by Mark Mosley
“I dunno man. The guy died before I could ask anything else. Not sure why he’d lie when he’s taking his last breath.”
Darryl’s teammate scored four and Norrim only negated one. Darryl went and hit for the win. I thanked Darryl for the chat and told him I’d see him around. As Darryl was leaving, I called out to him, “You know where John is?”
“Getting an ocean view.” He gestured to the northernmost part of the island. “See ya.”
I followed the path Darryl pointed towards. I found John sitting on a cliff overlooking the ocean and beach. He looked like he was meditating. “Beautiful view,” I said from behind him.
He turned but didn’t stand. “Oi, Jhalon. You alright?”
“Yeah, just wanted to get some ocean air.”
“There’s no lack of that, mate.”
Sitting, I stretched my legs out in front of me, crossing my ankles, leaning back with my palms behind me. “How long you been here?”
“About thirty minutes, I’d guess.”
I shook my head. “I mean on the island.”
“Ah. Bloody long time.”
“Yeah. Feels like forever, right?”
“Aye. Different kind of prison, but still prison.”
“That’s for sure.”
We sat in silence. I didn’t want to jump into my questioning for fear of making him suspicious—just in case he was a Masonite. And honestly, the view really was something. There was nothing but clouds for miles, and the water below looked like a slab of blue ice with tiny white bubbles frozen within.
Eventually, I tested the waters. “I’ve been hearing some things about that other group on the island you’d talked to me about before. Should I be worried?”
“Nah.”
“Really?”
“Personally, I don’t know how real they are.”
“You don’t think they exist? But you told me you ran into them at pickups.” I didn’t tell him what Darryl had already shared with me.
“Well, Mason tells me they’re Las Astillas.”
“But you have your doubts?”
He spread his legs into a V, brought his fingers to his toes, and exhaled. “It’s a long time to hide on an island that’s not that big, innit?”
“Then why would that rumor be floating around?” I asked.
Stopping his stretches, he shrugged. “I could see others spreading it so people stay with Mason. Fear can be a good deterrent.”
“Deterrent for what?”
John grunted as he stretched again. “Pissing off. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but Mason doesn’t do a thing. He lives like a bloody king. Other blokes do the work, and he just reaps the rewards.”
Wondering if this bothered John, I seized the opportunity to push forward my agenda of finding allies. “You think he’s like a tyrant? You don’t like bein’ under him?”
“Never said that. Just said he’s got a proper gig.” He eyed me like he was toying with the question of whether or not I was trying to trap him into saying something bad about our leader.
I shifted gears. “You ever hear of another group of cons out here—I mean, besides The Splinters?”
He stood and put his legs together, then bent over, touching his palms to the ground. “Whispers of it. The Solos. Not sure I believe in them.”
“You don’t believe in either group?”
“Not completely. Same reason as with The Splinters.”
“But you’ve heard of both?”
“Well yeah, I have ears, Jhalon. Las Astillas sounds like ghoul brutes, and The Solos just sound like ghosts.”
“You think they’d ever attack our camp?”
“Scared, Jhalon? Surely an ex-con isn’t so squirrely,” he teased.
“Just trying to learn as much as I can about this place. I like to be prepared.”
John huffed. “Well, Mason does the planning and ordering. We do the work.”
“Does that bother you? That he gets to do the bossin’ while we get stuck doin’ the work?”
He looked coldly at me. Too far too soon?
“Those words never came from my mouth,” he said.
“I know.” I backtracked. “Just thought I was paraphrasing closely. My bad if I’m mistaken.”
“You are.”
“Didn’t mean anything by it.”
When he sat down, I did the same. We were silent for a while. Initially, I assumed John would oppose Mason, but after this conversation, I wasn’t so sure.
Was he a Masonite, or was he feigning anger at me and my questions to protect himself, unsure of where I stood? It was a dangerous game, deciding who to align with and who to abandon. I felt like a character in Game of Thrones trying to decide the safest alliance.
