by Mark Mosley
Cammie shook her head.
“Perfect.” I smiled and shared my plan.
While I went to the front of the plane with my stick of dynamite where Mason would see me, Mitch and Eric snuck to the door and waited, crouching with their muscles tense. Sam hid under the cockpit window.
“Mason!” I yelled at the cockpit window. His head slowly popped up. “Well hey, dickhead. That plane is gonna be your coffin in about five seconds. I’m not letting my last stick of dynamite go to waste.” I lit the wick. “You killed Xavier. You killed Robbie. I hope you burn!”
I threw the dynamite under the front of the plane. It splashed in front of Sam and she picked it up and cut the wick in half before the spark reached the stick. But as far as Mason was concerned, there was dynamite beneath him. His face disappeared.
A second later, the door whipped open and Mason jumped out, leaping over Mitch and Eric. He fired blindly behind him, hitting Mitch in the shoulder. “Shit!” Mitch screamed. He spun and fell beneath the surface, the clearness of the water turning pink as the blood darkened its purity.
Mason fired at Eric but missed. Eric tackled him, pulling him down. Mason was on his back as he was dragged into the water, still pulling the trigger. Bullets shot harmlessly into the sky. Cammie high-stepped towards them like a lifeguard and grabbed the weapon with one hand then punched Mason in the mouth with the other. Together, she and Eric dragged him to the beach.
Mitch struggled through the sand to get to shore, holding his hand up to his shoulder. Guilt washed over me once again. How many would have to die or get hurt for me to escape?
Mason released a maniacal laugh like the hero’s nemesis forces out when they know they’re beaten. While they tied him to a large, curled and withered drift log in front of the jungle, I ran to Mitch.
He waved me off. “I’m fine. Went right through.”
“Well—”
“—Jhalon,” Mason interrupted. I turned to him. “It looks like you got what you wanted. Congratulations. Are you planning to kill me while I am tied up? Or leaving me here to starve?”
I thought about it. Or at least, I let Mason think I was thinking about it. Then I nonchalantly said, “Haven’t decided.”
I turned back and gazed at the beach and ocean. The boat was getting further away, though not making great time, which was good—with any luck, we’d be able to follow it to land. Getting stuck inside the plane without gas while attempting to traverse the ocean would be quite the downer. Sam instructed some of our guys to gather our provisions hidden in the brush and load it onto the plane.
“Ya know,” Mason said, “if you go back on that plane, word will get out about what you did here, Jhalon. You will be a hunted man by Las Astillas. They are not going to be happy. They will think you killed their fearless leader. It will be your blood they seek to spill.”
“Let’s just go,” Mitch said to me. Sam nodded in agreement.
“Just go?” Mason interrupted. “You hear what I said? You ever been hunted by a gang? Or more importantly, hunted by the most notorious Mexican gang ever? They won’t just kill you. Trust me on that.”
“Mason. I believe that’s a risk we’re gonna have to take. In fact, I believe if we stay on this island, it’ll be way worse.”
“How do you figure?”
“Well, as you said, word will get out what went down here. Las Astillas will come here.” Mason’s eyes changed from confident to fearful. “They’ll be looking for blood—as you said. They won’t bring their workers in white suits. They’ll send thugs with guns and machetes and knives and whatever other terrible instruments of torture and death you can comprehend.”
“But you’ll probably be dead before that,” Cammie interjected. “We leave you here tied up, the animals or starvation will get ya before The Splinters. Trust me on that.”
There was movement in the bushes behind Mason. A person slid out silently. He had a knife. Smiley. His leg was bandaged from my stabbing him, and he moved with a limp.
What the hell did he want? He didn’t come charging out to save his leader, nor did he try to sneak up and get the jump on us. There was a crazy look in his eyes—as if he’s been brought to his breaking point…
He must’ve felt betrayed by Mason. My earlier words had gotten to him. And more importantly, while trying to do something to please Mason, he lost Devin—his best friend. And Mason was about to leave the island. Without him. Smiley wanted revenge. Mason didn’t know Smiley was behind him. It was time for Smiley to hear some truth.
