by Mark Mosley
Sam fell silent. I waited for an angry and frustrated outburst, but she replied, “You’re right. Off to bed with you. We can finish this tomorrow. Cammie,”—the masculine girl with dreadlocks turned to Sam—“would you mind setting these guys up with a room?”
Cammie laughed. “Standard room or penthouse?”
Sam chuckled. “I think these fine gentlemen deserve the lover’s suite.”
“Sure thing.” Cammie stood and dipped a torch into the fire. “Follow me boys.”
I was surprised she just ended the conversation. Mason would’ve kept us until he got what he wanted. Sam just let us go.
Cammie led us back into the cave, taking us deeper, leading by torchlight. She veered to the right and guided us to another area with smaller caves—like natural rooms. She tipped the torch to an unlit one attached to the wall to provide more light. “We don’t have many luxuries to pamper you with, but at least we’re shielded from the rain, animals, and enemies.” She bent down and shined the light on the floor, which had large jungle leaves for a bed. “This is better than hard rock, but it won’t be incredibly comfy. You’ll get used to it. We all have. Some nights, people just sleep on the beach, so you can do that too—but I’m sure there’ll be a buzz out there tonight with people chatting it up that’ll keep you awake. Feel free to come out and join us if you have trouble sleeping.”
“Don’t think that’ll be a problem for us tonight,” I said between grunts and groans as I gingerly lowered myself to the ground.
“I’ll join you guys out there,” Mitch said to Cammie. “I was stuck in a hole for a while.” He turned to me and Danny. “Cool?”
Was Mitch asking me permission to do something?
Danny answered, “Why would we care? You do you, Mitch. No worries.” He must’ve been eager to get to sleep to make the morning come faster—when he’d be reunited with his brother.
I said nothing, still unsure of how to treat Mitch and carry myself around him. It seemed like forever ago, but once upon a time he did beat me in prison, and wanted to kill me on this island. But I recognized how well he got along with Danny. Maybe the pit changed him. “See ya in the morning,” I said.
“I’ll leave you guys to it,” Cammie said, slipping away towards the light.
“Jhalon, you mind following me out?” Mitch asked.
I raised my eyebrows, then stood and walked with him. Not long after we started, he said, “Thanks for helping me in the pit. And I’m sorry—first I was a jerk in prison and on the island, then I was ungrateful when you took care of me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You were still a jerk when you were ungrateful.” I smiled.
I wasn’t certain a simple apology from him was enough. Should I have demanded more? Required him to do something? Like let me punch him in the face? I’m not somebody that holds grudges well. And who am I to judge? Not to mention, it sounded like The Solos were on the verge of attempting something against Mason, so we all needed to be united. If it meant playing nice, I’d play nice—after all, I had told Mitch that I’d help him escape. I must’ve forgiven him long ago without putting such terms on it.
He smirked. Then he slapped me on the shoulder. “Friends forever.”
“Totes. BFF’s. Now go talk about what we’re gonna do about Mason. And get the hell out so I can sleep.”
Chapter 21
It was the best night of sleep I’d had on the island, which was impressive considering I slept with a thin sheet of leaves covering the rock ground. Not to mention, Danny breathed so loudly in his sleep that it was like a lawnmower was left running in the cave.
When I finally woke up on January 4th, I followed the trail of light coming from the entrance and walked out to the small beach area. Mitch, Sam, Cammie, and some guys I didn’t know sat around the fire. I was the last person up, and emerging from the cave so late felt awkward—like I just stumbled in on everybody eating a breakfast that took an hour to make the morning after a slumber party.
The boar’s nest looming above the cave entrance was active. I heard the little ones scurrying about making their grunting noises, perhaps waiting for momma to bring home some breakfast.
Sam was the first to see me. “Mornin’, Aurora!” She flashed one of her amazing smiles at me that made me melt.
I scratched my neck in embarrassment.
“Who the hell is Aurora?” Mitch asked.
“Clearly you aren’t up to speed with Disney princesses, Mitch,” said a middle-aged white guy with no tattoos, earrings, or any other stereotypical convict extravagances. “Aurora is Sleeping Beauty.”
