by Mark Mosley
Nothing.
“Don’t know about you,” I chattered on, “but I’d never seen the ocean before this. Never been to a beach either.”
Danny looked at me like I was a moron. “If you haven’t seen the ocean then you haven’t been to a beach.”
“I guess that’s true. But you could go to a beach that’s on a lake or something.”
“That’s not a real beach. Don’t count.” Danny kept his eyes glued on Mason.
“Yeah that’s true, I guess,” I admitted. “What do you think about the island?”
“I’m here against my will. What do you think I think about it?”
“Fair enough.” I was sweating. Danny was the kind of guy that wasn’t physically impressive, but you know would kick your ass because he’d go full spider monkey on you. “I think it’s awesome. There’s fun bonuses around every corner: the bugs, the heat, the search for food, the sweat, the people. It’s a dream come true and the best vacation I’ve ever been on.”
Silence from Danny. Uproar from the crowd watching the fight.
“I was being sarcastic.”
He looked at me. “No shit.”
My diarrhea-of-the-mouth couldn’t be stopped. “The sand’s hot. Might as well walk barefoot over burning coals; not to mention it’s impossible to get rid of—I still feel grains between my toes from the first day I got here.”
“Yep.”
“Any movie with a couple screwing on the beach is bull crap.”
I think I heard a chuckle.
Back in the circle, Smiley challenged a skinny white guy. It didn’t take Smiley long to best him, which must’ve been unexpected judging by how the crowd erupted—or everyone just loved Smiley, who stood with a fist in the air and his signature, toothy smile.
Another guy—I think Shawn—challenged someone. Mason said no, that he’d rather see so-and-so fight Shawn because it’d be a fairer match.
“That’s nice that Mason wants to make sure every fight’s fair,” I mentioned to Danny.
“Just means it’ll be more entertaining for him to watch.” He looked me up and down. “You hit puberty yet?”
Son of a bitch…was everyone going to ask me about my age?
“Any day now,” I said, making my voice crack on purpose.
He gave me another chuckle.
The man Mason called to fight Shawn looked down at his feet. He didn’t argue, but it was obvious he wanted no part in the fight. He walked into the circle of other felons and faced Shawn, shoulders slumped, already defeated before the battle began. The two combatants bumped bare fists then circled each other like dignified boxers. All hell broke loose as Shawn lurched forward. Mason’s eye got so big with excitement that I thought it’d pop out.
How could I ask about what went down with Danny’s group? Remember when your brother was taken, possibly killed? Tell me all about it!
I talked about my own arrival, hoping to get him to share his experiences. “Well, this is better than the first day I got here. I had to swim to the beach through shark-infested water, then run away while chased by a guy who wanted to kill me.”
“The white fella in the pit, right?”
“Yeah. That’s the one. Then I ran into a big boar. I was lucky Mason’s searchers found me.” Saying something positive about Mason and his followers could bring out a reaction from Danny.
Danny hardened his look. “Screw his gang. And screw him.”
Nailed it.
“Well, this isn’t perfect, but it’s better than anything else here. Not sure about any other options for survival on this hellhole. Know what I mean?”
“There’s other options,” he said. “Mason’s hiding ‘em from ya. You don’t know shit.”
“Really?” I played dumb—people tend to talk more when they think they’re smarter than you.
“There’s others that oppose him. Two groups, I think.”
He knew less than me.
“I heard there was an issue when you got here. What happened?”
“Shit happened.” He got up and left.
Progress.
Chapter 12
It didn’t take long for me to realize island life is boring. I kept up with my water gig, which didn’t make me wanna slit my wrists, but was monotonous. Adam was cool, but dumb as a box of hammers and always high. Every day after finishing work, there was nothing to do. It’s like you’re grounded and sent to your room, but your parent takes out everything in it, so you’re just stuck in an empty box staring at the walls.
The beauty of the island lasted only a bit before I started to go mad. On December 19th, it poured. Like a storm I’ve never seen in my life. Everyone stayed in the cabin. Hard rain days sucked because nobody did anything, including eat. I was starving and bored and just lounging in my hammock, staring at the floor in a trance. Then I saw it.
