Convict Island

by Mark Mosley

  “He ain’t done with that dude. He goes to the guy’s parents and beats the corpse till its head ain’t nothin’ but a smashed pumpkin. Cuts the legs off, then leaves.” Adam scrunched his face. “And he nailed the pieces into the yard with a giant wooden spike—a splinter, get it?

  “Damn. And he’s here, on the island?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, but I dunno. I think he’s the one Mason was sent here with.”

  I gave him a genuinely confused look. “That can’t be true. Mason told me he killed everyone in his first group.”

  “I’m sure he did tell that story. But that don’t make it true. People lie, Jhalon.”

  Nothing is as he says, Robbie had written.

  “You ever see him here?” I asked.

  I registered something in Adam I couldn’t put my finger on—a shift in his demeanor, as if he broke character for just a second and caught himself. Then it was gone.

  “Nah, bro. But I know if he’s a Splinter, and if he’s really Miguel “Exceso” Altimirano, then he’s brutal. Know what I mean, my man?”

  “Right.”

  “I stay out of all of it, bro. I know enough about the crap to stay out of the crap. I got the sweet life out here, friend. New show every night. You should expand your horizons and join me.”

  “I’ll think about it, for sure.”

  I spent the rest of the time fulfilling my water duty, then went back to Masonville to pry into the diary box and find the second note before the sun set. Slipping out entry two and unfolding it, I was disappointed to see how short it was: Xs marks the spot. X has always marked the spots.

  I thought this one was a no-brainer. The map in Mason’s cabin was significant, and I had to get to it. But how? He didn’t exactly invite guests over for dinner parties and gatherings. If he caught me snooping in his room, I’d either be killed or thrown into the pit with Mitch.

  Then I thought of Danny. Maybe he saw something at his drop-off. It may even be that Miguel and his guys showed up—if Miguel had a group, then he had to gather them the same as Mason.

  Leaving my cabin, I looked for Danny. I knew he was stuck on security detail, and I found him sitting on a little rock hill. He had no weapon. Every other person in that group carried a spear, which showed the low level of trust Mason had with Danny. Mason wasn’t blind—he only had one eye, but that one worked.

  I climbed to join Danny. He couldn’t have cared less. Danny’s eyes scanned our surroundings, though I wondered if he was looking for intruders or Mason. I decided to be less subtle this time than I was with my first failed conversation with him. “Danny, I gotta ask you a question,” I said with confidence.

  He looked at me. “Jhalon, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What you want?”

  “Your story. I want to know what happened on your drop-off and how you got in this gang and what happened to your brother.”

  Danny stared hard at me. I anticipated a fist flying into my teeth. Then he did something that surprised me. He opened up.

  Chapter 13

  Danny took a deep breath, as if relieved to finally release pent up anger or frustration.

  “Me and my brother, Eric, were walkin’ on the beach. Some white fellas come outta the woods and tell us if we don’t go with ‘em, we’ll be taken by some others. My brother don’t wanna hear it. Says to get lost.”

  I leaned in. “They were talking about Mason and his gang?”

  He nodded. “Then Mason surrounds us with his posse, tells the other dudes to get lost, and pulls out a knife. The first white guy tries talking Mason down, but Mason ain’t havin’ it. Tells ‘em again to beat it and tells us to follow or die.”

  Danny’s face contorted like he was trying to hold back emotions. He stood and started to walk away, not wanting me to see his frailty.

  “Danny. Please tell me the rest.”

  He faced me and blinked hard. Looking down, he said, “My brother’s been in lots of prisons and knows you can’t give in to others. He pulls out his knife. But the first guy steps in to cool things down. Mason stabs the dude. The other white guys jump in, stabs one of Mason’s guys, then takes off. Mason comes at us, grabs me by the collar, and Eric goes at Mason.”

  I recognized the brotherly instinct to protect, and fought back my brain’s insistence on flashing back to my brother’s crime—all the thugs had done that night was say my name and Chris went ballistic and pulled out a gun.