Everyone looked at him. He shrugged. “My daughter was obsessed. I know all the princesses—from Cinderella to Mulan.”
“Mulan wasn’t a princess,” I said. The looks shifted to me. “I have no excuse for knowing that. Go ahead and deduct thirty man points from me.”
“Touché, Jhalon!” the white guy exclaimed. “Mulan was not a princess.”
I managed to make friends with the nerd. Not to mention, I’m sure my princess knowledge really impressed Sam—the new love of my life.
“Man points?” Mitch said with a sneer. “You two should have your credentials completely stripped.”
“Why didn’t you mention Tiana?” Sam asked. “You could’ve said ‘from Cinderella to Tiana’.”
The white guy smiled. “Because I’m a racist bigot.”
Sam laughed. “Finally you admit it, Austin. Racist.” They both laughed.
Danny walked to the fire and sat on a log next to a guy I assumed was his brother, Eric. He looked like Danny but was built like two Dannys. He had a short fro, tattoos scattered around his body that were hard to see on account of how dark his skin was, and a still-healing wound on his torso from the day of his drop-off.
“I see I missed the reunion?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Eric said. “It was like in the movies—we ran in slow motion to one another on the beach with music in the background, and when we met, I spun him in circles until we were both dizzy.”
“We all wept,” Sam added.
I chuckled. I liked Eric already. “Sounds moving. Those have always been some of my favorite scenes in all the chick-flicks I watch. Sorry I missed it.”
“Minus another twenty man points,” Sam said, giving me a grin.
Was she flirting with me?
“Alright,” she moved on before I could fantasize. “Let’s get serious now, yeah? We discussed the map and a few tidbits last night, but let’s get some things ironed out. Here’s the deal with the pot field: Miguel’s the top dog in Las Astillas. You heard of ‘em?”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. “The Splinters? Yeah, some of the guys from Mason’s group told me.”
“I ain’t heard of ‘em,” Mitch interjected. “I was in a hole.”
“Basically they’re the baddest Mexican cartel around. Super sophisticated and diversified—drugs, sex, and guns. You name the trafficking, they do it,” Sam explained.
Mitch nodded.
“And they’re violent,” Cammie added. “Beheading, torture, slaughter, assassinations, kidnapping. They like getting their hands dirty.”
The sun was to my left, about an inch above the water. Some people I hadn’t met were in the ocean up to their knees, spears in hand, still as statues while they hoped fish would swim near them.
“But their specialty is drugs,” Austin jumped in.
“The pot plot belongs to The Splinters?” Danny asked.
“Pot plot,” Sam said. “I like that. And yeah, I’d assume it’s one of many spots.”
“Wouldn’t they deal harder stuff than dope?” Mitch asked. “Pot don’t seem like a big cash cow.”
“Especially with it getting legalized in the US,” I added. “Pot can’t make that much.”
“They diversify, for sure,” Austin said. “That’s why they deal in drugs, weapons, and sex. But about thirty percent of most cartel’s export revenue comes from dope.”
; What the heck did he do to get sent to prison, let alone to the island? There was no way this skinny white guy that knew all the Disney princesses killed someone. Maybe he cooked someone’s books? A mob’s accountant or something?
Austin continued. “Shoot, it’s cheaper in some places for people to buy illegal pot than legal stuff. Cartels accommodate their appropriate markets.”
“Does that mean this island is near Mexico?” I asked.
Sam shrugged.
“But the gang was starting to expand northeast,” Austin countered. “We could be anywhere along the US coast. Or by Mexico. Who knows.”
Behind me, some girls wove leaves into sails or blankets or something. I was still confused about this Miguel guy. “So, Miguel was the gang leader, got busted, and was sent here? Was he with Mason’s drop-off?”
“Well now, that’s the interesting part of the story,” Sam explained. “We don’t believe Miguel is a convict, or that The Splinters are here.”
“What do you mean? They have to be here,” I said.