John stood abruptly and walked away before I could respond. As he neared the jungle path, the bushes shook and something darted back into the jungle. “Freakin’ cats,” John said.
Looking back on that conversation now, I don’t believe for a second that there was an animal hidden in that brush. There was a convict. A convict gathering intel. A convict that would betray me in only a few days’ time.
Chapter 14
The next morning—December 21st—I realized I’d ignored Mitch. He was one of the first guys I’d thought of as a possible ally, and I’d completely forgotten his existence. As soon as I had an opportunity, I went to the pit.
It was dark in that particular area of the jungle, even though it was only late afternoon. The jungle canopy smothered the sunlight’s rays that attempted to get through.
I should confess—so that you know every detail I give you is accurate, even if what I share makes me look like a moron or sissy—that halfway to the pit, I was reminded of Robbie’s rug and the story of Darryl meeting a big cat. Fear seized me. Every twig snapping and leaf rustling was amplified in my mind, and I started moving faster. Eventually, I was running without any real reason.
Just as I was about to scream out for help to guide me back to camp, I was in the open, and I nearly fell into the pit holding Mitch. I stopped, put my hands on my knees, and steadied my breathing, forcing my fear back into my gut. Sneaking my head over the ledge, I saw him. He was so dirty that he blended in with the pit, and he refused to look up. Allies, I reminded myself. I need allies.
I took out two empty coconuts I’d filled with water and the extra ration of meat I’d stolen. “Mitch,” I whispered over the ledge. “Here’s some water and food.” Like a zookeeper taking care of a bear, I tossed it all in. “Make sure you throw the coconut as far out of the pit as possible so nobody figures out you’re getting help.”
The old instinct to get as far away from Mitch as possible crept to my brain, urging me to run. Allies…
I left him but promised to come back. Over the next few days, I visited often with food and water to keep him alive. We never talked—mostly because I was scared of being caught. Then, on the night of December 31st—when my friends back home were probably celebrating New Year’s Eve—I used the cover of darkness to chat with Mitch.
It was a full moon, and the absence of city lights made the stars crazy bright and infinite. When I got to the small clearing where the pit was, I first looked up in awe. It’s hard to believe the same stars were always there, hidden by humanity.
I took my eyes off the sky and peered into the pit. Mitch looked like a homeless guy that had just barely survived a hard winter. I legit felt bad for him. He was the same guy that broke a dude’s neck and tried to kill me not that long ago, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to rot in a hole.
He’d lost a ton of weight, but he was still much larger than me. He sat with his back against the pit wall, legs straight out in front of him, shoulders slouched, his fingers scratching the dirt.
“Mitch? How are you?”
Stupid question.
“Dying.” He didn’t budge.
“You get that last coconut I sent over?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s some meat. Eat it slow so yo
ur belly don’t explode.”
“Thanks.”
“You gotta catch it or it’ll fall in the dirt.”
“Ok.” He still didn’t move.
After ten seconds, I tossed it to him. The meat slapped his shoulder and plopped into the dirt. He didn’t touch it, but he mumbled another thank-you.
I’ll always remember how horrendous the pit smelled. Well, I’ll remember everything always, but you know what I mean. It wasn’t his fault, but the scent of piss and feces stung my nostrils. “I found another con I think can join us,” I said.
“Join? Us?”
“Yeah. We gotta get outta here and away from Mason.”
He laughed. “Ok. You wanna help me now?”
I didn’t have an answer for why I wanted to become his ally. “His name’s Danny.”
“Whatever.”
“I gotta get ‘im to open up a bit, but I think I can do it. I’m getting us out of here, Mitch. Both of us. Together.”
Mitch shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’m serious. You won’t die down there.”
“Already dead.”
“No—don’t talk like that. Ain’t no good to yourself. How’s your leg?”
“Hurts. Do me a favor?”
I nodded. “Of course.”
“Kill me. Get them to kill me. Stab me. Throw me off a cliff. Drop a boulder on my head.”