“Mason, before I leave, I just gotta know: how’d you set up your empire? How’d you manage to manipulate and control everyone?”
He laughed. Because Mason was obsessed with telling stories, I waited for the classic villain monologue. Aaaaaand action!
“Getting them to follow me was easy. I provided them with food and lies about protecting them from other ruthless gangs—sometimes Miguel came to put on shows of strength for us, and I would heroically fight them off. And I guaranteed all these saps freedom through a promotion line.”
“Promotion line?”
“I dangled freedom in front of them like treats for a pup.”
“But they never had a chance of getting off the island,” I clarified, shooting a glance at Smiley, who leaned in to hear Mason’s words.
“Hell no.”
“Not even Zigor?”
“Him yes. Miguel was going to send his thugs to the island before the next convict drop-off and help Zigor dispose of everyone still here. They would establish a new empire using the new group, with Zigor in control.”
Smiley’s eyes flashed in anger.
“You were going to kill everybody? Even your most loyal guys like Devin, Smiley—”
“Those morons? Absolutely,” he chuckled nastily.
“Wow. I feel bad for guys like Smiley. He’s passionate about serving you.”
“That is because he is an idiotic sheep. Or better yet, a mangy dog beneath the dinner table, hoping for scraps from his master.”
Face red, Smiley clenched his fist while spinning the knife in his other hand.
Mason continued. “Smiley would have flashed his stupid smile until the blade went through his neck, pleading for me to save him through the gurgling of his own blood. Now, your brother, Chris, on the other hand . . . that would’ve been interesting.” He chuckled. “Jhalon, I cannot believe with your memory that you have yet to recognize why you were sent here.”
“My memory?” Did he know about my hyperthymesia? How? And what did my condition have anything to do with the island? “Chris . . . ? What are you—”
“Will your condition help you recall these dates? December 27th. January 8th. January 29th. February 15th. March 2nd. March 21st . . .”
I stopped listening to new dates he rattled off, my hyperthymesia kicking into overdrive. On each one, I had met Chris to play basketball. We walked together after each game. What the hell was I missing? “We stopped for pizza each of those nights after hoopin’,” I said quietly.
“Is that the best you can do? I thought your memory was better than that.”
“How do you know about my memory?”
He shrugged, unwilling to give me that information.
I tried to focus on just the evenings. We’d gotten pizza each night, but we parted ways after eating. And every night, Chris stayed later. What did he do after I left? Then, like lightning, images of the parking lot from each night flashed into my head. There was always one car. “The car. The car that had pulled up the night that—”
“—The night your brother—not you—killed a man.” He laughed, happy to prove he knew more about me than I’d assumed. “You have no clue what your brother was a part of. And what you know—what you saw—is more important than you recognize.”
What I saw? What the hell was I missing?
“And to top it off, all you morons haven’t connected the dots as to why you are here.” His laugh became hysterical.
Befor
e I could press him, Smiley snapped. Yelling the names of his fallen friends, he rushed at Mason.
“No!” I screamed, trying to stop Smiley. But he stabbed Mason, who collapsed to his knees, breathing heavily.
“My brother!” I yelled. “How do you know him! What’s he got to do with any of this?” I put my hands in the air, gesturing to everyone. “What do any of us have to do with this?”
“Why are we all here?” someone asked from behind me.
Mason continued laughing despite having just been stabbed. It was a wheezy, gurgling sort of laughter. His final words were low. “You have no clue what you are getting into. Just like your brother. You think Miguel is the head of the snake? You do not know shit.” He slumped forward, the rope holding him from falling face-first. I assumed he was dead but I didn’t check. Nobody did, content to leave him for the island monsters.
Chris? So the name on the map had been a reference to him. Was he in jail? Was he coming here? If I left the island, would we pass each other on the ocean?
We were all silent for a moment. His last words—his last threat—hung in the air. I looked back to the boat, which was even further away now. “We need to get to the plane,” I said quietly, breaking the somber mood. Gently, I touched Smiley’s heaving shoulder. “Join us. There’s nothing here for you.”