“Why?” Cammie asked. “This island ain’t protected by some magical barrier that doesn’t allow access to it. If somebody knows when to come here—like when the government ain’t dropping any prisoners off—then it’s the perfect spot to grow as much crap as they want.”
Good point. They’d know that no governing agency came to the island, but that they just drop convicts off at a distance. And the dealers would have 24-hour protection from random people dropping in—it was full of convicts that’d easily dispose of anybody foolish or unlucky enough to stumble their way onto the island. “So Mason keeps tabs on when the agency drops prisoners off so they can avoid the police,” I concluded. “Which would be why he was concerned when my unscheduled group showed up.”
“You’re saying,” Danny put in, “that The Splinters have this island as one of their spots for making their dope—”
“—And Mason keeps the operation running here, yes,” Sam finished.
I thought of Robbie and his notes. Was he working with Sam? “How’s Robbie fit into all this?” I asked.
Everybody in Sam’s group looked at me, confused. Sam asked, “Who’s Robbie?”
“I was in his cabin. He was killed before I got here. He wasn’t working with you, like Darryl?”
Sam shook her head. “He wasn’t one of ours. Maybe this Robbie guy figured out what the hell was going on and didn’t like it. I dunno.”
“Not everybody knows what’s going on here,” Austin added. “Mason keeps a tight lid on it. Maybe Robbie got power-hungry. Maybe he wanted to replace Mason.”
“Or maybe he figured something out that he wasn’t supposed to know,” Cammie said.
Yawning, I stood and stretched. I saw a pair of guys sitting on the beach just outside our circle, sharpening sticks for God knows what. I sat back down. “Combining what Xavier told me about Robbie and the notes Robbie left makes me doubt he’s the kind of guy that’d wanna take over.”
“Notes?” Sam sounded intrigued.
“Hidden in his bungalow,” I explained. I described how the notes told me about The Solos, X and his spots, the dynamite clue, and his final entry that indicated his upcoming death.
When I finished, Sam said, “He said to find us, yeah? Well that just makes me feel all warm inside. But I never knew him.”
“What’s he mean about the snake stuff?” Danny asked, referencing one of the notes I’d discussed—Make the snake eat itself.
“It’s clearly a symbol, little brother,” Eric said.
“Well then enlighten us all,” Danny said sarcastically.
“The snake’s gotta be Mason and Miguel and The Splinters organization. To make it eat itself means we gotta make it self-destruct,” Eric suggested.
“Actually, in mythology and alchemy, the snake eating itself—also known as Ouroboros—represents the cyclical nature of life.”
We all stare at Austin. This freakin’ guy…
“The hell you say?” Mitch asked, putting into words what we were all thinking.
“It deals with infinity and wholeness,” Austin clarified.
“I’m gonna go ahead and assume Robbie had no idea about that crap,” Eric said. “I think he was suggesting to make The Masonites implode.”
“Any ideas on how to do that?” Sam asked.
“Yeah,” I said after a moment of silence. “We make them turn on each other. Mason is a psycho control freak.” I started putting up fingers to indicate each point: “He offed one of his own guys out of fear. He’s worried somebody is gonna take his place. He beat Daryl to within an inch of his life over knives. He controls everyone with fear.” I lowered my hand and made a fist. “We need to eliminate his power, or at the very least, make him think he’s losing power.”
Danny raised his hand. “Excuse me, but umm…Mason’s dead. Did you forget that I slammed a knife into his gut?”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t mean he’s dead. He could be. Or he could be recovering. Villains never die in the first attempt—don’t you watch movies?”
“This is real. This ain’t no movie,” he retorted.
“And you ain’t no Batman,” I joked. “I understand this isn’t the movies. But I still doubt you killed him—you didn’t stab him in the heart or anything.”
Danny put his head down, sad that there was doubt about the success of his attempted assassination.
Sam changed course. “I don’t suppose you have the dynamite on ya?”
“Oh gee, yeah,” I said, patting my pretend pockets on my chest and hips. “I just carried fifteen sticks of dynamite with me through the jungle after I fought Mitch in the ring.”