“Stop it.”
“End it. Please.” A gasp escaped him. “Please.”
He cried. I remember being shocked at his weakness. Mitch pushed himself away from the wall, got to his knees, and put his hands together like he was praying. “I know I was bad. I’m sorry. Kill me. Please. Help me. Kill me. Please.”
Who was this guy? It wasn’t the Mitch I knew. “I’m gonna help you,” I promised.
“Thank you!”
“But not like that.”
He whimpered. “It’d be a kindness. Not murder. Please.”
“I’m gonna help you by getting you out. Mitch!” I urged. “You need to hear me and believe me. We’re both getting out of here.”
“Why? Just let me die. Please.”
“Mason ain’t winnin’ this one, that’s why. Screw him. He doesn’t control us. He doesn’t decide who lives and dies.” I heard voices on the path. “Mitch, I gotta go. I’m gonna throw a rope or somethin’ over that edge one day, and you’re gonna climb out of that pit and then you’re gonna go with me and get out. Count on it.”
After leaving, twenty steps away, I still heard his sobs.
The next morning, I started my new year by diving into another one of Robbie’s notes—the pressure of mingling with convicts had held me back far too long. I opened my treasure trove and found the bamboo straw with three slashes. I pulled out the parchment:
Mason has a gun.
My first thought? Not exciting news.
My second thought? What the hell, Robbie? That’s the entire note? Maybe an explanation of where the gun is would be helpful! Then I wondered where Mason would hide a gun. And how he’d get one in the first place. Who else knew he had it? And why’d he have it? He’d never pulled it out, and what good is having a gun if you’re not going to use it against rival gangs? That’d be a nice thing to wave around and use as a deterrent for attack. And again: how the hell would he get a freaking gun out here?
There was a hard knock at my door. “Just a sec!” I blurted out.
I scrambled to put things away. The piece of bamboo I’d laid across the door wouldn’t do much against a shoulder and momentum. My hands shook as I fumbled to get it all hidden as quietly as possible. Knowing the door was locked, I said, “Come on in!”
Someone tried pushing the door open but it was stopped by the bamboo.
“Locked.” Mason’s voice.
Crap!
“Oh shoot! Sorry, I’m comin’.”
I finished, jumped up and walked over, popped up the bamboo, and opened the door to see Mason with a villainous grin on his face. Smiley and Devin stood behind him. Smiley had nothing but his toothless goofy smile; Devin was moving a stick around in his mouth like a shirtless redneck after a greasy meal, cleaning between his few, stained, rotten teeth with a toothpick.
“Jhalon, I hear you are having interesting conversations with some folks. Can my associates and myself step in to have a chat?”
I gawked like an idiot teenager caught by his parents doing something…well, idiotic.
“I said, can I come in and talk?” Mason repeated, drawing me out of my haze.
The question wasn’t really a question. I nodded. He, Smiley, and Devin walked in. I’d had just enough time to throw the cat rug back on the ground to conceal the hidden space beneath, but my eyes glanced nervously at the floor.
Mason stepped into the small room. He didn’t sit on the hammock—it’s tough to look menacing and powerful flipping around in a netted seat. Smiley and Devin remained in the doorway, blocking any frivolous escape plan that might enter my head in a stupid rush of terror.
“Ya know, Jhalon, keeping things running smoothly here…is a challenge at times. I need to juggle a lot of balls.”
Inside, I giggled like a fourth grader at this guy talking about juggling his balls, but I remained stern in my outward demeanor.
He continued. “Balls of fear.” Giggle. “Balls of doubt.” Giggle. “Balls of rebellion.”
“You’ve got a lot of balls, Mason,” I said, barely keeping a smile at bay. “It’s nuts.”
Smiley tried unsuccessfully to hold back his goofy smile. Devin elbowed him. Luckily for Smiley, Mason didn’t see it—he was looking at me, not humored. Did the guy even recognize jokes?