He didn’t move for a minute. I jerked my head towards the plane, encouraging the others to start it. They left and I hung back with Smiley, confident he wouldn’t do anything to me—he was broken. His loyalty to Mason had been shattered. I waited for him as the plane engines roared to life. Cammie was probably behind the controls.
Mason was wheezing. I expected Smiley to finish the job, but he must’ve assumed it was as good as done already. I approached Mason and spoke softly. “If you can hear me, tell me about my brother.”
There was a loud splash, and I turned to see Miguel’s body in the water. I hoped they hadn’t planned on treating Xavier with such indifference.
I turned back to Mason, but either he refused to answer, or he couldn’t. The engine revved, and I looked to Smiley. Tears had made wet tracks down his dirt-covered face while his hand holding the knife shook. Once upon a time, Smiley worshiped Mason like a god. Now that idol was destroyed—the curtain pulled away, the Wizard of Oz revealed.
Smiley nodded, almost imperceptibly, and slowly rose. He dropped the knife at Mason’s feet. The blade plunged into the soft sand, the handle left sticking up in the air. We walked to the plane together. I stepped inside and felt like I’d walked into a slaughterhouse. The smell was overwhelming and I felt sick to my stomach. Xavier was on his back, his eyes still open and his arms spread out to his side. I wanted to cry.
Cammie was, as I suspected, in the cockpit pushing buttons and reading a manual. Surely she didn’t think she could actually fly the thing.
Eric sat next to Mitch, holding a towel to his bullet wound. The others stood with me, staring down at Xavier. Sam asked quietly what I wanted to do with him.
“We don’t have time for a proper burial—not if we want to keep up with the boat,” I heard myself respond.
“I don’t like the idea of getting to the mainland with a corpse to unload,” Danny said. “Especially a corpse this size.”
He was right.
“Give me one minute.” I leapt out of the plane and high-kneed my way onshore. When I reached the field, I bent low while running, fearful of being spotted by a massive cat or boar. I made my way to the jungle. About thirty feet in, I spotted it: a patch of Xavier’s flowers—frangipanis.
I grabbed a fistful, careful not to destroy the petals. For the first time, I appreciated their beauty that Xavier was obsessed with—a reddish center that turned into a dazzlingly perfect yellow that reached towards the end of the petal, only to fade into a pure white.
Getting back and boarding the plane, I told Cammie to hit the gas and follow the boat. She did, and we headed northwest, skittering along the surface, using the plane as a ski boat with the ship as our north star. The ride was rough on the ocean waves, forcing us to lurch up and down.
While I was getting the flowers, someone had found towels and put them on the seats so we didn’t have to sit in the blood of Miguel. Or Xavier. And someone closed Xavier’s eyes.
Thirty minutes passed, during which time I shared my plan to bury Xavier at sea. I refused to do it within sight of the damned island—the island that turned the gentle giant into a killer. But also a savior. He deserved freedom. If any convict ever had the capabilities to be noble and gentle-hearted, it was Xavier.
When the island disintegrated into nothing in the distance, Sam, Eric, and Danny helped me move Xavier to the door. Cammie idled the seaplane for a moment while I slipped out into the ocean, forgetting my fear of water. My finger stump objected to the salt water, but I ignored it. Sam came out with me.
We pulled his head and shoulders from the plane first while Eric and Danny assisted with the feet from inside. Once out, I crossed Xavier’s arms in front of his chest, laying each hand on the opposite shoulder, allowing his python arms to cover the bullet holes. Placing the flower stems beneath his arms so the petals poked out, I thanked God Xavier’s eyes were now closed—I didn’t have the strength of mind to force his lids shut.
I prayed. Nothing grand, but appropriate. Time was short, and treading water with my wounds was tiring. In my final goodbye, I thanked him for rescuing me twice and willingly sacrificing his life to save mine. It’s a debt I’ll never be able to repay, but one for which I’ll be eternally grateful. I made a pledge to him and myself that I’d find his family—the ones that didn’t betray him—and tell them what a hero he was.