“Can you get it?” Cammie asked. “Since Darryl got caught with the knives, we’re pretty limited on our weapons cache.”
Xavier would have no problem joining The Solos. He was not a Masonite anymore—especially after Mason forced him to fight me. And if I told him that Mason killed Robbie—not The Solos or a boar or whatever other lie Mason told—he’d for sure join us.
“I think I could get it and bring back an ally,” I finally said, hoping I sounded braver than I felt. The idea of sneaking back into Masonville made me want to walk out into the ocean and never stop. “But it won’t be easy. We’ll have to be ninjas. But are you just thinking that we blow Masonville up and everybody that happens to be there?”
“No,” Sam clarified. “I’m not some psychopath like Mason. We’ll figure out a plan, but getting that dynamite is a good start, yeah?”
“Miguel’s next pickup is approaching, according to his map,” I added. Sam’s eyebrows rose. “This may be the best day to get into the cabins. There may be less guards in camp since they’d be prepping the fields. We should go back today.”
They all nodded in silent agreement. Except Austin. “We cannot do anything against Mason right now. We have no weapons. And because of the attack, we also have no element of surprise.”
“Austin, we can’t sit on our asses,” Cammie said. “The lack of weapons is why we should send some people to get the dynamite. Maybe even more weapons if we come across ‘em. Jhalon, you know where he’d keep the gun?”
“No clue.”
“Cammie’s right,” Sam said. “We gotta go back. How many you figure should make the trip?”
It was quiet for a second before I realized she was asking me. I shrugged, uncomfortable making decisions. “I don’t know how to get back there. I’d need an island guide—the fewer the better. No need to be clunking around the jungle and risk being seen.”
“Great. Get some food, and we’ll head out—I can go with ya, yeah?”
I gave Sam a thumbs up, hiding my excitement at making the trip with just the two of us. “Two cons strolling through a boar-infested jungle sprinkled with giant cats into a camp controlled by a power-hungry one-eyed psycho ruling other cons deemed bad enough to be sent to an uninhabited island. What could go wrong?”
Within an hour, Sam and I made our way out of th
e cliff area that had led me and Danny and Mitch to the hideout. We headed south to find the very hard-to-see trail that joined the Masonville path eventually, then went right to go west.
“So,” I said, ten minutes into our projected hour-long hike, “What’s your story?”
“I’m nineteen and from Philly. What else you wanna know?”
The sun was more powerful and sliced in and out of the jungle canopy. I couldn’t believe she told me her real age. Squinting, I asked, “Favorite cereal?”
“Captain Crunch.” She smiled.
“Aww you’re way off. Fruity Pebbles, hands down.”
She laughed. “I didn’t realize there was a right and wrong answer.”
“There’s always a right and wrong answer.” I feared my next question, but asked anyway. “Can I ask what got you here?”
She took a deep breath. “Murder.”
Murder? I was flabbergasted. The most beautiful girl I’d ever met was a murderer? I had to remind myself she was sent here for a reason, but I hoped the murder was a farce like mine.
My face must’ve shown my surprise because she continued without me having to ask. She stopped walking and her amazing eyes gazed into mine. “You know how it goes . . . mom’s dickhead boyfriend . . . my eight-year-old sister. No one was doing anything about it, so . . .” she trailed off. “Anyway, he won’t be hurting anyone else. Ever.”
She said it so matter-of-factly that I couldn’t even respond. Didn’t know how to respond. She started walking again. “What about you, slick? What did you do?”
“Same,” I said. Yeah, it was a lie, but I was safer—much safer—with the reputation of a murderer. It was weird being ashamed of not being a convict. I didn’t elaborate on my fictitious murder because when I’m nervous I get an unfortunate case of diarrhea of the mouth—I’d probably end up saying I murdered a high-ranking diplomat and the US government sent me here as punishment.
Once we reached the fork in the creek, it was a straight shot north to Masonville. I wasn’t excited about my return. Knowing the bedlam from the other night and the attempted assassination, I figured I was a tad high on the Do Not Let Live list. I doubted Mason would be very forgiving for me having displeased him.