Marooned

by Travis Smith

  Maldeive’s broad grin somehow widened. His dark eyes did not falter or break away from Patrick’s gaze. “There, there,” he cooed. He tucked his cane beneath one armpit and steadied the boy atop his stand, slipping the rope over Patrick’s head.

  Patrick heaved in an enthusiastic breath and allowed his body to fall off his plank onto both feet. His legs quivered beneath his weight, and he sank to his hands and knees.

  “Ain’t that better?” Maldeive asked. He spread his arms wide for the crowd behind him. A murmur of unsure approval rolled through the crowd this time. “Surely your youthful spirit ain’t ready to wander the lands in search o’ purpose again.”

  “Fuck you,” Patrick croaked.

  Maldeive reached beneath the boy’s chin and lifted his head back up to meet his gaze once more. Now he spoke softly, so only Patrick could hear. “I guarantee ya when it’s your time, I’ll have a better offer for that soul o’ yours.”

  Another gunshot rang out—this time much closer than the previous ones. Patrick flinched, expecting a bullet to end his suffering at last, but no such bullet came. Instead, one of the nearby guards who’d assimilated to Maldeive’s rhetoric collapsed in a heap. Now the smooth-talking swindler’s smile did falter. Patrick looked back up in time to savor the look of panic in his hypnotic eyes before the man stumbled backward and retreated toward cover.

  Maldeive had planned every detail of his insurgence of Fanxel, but this shooting was not a part of that plan. He had two men for every guard in the prison, all posted in hiding, guns trained on the guards. Who was doing this shooting, and how had none of his men stopped them before they got this close? After diving behind the closest row of cells, he ventured a look back. Two boys had come out of the shadows of the nearby barracks and were now firing bullet after bullet into the crowd of unsuspecting guards that Maldeive himself had coaxed and unarmed.

  “Patrick!” one of the boys yelled. “Get back!”

  Another in the small crowd behind him tossed a glass bottle filled with alcohol toward the crowd. It had been stuffed with a cloth fuse that was lit. When it hit the packed dirt, it shattered and sprayed a wall of weak flame at the guards who were now scattering in a panic, leaving their weapons on the ground.

  “Little bastards,” he muttered through gritted teeth. His charlatan smile was now a vicious sneer beneath dark eyes. “Fucking up everything!” He glanced around for his men to ensure he had the cover he’d need to disappear from the rising chaos.

  Patrick bounded to his feet and threw his arms around his friend. “I’m so sorry!” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”

  Jake continued shooting into the thinning crowd of guards as they scrambled back into the cover of the barracks. The group of prisoners behind them tossed more of their glass fire-bombs toward them, setting the prison courtyard ablaze.

  Brandon clapped Patrick on the back. “Not now, ya twat. We’ll decide who’s to blame once we’re out of here. Where is Olivia?”

  Patrick pulled away from his embrace with a grim expression. It told Brandon all that he needed to know. She wasn’t here.

  His smile faded. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, hoisting his gun back up. The guards were regrouping behind their cover and taking aim at the group of prisoners. He pointed at one of the nearby weapons the guards had left. “Get that!”

  “We have to get them down,” Patrick said, pointing toward the three others who were balancing on one toe beneath their nooses. “Help me!”

  Brandon drew his knife and rushed to the others. They were standing up too high for the boy to reach their nooses to cut, but he was able to saw through the ropes binding their hands behind their backs. One by one, he cut them free, and they were able to pull their own necks out of the traps.

  “Thank you, son,” John said. He was beaming at Brandon despite being a few short breaths from death just moments before.

  “Let’s get these ’n’ get outta here!” Robert shouted at the group. He lurched forward toward the guns scattered around, but before he could reach them, a spray of bullets pelted through the sand around him.

  Jake and Brandon pulled back and took aim at the guards who were now re-armed and coming back full-force. They fired as quickly as they could, but they were vastly outnumbered. Patrick made one more dash for one of the guns, but they were too far away, and the guards were closing in now. The group threw two more fire-bombs toward the guards, but this time they dodged them with ease.

  “Get back!” Brandon shouted. “Behind the tower!”

  The prisoners wasted no time, and Patrick and his three new companions followed suit. They retreated around the guard tower, and Robert found his sling of arrows that had been tossed aside. He snatched them up and handed the other two to Maria and John.

  “Not much good against that lot!” Maria shouted over the growing gunfire.

  Brandon and Jake backed themselves to the edges of the tower and continued firing into the advancing guards. They were careful to fire single, accurate shots at a time, despite the tempting firing rate of the weapons. Their shots were effective, but there would soon be far too many guards to defend against.

  Patrick scanned the area, but they were on the southwest corner of the prison. There was only expansive desert in all directions. The barracks were a long stretch away to his left, but the group would never make a dash of that length. “Some rescue plan!” he shouted to Brandon. “What now?”

  “This wasn’t my plan at all, you ass!” Brandon shouted back. He dodged another barrage of bullets and spun himself behind the cover of the guard tower as they pelted against the frame. “Fuck!”

  Soon, Jake, too, had stopped firing. He ducked around the far side of the tower and shook his head at the others. There were too many to fend off.