  The sun slid behind Middle Finger Mountain, darkening the edge of the jungle we were in. Danny’s voice was so soft I barely heard him over the bugs coming to life as sunset neared. “Mason knocks the knife outta Eric’s hand like Eric was nothin’ more than a kid. Mason don’t even…don’t even offer my brother another chance to join…”

  Standing, I put my hand on Danny’s shoulder. He let me keep it there while he tried slowing his breathing, but the words came in gasps. “Mason runs his blade into…into his gut.”

  “What’d you do?” I dared to ask. What would I have done had it been my brother?

  “One of Mason’s guys knocks me out before I can do anything. I woke up here, strapped to a bed.”

  “You think Eric’s alive?”

  Danny turned away and put his hands up to his face. I think he was wiping away tears. “Don’t know. Mason threatened me. If I left to find my brother, he’d find me and cut my intestines out. And if my brother was alive he’d do the same to him.”

  “Freaking psycho.”

  “Right?” He sniffled, then steadied his voice and growled, “Mason insists the other group’s worse, and I’m lucky to be here.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  Danny straightened as if the next words gave him strength. “He’ll come for me. Eric will come. And he’ll be pissed.”

  His story clinched it for me: Danny would be an ally against Mason. I didn’t bring up my goal of escape just in case Danny would be tempted to flip on me to gain favor with Mason so that he’d be allowed to leave.

  I asked more about the fight. “You saw one group that day? And they were white guys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No Mexicans?”

  “Nah. Ain’t seen a Mexican here.”

  No Las Astillas. So, The Solos must’ve been the ones that had attempted to help Danny and Eric. But where were they hidden? “Was Mason’s guy that got stabbed named Robbie—the one that died just before I got here?” I asked.

  Danny shrugged. “Couldn’t tell ya. I never saw Robbie.”

  We sat in silence a bit and then Danny got up without a word and walked away, rubbing the back of his head.

  There was another bonfire that night. The smell of cooked fish assaulted my senses when I neared, which made me want to vomit. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the smell of fish.

  Of course, before we ate, Mason blessed the food with another prayer (blah, blah, blah). He waved his Bible around as he spoke, preaching about its power within and the strength it gives to those who seek it, or some crap. And once again, everyone listened with heads bowed and gave a cheerful and unified “Amen!” when he finished.

  Except Danny. I was starting to like him.

  Darryl enjoyed his job on the food patrol, so after I got my share, he sat by me and explained, “We found a spot where fish come at high tide and get stuck in by rocks when the water goes back down. We take the fish, wrap ‘em in fresh palm leaves, and tie the leaves closed—like a little box.”

  “Smart.” I studied the finger-sized fish in my fingers as if I was holding a turd.

  “Then we take the box and wrap it in dead leaves, dig a hole on the beach, put in some rocks the size of softballs that were in a fire for a few hours, and cover it all up with sand. Then the rocks cook ‘em all day.”

  “Well, isn’t that nice.” I stared at the eyes popping out of the things. Never thought I’d eat anything like that.

  “Don’t be freaked by the eyes,” he insisted, reading my disgust. “That’s how yo
u know they’re done—when the eyes pop like that.” He grabbed one, tilted his head back, and dropped the thing in his mouth like a seal fed by its trainer.

  I scrunched my face. “That’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen.” He nodded and stared at me, waiting for me to do the same. “I’ve never been a fish person.”

  He raised his eyebrows. I gave in and put one in my mouth. I dry heaved, but forced myself to swallow. “That’s good,” I coughed out, giving him a sarcastic thumbs-up.

  Danny was staring Mason down again. His scowl hardly masked what were certainly some hateful thoughts, and reminded me that if I was going to turn the tables on Mason—or, at the very least, escape his tyrannical rule—I needed alliances. I had to figure out who was faithful to Mason.

  On the morning of December 20th, I focused on making friends. In hindsight, before I started, I should’ve looked through the rest of Robbie’s notes. I’m not sure why I hadn’t.

  It was a break day, which meant most groups were off-duty (praise the Almighty Mason!). It would’ve been dumb to bother with Smiley and Devin—they were idiotic sheep that wouldn’t abandon Mason in a million years.

  Besides Danny, my best bets for allies were Xavier, Adam, John, and Darryl. I put Adam on the back burner because I’d just talked to him, and I still wanted that conversation to digest a bit. Xavier could wait—I pried enough with him when talking about Robbie, and I was not willing to go all-in on him abandoning Mason yet. I decided to visit Darryl in the game area—his favorite place during his spare time.

  To combat boredom, someone had made a game like horseshoes with two stakes jammed in sand with rings of stones extending away from each stick like a bullseye. You and your teammate stood at opposite stakes, tossing coconuts to the opposite target. Each ring closer to the stake was worth more points.

  I teamed up with a guy named Norrim—and fun fact: it was pronounced Nuh-rim. The emphasis is on the “rim” part, which I point out because I said his name wrong, and you’d think my crime wasn’t innocently mispronouncing his name, but breaking into his home, killing his family dog, then kicking Norrim in the nuts on my way out.

  By teaming up with Norrim, it meant I’d stand at the target with somebody from the opposite team. I made sure it was Darryl.

  The game was meant to continue until a team scored twenty-one points exactly. When Norrim and I were up 7-2, I asked, “How long you been here, Darryl?”

  “One-hundred and twenty-four days. But who’s counting, right?”

  “Feels like I’ve been here that long.”

  The others threw their coconuts. We picked them up and stepped to our respected sides. Darryl tossed, landing one in the outer circle for a point. His second was off by a mile. His third hit the stake and stayed in the center.

  “Nice toss.”

  “Thanks.”

  I negated one of his points with my first throw, then missed my other two. “How do ya like it here? Being in Mason’s camp, I mean.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know better options. We’re all in the crap. This crap may be better than other crap. But it still stinks. I guess it’s better than lock-up, right?”

  “I guess. Just a prison without bars though.” I pointed to his scars. “How’d you get hurt?”

  “I was attacked.”

  “By The Splinters? The Solos?”

  He laughed. “Big cat.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “That seems to happen a lot around here—didn’t Robbie fight one off?”

  “That’s his story.”

  I got bold and pried. “What’s yours?”

  “Me and John caught one in a trap. John wanted to kill it. I wanted to let it go. I tried cuttin’ it loose and it went berserk and pounced on me. Gave me some good slashes. Thought it was gonna eat my face.”

  “I woulda peed myself.”

  He laughed again.

  I pointed to his tattoo. “So uhh…Swastika tattoos huh?”

  He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’ve lived a wild life, man. And a stupid one. Typical story of getting mixed up with the wrong guys. Drugs. Gangs. That kinda stuff.”

  The other side finished their round of throws, Norrim pumping his fist and talking trash for scoring a couple more. I cheered and pretended to be excited.

  “What changed?” I asked Darryl.

  “My outlook. We were beefin’ with another gang and the cops showed up. A guy jumped in a car and ran me over. My crew—the guys that talked about loyalty and brotherhood and all that crap—scattered.”

  “Just abandoned ya? That’s cold.”

  He shook his head. “Left me for dead.”

  I accidentally scored two points but pumped my fists and had to remember to act excited about it. I wanted no part in ending the game before getting some answers from Darryl.

  “But you didn’t die,” I said. “What happened?”

  He took a deep breath and made his throws, talking all the while. “When I was layin’ there with my leg bent in a way it ain’t supposed to, blood squirting from a gash in my head, one of the cops came over. Black guy. When he saw my tats, he pointed down at me and chuckled. Then he asked where my gang of so-called brothers was.” Darryl huffed. “I’m layin’ there dyin’ and he’s talkin’ to me about my tattoos and life choices.”

  The other side finished their turn, and Darryl paused to collect his coconuts before continuing his story.