The cougar skin rug had moved on account of me walking back and forth across it. It wasn’t much, but I’m a bit OCD so I noticed.
The floor was bamboo, which was less painful on my feet than I’d feared. The cabin was small enough that the floor was made of single pieces—34 of them, to be exact. But, once the rug was carefully pulled back, several pieces of bamboo with rough, uneven cuts could be seen. I excitedly rolled the rug off completely and found five pieces of bamboo floorboard with jagged lines cut across them as if someone had sawn into them. On my knees, I pulled off the pieces, and under the floor, was a small box.
I sat with the box on my lap. It was intricately made, with tiny bamboo pieces tightly wound together by thin strands of vine rope. The lid had two holes near the edge with rope fed through it that acted like the box’s hinges. I opened it to find a bunch of pieces of bamboo, each a little wider than a straw. Naturally, I wondered why a guy would go to the trouble of making a box and putting it in a hiding place beneath his floorboards to store…bamboo?
Outside, the storm had stopped and the sun was forcing itself onto the island, making it disgustingly humid. The sudden humidity and the thought that this was hidden for a reason made my hands sweat.
There were scratches on each straw. Numbers. I dug through until I found number one, and scrutinized the outside. Then I peered inside and saw something rolled up. It took me about ten minutes to get the thing out, but I opened the first paper and read:
If reading this Im dead. Get out asap. Dont trust Mason. Nothing is as says. Miguels worse. Solos best chance. Let snake eat self. Will try to write again.
I read it a few times, clueless about much of it—had Robbie gotten ahold of Adam’s stash?
The part about Mason being a douche and the suggestion of trying to get away were no-brainers. The mention of Miguel confirmed there was a second group, which was probably the reason for the security of Masonville. And then the snake eating itself. Maybe you’re smarter than me and already know what that suggested. But at the time, I was clueless. I figured it out later—when I needed to. In fact, the epiphany would save my life.
Other convicts began emerging from their cabins. Nervous someone might walk in, I took one last look at the paper, then rolled it up and put it back in the box. I stashed the box under the floorboard and pulled the rug over.
The note encouraged me to do what I’d wanted to do all along: get out of Masonville. But I didn’t believe I could accomplish that on my own. I needed to find allies. Allies among murderers. For some reason, I thought about Mitch. I had the sudden desire to get him out of the pit. Despite his treatment of me ever since prison, I couldn’t bring myself to wish ill on him when I could do something to prevent it—nobody deserved to sit in a hole and feel their life drain into the soil. But more importantly (for me at the time): I needed an ally. Maybe saving him would bring him to my side.
How would I get him out? I’d have to throw a vine into the hole and hope he had the strength to overcome his condition and injury, and climb out. Then what? We’d run off together? What if he still had the goal of killing me?
Knowing I had to find peop
le I could trust to talk about it all, I felt the need to know who Robbie really was. He and Xavier were close, so that was who I decided to start with. Xavier was a Swiss-army knife that basically hung around camp waiting for Mason to call. But he never went off with Mason on his secret missions.
I stepped out to join the others, strolling down to the usual socializing bonfire area. Just like when I’d first met him, Xavier was sitting on a log, playing with flowers—always the same white and yellow variety. Waving as I approached, I felt like a nerd getting ready to ask the hot girl to Homecoming. I thought my voice would crack when I started to talk—like when I actually did ask someone to a dance for the first time. That, fortunately, didn’t happen with Xavier.
“Xavier! Got a sec?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got some free time. Was hoping you’d help me kill it.”
He gave me a confused look.
“Well, I got questions,” I clarified. “Some things just…some things I was just wonderin’ about and thought maybe you’d answer ‘em.”
“I can try, sir.”
“What’s the story with Mitch down in the pit? Mason say anything? Is the prick still alive?”
“No sir. I believe he wants to play it out. See what Mitch has to say. Or offer. Mitch bothering you in some way, sir?”
“Not at all. I’ve kinda forgotten him to be honest. Just sittin’ in his little penalty box outta my hair.”