“Indeed,” he continued, ignoring my comments. “Responsibilities, Jhalon. That is what I have. The previous owner of this hut—Robbie—knew of the cross I bear. Seeing what I dealt with, he helped me, becoming a close ally. Even in his death. He died following my orders.”
He died while following orders, or he was killed by Mason’s order? I suspected the latter.
“Now, my visit here with you, Jhalon, is to give you the opportunity to ask me, directly, the questions you have been posing to others. How does that sound?”
Like a trap, I thought. “I appreciate that,” I said. “But I think you got the wrong idea of my intentions. I’m just doin’ my best to get the lay of the land. Know what I mean? I noticed all the guards around camp, and I heard something about how you…protect us. Since you juggle so many balls”—giggle—“I didn’t want to bother you with the questions.”
He raised his eyebrows and stared at me with his only eye. “Jhalon, what questions would like to ask me?”
Oh, what the hell. “Ok. Does another group exist?”
“Yes.”
“Las Astillas—The Splinters?”
“Yes. They exist.”
“Led by Miguel?”
“Yes.”
“Miguel Exceso?
“Yes. Miguel Overkill.”
“Is that the guy you claimed you killed when you were dropped off?”
He tilted his head like a dog hearing one of those high-pitched whistles. “Are you suggesting I lied to you, Jhalon?”
Smiley and Devin shook their heads as if to say, “You’ve done it now, stupid.”
“No. I thought maybe I misheard the story or something.”
He pulled out his Bible and held it up. It must’ve been tucked into his pants above his butt. Also from his butt he pulled the line, “Proverbs says that truthful lips endure forever, but a lying tongue is but for a moment.”
I took that to be a no. “Right. Gotta love what’s in that book, right?”
“Exactly, Jhalon.”
I think he attempted to wink at me, but since he only had the one eye, he could’ve just been blinking.
“Can I ask another question?”
“You just did. But another will be allowed.”
Dad joke…eye-roll. “Thanks. Is there a third group?”
“I would not cal
l it a group. More like scavengers doing their best to get by. You may recall I mentioned them when discussing your options for living on this island. They are no threat. Do not concern yourself with their existence. Because of what I have created here, The Splinters are the only feasible threat—but fortunately for you and all the others, I am able to protect you from Miguel’s wrath.”
“Good to know. Thanks for the visit and chat. And…protection.”
“You are most welcome, Jhalon. I want to be transparent to you—to everybody.” He clapped his hands as if wiping dust off them. “Now, if your questions have been sufficiently answered, I will assume your interrogations will cease.”
Got it: stop asking questions. I wondered how he knew I’d been questioning people. Had someone ratted me out? Or did he have a bunch of little birdies spread throughout the camp that stealthily listened to conversations?
“To shift gears, Jhalon, I would like to talk about our dinner festivities. You may have noticed that we sometimes have our duels during great feasts.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen one so far.”
“But you have not participated.”
I didn’t like where this was going…
“Not really my thing. I—”
“But you must,” he interrupted. “Tonight, we shall have another feast. You will partake in both the food and the fight.”
Frowning, I asked, “I thought people fought when called out by another guy. Has someone called me out?”
“I will be calling you out tonight. Though it will not be me that fights you.”
Before I could argue or ask who my opponent would be, he grinned, made his way toward the door, and slipped between his cronies to leave. Smiley and Devin smiled, turned, and followed.
“Crap,” I said to the inside of my empty hut, worried I’d receive the beating of my life later. I felt a rush of heat course through me in a wave of panic.
Why did he want me to fight? Was it a punishment? Who would he choose to do the job? Thinking about fighting made me feel sick. I considered possible opponents Mason could choose. He claimed the fights would always be even, but I was a teenager that would be facing off against a grown man. A grown murderer.
Smiley and Devin were roughly my size. Could I handle one of them? I’d already seen Smiley win a bout. Danny, like me, hadn’t fought yet. The more I thought about it, the more confident I became that he’d likely be my opponent. And he’d be no pushover.