  “I thought he was gonna leave me for dead, but he got all biblical. I bitched that I’m gonna die and he goes, ‘What I’m tellin’ you is more important than an ambulance. This is what’ll really save you.’ I passed out before he called an ambulance, but woke up with my wrist chained to a hospital bed and the officer sitting next to me. Visited me every day. My gang brothers didn’t. Not one. The officer did most of the talking when he came. Never brought up my past. Only my future. I was sent to lockup a different man.”

  “That’s incredible.” I wanted to ask why he was sent to the island, but I let the story sit, eager to get to my real purpose for our chat. After making my throws, I said, “Mason is an…interesting guy.”

  “You could say that. Could say more too.” He looked away as if he didn’t mean to let that slip.

  “Like what?”

  Darryl eyed me. The others made their tosses. We shuffled around and grabbed the coconuts. Went to our spots. “I dunno,” Darryl said. “Rubs some people the wrong way. Ain’t no leader ever gonna make everybody happy. That’s impossible.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Leaders gotta make decisions, and ain’t everybody gonna like ‘em all. Some get upset. Get jealous. Angry. Whatever. Nature of the beast.”

  “True.”

  “But somebody’s gotta make ‘em, right?” Darryl shrugged. “I mean, if it weren’t for Mason, who knows where we’d be now. Could be dead on the beach from starvation. Dead in the jungle from no shelter. Killed by another group. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, we’re alive and he’s helped.”

  I threw, then got brave. “And where do you stand?”

  He peered at me. “I ain’t sayin’ I agree with everything he’s done. The boxing matches are idiotic and we could relax a bit around here. But he’s got his views on things.” He caught my eye. “How do you like it here, Jhalon?”

  The sun reached its apex for the day, and the humidity was a killer. But that was not why I was suddenly sweating more. I was having trouble reading him. Was he doing to me what I was trying to do to him? Seeing if I’d be an ally? Or was he a Masonite trying to weed out a betrayer?

  “It’s ok,” I finally said. “I’d probably be one of those dead bodies you mentioned on the beach if I wasn’t here.” Was he anti- or pro-Mason? I thought of a safe answer. “I’m glad The Splinters didn’t find me first.”

  He was in the middle of pulling his arm back for a throw and stopped. He looked down at his hand and played it off like he didn’t have a good grip, and then started his throw over. I wasn’t sure what about that comment bothered him.
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  Darryl finished his toss. “Not sure you wanna talk about The Splinters around here. Displeases Mason. But if what they say about The Splinters and Miguel is true, then I don’t know that I’d wanna be someplace else.”

  “What’ve you heard?”

  He thought for a second. “After a run, some guys came back sliced up. Mason claimed they walked into some piglets and the momma boar wasn’t happy and gutted a bunch of our guys.”

  “A boar took down a bunch of grown men?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think anybody bought it—cuts were too high on the body and too clean. The Solos or The Splinters showed up is what really happened.”

  “Was it Danny’s pickup?” I asked.

  “No. After that. People don’t get dropped that often. But it was when Robbie was killed.”

  He made his tosses. Five points. I cancelled two.

  “Mason sent me and two others back out to look for our missing guys,” he continued. “I found a Solo just about dead. He said The Solos and Splinters were in a standoff on the eastern side of the island when Mason and his men showed up. Said Miguel was no joke.”

  He was quiet for a minute. We both pretended to focus on our respected teammate tossing, then picked up the coconuts.

  I asked, “What’d he tell you?”

  “Said Miguel was ripped and used two knives like they were extensions of his arms. This dying guy was one of three Solos that’d circled Miguel like a shark. Before they attacked, Miguel stabbed one in the cheek, then with his other knife sliced one in the chest. Said it was like from a movie. After this guy’s partners went down, Miguel went after him—two stabs from both knives in the side and belly.”

  “C’mon Norrim, you got this!” I yelled to my teammate. Then I turned back to Darryl. “So he died?”

  He nodded.

  “He say anything else?”

  Darryl’s face contorted into one plastered with confusion. “Somethin’ weird. Said it looked like some of The Splinters helped Mason.”

  “Like they’re aligned with Mason? That doesn’t make sense.”