by Jeff Schanz
With all their faces painted (or naturally black), and their clothes all black, it was difficult to see them indicate that they were ready to be cut loose. After a momentary delay to make sure he had seen correctly, Alex noticed their signal and pulled in the line they had tossed him. He coiled the rope and returned to his steering wheel.
Tobias clicked on a small handheld communication device. He said in a thick raspy voice, “One, two, three, check, check, check.”
“Read you five by five,” came the voice of Alex.
Tobias said, “First contact in two hours. After that, a three-hour window to re-contact. If no contact in that window, report back that we’re in a compromised situation.”
“Understood,” said Alex.
Tobias smiled to himself. “But you will hear from us before then. So stand by for possible evac.”
The driver nodded, but he was no longer easily visible. “Copy.”
Tobias turned to the two men. They faced him at attention. He produced two photographs and held them up to the men. Despite his raspy voice, Tobias spoke in a clear and commanding tone. “Once again. This is recon unless we encounter any of the targets. This photo is our key secondary target. If anyone kills or encounters this one, let me know immediately. The other secondary does not have a photo. Recall the description you were given. This other photo, the primary target, is to be taken alive. Under no circumstance is lethal force authorized on the primary target. I will shoot the man myself who kills the primary. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said the two men simultaneously.
“I don’t particularly want to go back to the client with bad news, so let’s make this clean and pretty.”
“Yes, sir,” came the tandem response.
Tobias tossed the pictures overboard.
Tobias didn’t have a specific directive from the client to kill both of the secondary targets, just the one. But the primary would likely be guarded by the other secondary, and he felt it was implied when the client threw a wine glass at his head and said to get it done. He felt that things became easily assumed at that point.
Tobias didn’t know the men on his team as well as he’d like. His top three men had just recently been killed by Dekker, and Tobias wasn’t sure how well he trusted these new men. They would know his face, and even though he believed they had no intentions of giving him up to the authorities, nobody could be truly sure how they would react when faced with interrogation or torture. It was always cleaner to just eliminate them after the job was done, hence the C4 in the hull. He could get himself “lost” during the mission and swim out to be picked up by Alex. Let the other two sail the sloop back and blow up in it. Messy situation cleaned.
One of the painted-face men unfurled the sails and the sloop rocked to orient itself to the sails’ pull. The lines were drawn in, tightened, and the tiller straightened. The sloop picked up speed toward the distant island.
* * * *
Brandt slid down the slope to the tiny beach without losing his balance until the very bottom. The speed and abrupt change in friction caused him to take a harsh tumble. He got up, brushed off the dirt, and glanced up at the top of the cliff. As he suspected, there wasn’t an easy way back up. But right then, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back up there.
His conscious mind writhed and wriggled like panicked worms. He would be a useless lump standing there stupefied until he did what he needed to do; what he had done when he was in the Army and was surrounded by a terrifying enemy. When they took him…
He closed his eyes and took a cleansing breath. Then took another. And another. He needed to get a grip, ASAP, and assess the situation in a precise military fashion. That made him the most comfortable right now. When in dire situations before, he had instituted something he liked to refer to as the strongbox in his mind. That’s where he locked up everything that wasn’t necessary for completing the mission and staying alive. It helped to put away one’s feelings and fears while you were carrying out horrific tasks, and later when it was all over you could open the strongbox and let everything come back. It didn’t work perfectly, but it helped. This situation wasn’t dire, just too confusing to sort out immediately.
Maybe she was a vampire, and maybe she wasn’t. She isn’t. You saw a frightened, confused girl with some kind of deformity. It didn't matter right now. It was always best to expect the worst and have a plan ready. If Lia and her dad were really some kind of blood-drinking creatures, then he should be prepared. If the worst-case scenario doesn't happen, then he would still be alive and only feelings were hurt.
So that meant searching for the most immediate way off this island. Seemingly sweet girl or not, Brandt was going to stick with his instinct for survival and make sure he did not fall victim to a vampire.
Strongbox closed and locked. Survival mode engaged.
You’re being a dick. You made that girl feel like she’s a monstrosity, and all she has is…
Stop. No feelings. No guesses right now. If the worst he did was act like an asshole, it would not be the first time and he would still be alive. He had risked his life and offered his service for countless people he never knew, and never would know. He was used to taking risks if the risks were for something definable like saving lives. He was not willing to risk his health over someone's hurt feelings. So… let’s try this again. Strongbox locked. Argument over.
He had things to do now to find a way of getting home and creating a safe camp. He couldn't go back to the house. He needed as much space as possible between him and everything else. Here was as good a place as any to make a secure camp, get settled, then maybe he could reopen that box in his head. But not until then.
He surveyed his surroundings. The little pebbly beach offered no cover and the rocky cliff to the left was not scalable. A tall, rock peninsula jutted out on the left like a crab claw and offered a little shelter from the ocean turbulence and wind in the little cove. Just offshore were several rocks protruding above the water's surface that would make navigation into this cove difficult. On the right was a shallow inlet that flowed like a river into the mouth of a cave. Or was it a tunnel to somewhere?