“Hmm,” he moaned, looking at my bald head.
The hunting group walked triumphantly into camp with a few carcasses. Three birds, some fish, and a small boar. My mouth watered. “Did they hunt in the storm?”
Xavier shook his head. “Just picked their traps.”
“Gotcha. I gathered you and Robbie were close?”
Inhaling deeply, his chest expanded like a frog’s throat. “Robbie was solid, sir. A good man—well, as far as convicts go. He was on the same ship I was. The first day we were here, Mason spotted us and talked with us. He recruited differently back then. It was more of a conversation and invitation. Now…”
An awkward silence ensued. I changed the topic but stayed under the umbrella of Robbie. “When did Robbie kill the freakin’ sabre tooth tiger that’s on the floor in my—his—cabin?”
Xavier chuckled. “Ain’t no sabre tooth, but it was big. When we first got here, Robbie was on food patrol. They tracked a boar. It was getting near sunset, so Robbie suggested they head back to camp. Well, they don’t listen ‘cuz he’s green. It got dark, they’re walking back, tryna find their way. Then they see little lights in the brush. Robbie thinks they’re close to the beach and maybe he’s seein’ ship lights or somethin’.”
“They ain’t lights.”
“You damn right they ain’t lights, sir!” He laughed.
Xavier looked down at the flowers and spun them between his fingers. He was remembering Robbie fondly as he told the story. “They keep walkin’, and the lights start movin’. Then it attacks the man in front of Robbie. The others scatter, but Robbie jumps onto the back of the bastard, and jams his knife into its neck. The thing falls back and collapses on him. Robbie says the cougar musta weighed two-hundred pounds. I was the one that lugged it back to camp, so I told ‘em it was more like seventy, eighty tops.” He smiled. “Robbie said any number I throw out had to be multiplied by three for the average man!
“Anyway. One of these hicks used to hunt back home. Lucky for Robbie, he owed him a favor so he skinned it, tanned it, and even stitched it up a bit to make the rug. I pulled the teeth out and made a necklace for Robbie. He liked that.” He stopped, lost in his thoughts. “Mason heard how Robbie kept his cool and took care of another dude instead of running like the rest. So he promoted him. Robbie turned into his right-hand man.”
“But you two stayed close?”
“Yes, sir. Knew everything about each other. Robbie would come up with random questions and we’d BS about ‘em—favorite cartoon growing up; if you were gonna be executed, what would be your last meal; if you could meet one dead person, who would it be? Stupid stuff like that.”
Up near the cabins, Mason emerged from the jungle, Smiley and Devin right behind him. Mason seemed heated, gesticulating while talking loudly, though I couldn’t hear. They slipped into his cabin and the door slammed behind him.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
Shrugging, Xavier looked back to his flowers.
I refocused on my inquest. “That’s awesome, Xavier.”
“Yes sir. He was trusted by Mason. Then…things changed.”
“Lemme guess: he didn’t wanna hang with you no more?”
“No, nothin’ like that. He always saved time for me. Robbie just . . . it was like he became less like Robbie. Like he was breaking apart.” He paused. “It happened after an errand. They lost two guys—killed. Robbie wouldn’t talk about it—even to me. And Mason lost his damn mind if you brought it up. After that, Robbie wasn’t as cool with Mason. He started to hang out more in his own cabin. Somethin’ happened that made Robbie uneasy.”
I wondered if that was when Robbie started writing his notes.
“How was Robbie killed? Was that a pickup search?”
“It was Danny’s. Things went south—I don’t know how. Robbie couldn’t tell me—he never regained consciousness. And Mason still refuses to talk about it. The other guys know Mason won’t talk, which means they won’t either—they aren’t stupid.”
That meant the only one who knew what happened—and would be willing to talk about it—was the one who hated Mason and didn’t seem to be afraid of any consequences: Danny. He wouldn’t be an easy one to crack. I’d have to build myself up to that interrogation.