I followed everyone back into the plane, not taking my eyes off the body as it slowly sank beneath the surface. I got onboard, happy to have solid ground beneath me, even if it was floating on water. Cammie got us moving again, the boat still within eyesight, though fading. She’d have to pick up speed.
I sat on the bench and gazed out the window. The sun started its setting sequence that Adam claimed to have been fond of—or was it the sunrises he particularly liked? I couldn’t remember. So much of what happened on that God-forsaken island was a blur of lies, deception, hate, greed, envy, and power.
Like the birds flitting across the glowing orange bulb that touched the water in the distant horizon, Xavier’s floating corpse became a part of the sunset. I turned away and looked at Smiley who hadn’t moved a muscle. His eyes were glued to his hands. I wondered what was going through his mind…in the span of twenty-four hours, he lost his best friend and killed the man he revered and expected to lead him to salvation. Did he know what happened with Darryl and John? Would he talk to me eventually and tell me if they were alive?
These questions shifted my focus to the future, which led to more questions surfacing like lava from an erupting volcano. What would we all do when we reached land? Stay together? Would The Splinters really hunt us down like Mason suggested? Exactly how far away from home were we? If Miguel wasn’t the head of the snake, who was? And what was going on with my brother?
I abandoned the questions and forced myself to be content for the moment. Sam sat by me. She gently put her hand over my good one and squeezed. My other hand throbbed, the adrenaline starting to wear off. Sam glanced at my missing pinkie and gave me a sympathetic smile. I looked into her beautiful blue eyes and smiled back.
The uncertainties I had were replaced by one goal: revenge. The Suits had ruined my life.
For the first time since my voluntary incarceration for a crime I didn’t commit, my future wasn’t only filled with questions. It was tinged with hope and purpose.
Epilogue
“That’s the end of my testimony. Or statement, or whatever you call it.” I lean back in my chair, and a sharp pain reminds me of my wound. “Where are those pain pills for my back and thumb that you promised me?”
The room is so stifling that my clothes are glued to my sweaty skin. The stupid officer sitti
ng across from me reaches out and stops the recording. He leaves the room and the other stupid officer whistles, raises his eyebrows, and closes the door as he follows his partner out.
“Hey!” I scream. “You promised me pills and water two hours ago! Agua!”
One of them returns a minute later. The one with a stupid goatee framing his stupid small lips plastered on his stupid face. In one hand he has pills, and in the other is a tiny, worthless cone cup filled to the top with water. “Sorry, Jhalon. Here.” He ignores my “are you freaking kidding me” look and brushes away all of the nothing that is on the grimy table and sits on top of it. “That is quite the tale. But I have a few . . . concerns.”
I throw the pills in my mouth and drink the water in a gulp. “I just spent hours going on record and giving my statement. Everything is exactly as I said. I even told the parts that make me look like an idiot. Hyperthymesia doesn’t lie.”
“Si, si. You mentioned this . . . condition of yours. But, you have no medical diagnosis of this hyper…”
“Thymesia. Hyperthymesia. No, I didn’t ever go to the doctor or anything. My cash flow is pretty non-existent. It’s more like a self-diagnosis kind of thing. Can I get more water? And maybe turn the fan on?” I point to the ceiling fan. It has a busted blade, but it’d be better than nothing.
He looks up at the fan and winces. “I fear that would only push the hot air down to us.”
“There’s a button that switches the rotation so that it can go the other way and actually suck the hot air up into the ceiling. Are you new to this first-world invention?”
“Si, si.” He doesn’t move.
I pull my foot from the table leg—which is attached to my ankle with a small chain. “And you can take this chain off, too.”
“Si, si. Well, you are a felon, no?”
Shrugging, I say, “I mean, technically. But I told you that the shooting wasn’t really my doing.”
“Si, si. It was your brother…” he looks at his notes, pretending that he doesn’t remember one of the most common English names. “Chris?”