  “There’s nowhere to go,” Patrick said. “We’ll never make it across the desert, and we’ll never make it to those barracks.”

  The guards’ haphazard firing slowed and eventually ceased. Brandon closed his eyes and lay the back of his head against the tower, his chest heaving. “There’s no choice—” he began.

  But before the first of the guards made their way around the tower, another gunshot rang out, this time from farther away across the prison. Shouts of surprised fury rushed through the crowd on the other side of the tower, and Brandon peered around the tower’s edge to see the encroaching group of guards with their backs to him, now focusing on a new onslaught coming from behind.

  He turned back and faced Jake. “It’s Boss!” he called. “I thought that lying bitch said he was holed up for good!”

  As the words escaped his mouth, he saw Corina bolting out of the barracks and rushing toward them. He raised his weapon at her, and she waved her hands at him in unconcerned annoyance.

  “I lied an’ said they were all lounging. Told him it was his best chance at catching them unarmed,” she said with a wink.

  “Conniving bitch,” Brandon reiterated.

  “You don’t know the beginning of it,” she replied. She turned to face the rest of the small group. “This is our only chance. There isn’t much time. Follow me. Do not stop, do not slow, and do not look back.”

  She pulled Jake beside her and walked around the edge of the tower with determination. Weapons held high, she and the two boys fired with mortal precision. The guards were now trapped in the prison center between two assailing groups. Their backs were to the prisoners as Boss and his loyalists had posted up at the northern end of the prison. The guards began to scatter anew as many of them were cut down in their tracks from all directions.

  Corina led the group forward, pushing slowly toward the prison center. Maria, Robert, and John drew their bows and began firing those as well. They struck with ease and lodged into the backs of the men who’d helped hoist them onto those blocks and tied ropes around their necks. As the group moved forward, Patrick and the other prisoners were able to pick up various weapons that had been left behind, dropped by the slain guards.

  As their
army grew, the guards’ army shrank. Boss’s group of roughly fifteen had already been cut in half by the scrimmage.

  “Get to your cell doors!” Corina yelled over the gunfire. “If you want to live, stand at the bars now!”

  “What?” Brandon hollered at her, but she ignored him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Get to your cell bars now!” she continued to yell as she made her way through the prison center. She motioned at the prisoners who were still locked inside their cells. Gesturing in a come-hither fashion, she continued barking orders at them all the while.

  “That bitch is escapin’ wit’ my pris’ners!” Boss yelled as Corina and her group drew near the northern edge of the prison. He crouched and scarcely avoided an incoming bullet from Brandon’s gun. “Bitch is shootin’ at us!”

  “Keep your aim on them!” she called out. “If they stand, cut them down! I rigged the cells with explosives, and the fuses will be quite short by now. We have to get out of here now!”

  Brandon and Jake looked at one another, eyes wide with excitement.

  Patrick was keeping an eye out behind them. Most of the guards had retreated into the barracks, but he continued firing warning shots whenever any attempted to sneak back out.

  “We had a plan laid out!” he called, nodding toward Maria, Robert, and John. “If we can make it north through that desert, we might survive this yet!”

  8

  “Who’s ’at?” Greggy asked. He smiled delightedly as one of the Fanxel guards stepped out from behind a rock near his and Ian’s hiding place.

  Ian recognized the scabby man instantly.

  Skuttler’s thin frame stood hunched, seemingly beneath the weight of the massive weapon he held pointed at Ian and Gregoire. “Yer little plan’s gonna be cut short,” he sneered.

  Skuttler wasn’t sure who this Resin character was, but he’d been given more of an opportunity to prove his worth than he ever had with Boss. He had scurried across the desert back to the nearby campsite just as Patrick, Maria, Robert, and John were arriving at Fanxel to have their plan ambushed. He tittered with glee each time he thought of Resin blindsiding the deceitful snakes and stringing them all up. None of that would have been possible without his invaluable assistance.

  He was scouring the crannies around the now-empty campsite when the distant series of explosions rattled the earth. He stood at immediate attention and surveyed the distant horizon. Dread washed over him as tendrils of black smoke rose into the evening sky. He could not have predicted that one of Fanxel’s own guards would have lined the walls of each cell with explosives, but he knew that whatever was unfolding was likely to bear grim consequences for his mission.

  Nonetheless, Skuttler carried on. He’d continued his search for quite a while before finding the nearby canyon where Ian and Gregoire were hiding in wait.

  “What’s yer game, anyhow?” he now prodded, relishing his foil as he marched the pair back out of the canyon and toward the campsite.

  Ian stolidly plodded forward without a word while Greggy gazed at the sunset without obvious woe.

  Skuttler poked the old man in the back with his gun and shoved him forward.

  “Oof,” Gregoire groaned.

  “No game,” Ian said, turning to rush to his brother’s aid. “There is no game, sir.”

  Skuttler’s lips spread and bore a spiteful grin. “No use lyin’ now, boys. They already got yer mates strung up at Fanxel.”

  Ian glanced into the man’s gleeful eyes and knew he was truthful.

  “It’s over fer all of ye,” