad side. And more importantly: how should I handle Mason and his crew to avoid this fate?
Masonville seemed like a cult that would force me to live with my eyes on the back of my head—a life that wouldn’t be long or comfy. But I couldn’t “displease” him or his loyal followers—prison had given me the distinct pleasure of knowing what happens when someone feels dissed. It’s not pleasant.
Before I could puzzle out what to say, Mason asked, “Is this individual in the bottom of my hole an acquaintance of yours?”
Should I reveal Mitch tried to kill me? That he’d abused me since we were cellmates? I answered his question with one of my own. “Did you ask him about me?”
“I did—well, not just you, but your whole group that was dropped off. I like to know what events transpire on this little slice of paradise. Especially when something out of the ordinary occurs.”
Like my early drop-off.
“And what’d he tell ya?”
Mason sighed. “I do not think I believe what he told me.”
“No?”
“Indeed not. Tell me what happened.”
He wanted to see if our stories matched. I told him everything, hoping my story was the same that Mitch shared. When I finished, Mason nodded. “That lines up with what he told me. Mostly. I still have doubts.”
“Any particular reason?”
He stretched his neck. “For starters, you both claimed only three were dropped off. He said it was himself and two…I will say black guys, even though he used a more vulgar term. There has never been less than eight individuals dropped here at any one time. He is either a hillbilly moron that cannot count, or he is a liar.”