Wondering who might be an easy hit, I thought of Adam. The following morning, I headed to my job. Adam was his usual baked self. He squinted, then smiled when he saw me. “You see that sunset last night? Holy cow—it was fan-freaking-tastic!”
“Nope, missed it. Hard to see it from where I’m at.”
“Then, my friend, you need to change where you’re at. Picture this…” He put his arm around me, pulling me in for a nice second-hand high. “Close your eyes, man. Just…close em. Good. Now, the sun’s like an inch from the ocean. The clouds are like those weird ones that are just like…like thin sheets, ya know? But above all those are like puffy marshmallow ones. Just…millions of ‘em.”
“Millions?”
He put his finger over my mouth. “Quiet. The sun turns orange-ish red and touches the water, and the sun does this optical illusion thing where the bottom of it fans out and it almost looks like…like one of those sand glass things that tells time.” He removed his sweaty finger from my face.
“An hourglass?” I suggested.
“Don’t talk, man. You’re gonna ruin the vision I’m paintin’. Close your eyes, whatsdamatter with you? Good. Now, it’s like an hourglass, right?”
“Right.”
“Shut up. So it sinks lower, like the ocean is just…like…devouring it. Or no. No, no, no, no. No. It’s like, the sun is melting into the water like ice cream on a boiling summer pavement.”
Pothead poetry.
“And the sky around…there are tons of colors. Like they’re on steroids. The reddest red and orange-est orange and yellowest yellow ever. Then the sun just dips and dips and then…Jhalon.”
When he stopped talking, I said, “What?”
“Shut the hell up. Why are you talking?”
“You said my name. Then stopped. I thought—”
“Damnit, Jhalon. Shut up.”
It was silent for ten seconds. I wondered if he’d passed out standing up. I peeked to see what he was doing. He was staring at the sky. Then he finished, “Incredible. A new show every night, Jhalon. Know what I mean?”
“Totally. Right on.”
“Right on, man,” he repeated. “Right freakin’ on.”
“Adam, I wanted to ask you somethin’.”
He unwrapped his arm from my sho
ulder and stepped in front of me, putting a hand on each of my shoulders. He didn’t say anything. Awkward.
“Do you know anything about another group on this island? Or maybe even two?”
“There’s another group. One I know of.”
“Who’s their leader?”
He shook his head. “Miguel ‘Exceso’ Altimirano. He was a higher-up in this Mexican gang—Las Astillas.”
“Las Astillas?” I played dumb instead of revealing that John and Darryl talked about it. I wanted to see if Adam gave me anything different.
“It means The Splinters,” he explained.
“The gang is named after tiny pieces of wood?”
“Don’t be naïve, bro. They’re bad-asses. Super sophisticated and ruthless. Sex trafficking, guns, drugs…ain’t much they don’t do.”
“Miguel ‘Exceso’. Like, ‘excessive’?”
He took his hands off my shoulders and grabbed a coconut. He popped out the little plug, put the coconut to his lips, and tipped his head back to get the last drops from within. Wiping his mouth, he said, “Very good translation, bro—or pretty close anyway. More like ‘overkill’.”
“What earned him that name?”
Adam whistled. “He’s freakin’ heartless. Rumor is he doesn’t just kill enemies. He kills ‘em, then kills ‘em when they’re dead.”
“That makes no sense. You’re high.”
He shook his head like there was a bug in his hair. “Nah, man. Like, I heard he shot a dude in the head. The dude’s dead.”
I laughed. “The rumor that the guy is dead after getting shot in the head is probably a safe one to believe.”
“That ain’t the rumor. The rumor is he takes the body, goes to the guy’s house, and with his wife watchin’, he stabs the guy in the chest like twenty times.” Adam took out a knife and with lightning-fast speed I didn’t realize he had, jabbed the trunk of a tree a few times. Then he put the coconut on the trunk and swung the knife down to slice it in half. “Then the psycho chops his hands off, leaves ‘em, then drives away.” The knife sliced through the coconut and thudded into the wood.
I jumped back, surprised at Adam’s skill with the blade and his sudden coherency. “He left the hands behind?” I grimaced. “What’s with the name The Splinters, though?”