Although he knew it was unlikely, he held a sliver of hope that there might be something on the other side of the island that could offer him a way off. Was there a boat dock over there that Lia hadn’t told him about? Were there rangers or tourists that used it? And was there a way to get to it via a tunnel under the island? He doubted it, but he kept all possibilities open for the moment. His survivor’s brain was not without hope after all.
He walked toward the cave with a clear purpose, expecting his usually strong will would keep those complicated thoughts smothered in his strongbox. But his mind struggled to do it.
She can’t be a vampire. Vampires don’t exist. It’s fantasy. Whatever Lia is, it can’t be that.
She admitted it. And she has fangs.
Lots of animals have fangs. They aren’t vampires.
Animals eat and aren’t afraid of the sun. And don’t have coffins in the basement.
He pushed the thoughts away. Not now. Focus.
The ground he walked on was a mixture of loose rocks and shells. There was some sand deep underneath it all, but the ocean debris just kept washing ashore and piling up. It gave considerably under his footsteps and made it feel like walking in mud. The level area was small but somewhat clear. There were some stray driftwood and seaweed that had been pushed up high on the shore, but everything else was just the pebbly ground. The good news, if there was any, was that a boat could indeed pull up on this surface without much more than scratches if it was careful. The bad news was that there was no boat here. There was still the possibility that Lia’s father had some kind of boat and pulled in here regularly. Or perhaps, pulled into the cave to the right.
The little cave he thought he had seen from the top was actually a deep cavern that drew water into it, like a river through a tunnel. He waded into it
and was glad to see that the water was deep enough that a boat’s hull would float easily, at least as far as the entrance. The sides and ceiling were made of a unique looking rock. Its multicolored hue that would be amazing to just sit and examine if Brandt was in the right frame of mind, which he currently wasn’t. His survivor’s brain didn’t care about those things.
He tediously made his way along the edge of the cavern, which was an extremely uneven collection of boulders, tangled wood, and other debris. Occasionally slipping, he dunked his feet in the water, and the waterlogged shoes slapped and squished as he climbed and slid down each large rock. He finally rounded a slow bending corner which opened up into a wider cavern. As it got closer to the dead end, it had a kind of sandy shoal which separated the flow inward from a kind of tiny lagoon that was shallow enough to wade through, chest high.
The lagoon cavern had some stalactites on the ceiling that were a combination of a crystal-like substance and some salt or similar residue. The moonlight reflected in the inlet dotted all of the stalactites with dancing lights. Again, probably cool to stare at if he cared, but at the moment he did not.
Across the lagoon was something he thought might be an illusion. Wading across the shallow pool, he stood before the possible mirage. His brain may be a mess, but his eyes worked fine. In front of him, resting on the shore, was a boat.
CHAPTER 8
The boat was a wooden-hulled trawler with sail masts, probably a fifty to sixty-year-old design, but looked far worse from being grounded and eroded all this time. It had a deep drafting hull and was maybe twenty feet long, sort of stubby and short for its type. Though it had been outfitted for fishing at one point, the fishing rigs were gone. Surprisingly, the hull was in pretty good shape despite the peeling paint and cracked wood. What wasn’t in good shape was the mast. Or rather the absence of one. The mainsail had been splintered and completely sheared off near the base. All the rigging was still there, but the mast itself was long gone. The kind of force needed to shear off a mast would be pretty severe, so perhaps the sailors encountered a bad storm and got swamped and broken up, and somehow managed to drift into this little cavern. That probably meant the engine didn’t work either, but Brandt would get around to that in a minute. If the sailors drowned and the boat drifted here on its own, he’d be surprised. Someone probably survived to steer it here, then they somehow got a ride to the mainland. The question was why not come back for the boat? It could’ve been towed in. Unless, of course, the sailors became vampire victims. What were you saying earlier about buried bodies on this island?
Knock it off.
Whatever the case, the boat was nosed onto the cavern beach, tilted on its side, dying a slow death of the elements. The mast would be a pain to replace but not impossible if Brandt had the right tools and supplies. However, he didn’t have any of those things. It was a good bet the sails were rotted too. And even though these kinds of boats had choices of engine or sails to get around, the fuel would be bad after sixty years, and there didn’t seem to be a gas station around. Or was there? He had never found out if there was anything over the mountains, and although he had always doubted it, he could still hope. Hope was a good thing.
Brandt examined the engine. It was pretty much destroyed as he expected. Whatever had wrecked this trawler, the engine hadn’t survived it. It had cracked and basically fallen apart. If this thing were to move anywhere it would have to be via sail, which was the only real repairable option.
Was there a way do that? Even to steer him to the next island where he might be able to catch some visiting park maintenance personnel? Doubtful. His options were pretty much down to two: Stay in the cave and jury-rig something to get this poor old beast seaworthy and steerable, or go back to the house and hope for the best. Brandt didn’t want to believe Lia would harm him, but what fool willingly stays at a vampire’s house?
Lia could have some bizarre “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not” disease, or some scientifically explainable medical condition, you know. And then you’d feel like a total ass for acting like she’s some undead monster.
I have no way to determine what she really is. But if she is actually a vampire, then this is the safest play.
He really wanted to keep this debate locked up in his strongbox for now, but it just wouldn’t stay put. He needed to concentrate on assessing the boat’s situation.
Brandt made his way up to the section that was full aground and climbed onto the tilted deck. The little boxy wheelhouse was more or less intact. Besides bird guano, it looked undamaged. There was an old-fashioned compass attached to the dash, and surprisingly, tucked into an open cabinet near the wheel was a flare gun. He assumed the former crew would've used it when they needed to be rescued, but perhaps they found an easier means, or had died before they could use it. There was a box of fishing gear that was so full of gunk that Brandt could barely see any of the items. A few coils of rope were crusty, otherwise visibly intact. Two lanterns were in sad shape, some life preservers that probably wouldn't float anymore, and a bucket that contained something unrecognizable. Toward the back were a rotted hand net, a harpoon in decent condition, and a casting net. The floating balls on the casting net were pitted and torn apart, but not entirely useless, and the net itself seemed ok, as those kinds of nets were made to withstand saltwater elements by their nature. Brandt lifted the net and passed it between his fingers. Though it was a little wide for small things like shrimp, an average-sized fish would be caught easily enough. If fish were roaming around right off the little beach, he might be able to toss the net out and catch a few. It was that or steal some of Lia’s chickens, and he didn’t want to make the situation worse than it already was.
Brandt had already made up his mind that until he could get a handle on the situation, he would have to make the best of it outside the house. As he looked around, this little cavern had as much of what he needed as anything else for his temporary headquarters. For a night? Two? A week? He didn’t know how long and could figure that out once he got his camp situation solved, and basic needs taken care of: food, shelter, and safety. Besides being possible transportation off the island, the boat was also a primary source for the basic necessities as well. He continued his exploration of it.
First, the stored sails. As he had thought, they were rotted, brittle, and torn. Unusable. So the little chunky trawler had no engine to move it, and no mast or sails to move it. So even if he repaired the mast, he'd have to steal some bedsheets from the house, and vampires or no, he considering stealing from them only as a last option.
Brandt sighed and nodded to himself. He refocused his attention on what was in front of him. The sight of the boat had lifted his hopes, but the reality was that it was in no shape to go anywhere, and unless he figured out a way to construct a mast without sufficient supplies, his ability to make the ship a viable option to leave the island was considerably compromised. There had to be a way to fix it. Maybe there’s some things I can ask… Pretty much all methods of fixing this boat required help or materials from Lia and her father. The argument for and against asking favors of vampires was still in limbo. Brandt decided that he’d put his restoration plans on hold for now and just salvage any gear or tools he could scrounge from the boat.
After a thorough search, he sat cross-legged on the cavern shore and assessed his booty. A box of matches that wouldn’t light. A pair of corroded binoculars, not entirely broken. A bullhorn. A toolbox that had a set of rusted screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, and a tiny hammer. A gas can that had watery gas in it. A can of oil. A first aid kit that still had a few things intact. A fire extinguisher which he was afraid to try even if he was engulfed in flames. A pair of rubber boots which were disgustingly dirty, but not torn anywhere. A hatchet wrapped in an oily rag which had only suffered a thin, top layer of rust. A filet knife that also had some surface rust. And a Zippo lighter with a tiny can of butane.
Brandt could make fire like a caveman, the Zippo just made things tremendou
sly easier. There was plenty of dry driftwood piled around and he could get a fire going in no time. And if that casting net held together, he could have himself some fresh fish to cook on an open flame. Brandt’s day had started out well enough, then had been in a dark place for the last couple of hours, but maybe he just brightened it up again.
The net was huge and cumbersome, and he couldn’t spread it like it was designed, but he wasn’t trying to make a living. If one fish accidentally got caught in it, that was all he needed. In the end, two fish did.
The old filet knife, that he thought was too rusty to use, turned out to have just enough blade left after he ground away the rust. It was rubbed and scraped against a rock until there was more shiny metal than iron oxide. He doubted the thing would hold up past a couple of uses, but he could address that issue tomorrow. It was deep into the night now and he wasn’t going to be able to do much without light greater than his campfire, and he needed rest anyway. His bruised and troubled brain needed time to both rest and work things out, so he kept things simple and killed the two fish, gutted them, and scaled them with the knife. Not the easiest task, but he also wasn’t trying to do anything more than get the things edible. He figured he’d cook one for immediate consumption, and the other he’d cook and then wrap in some kind of cloth and bury it in the sand, or under a rock, for later. That trick had been done once in Afghanistan and the meat had stayed fresh enough and kept the flies and predators away.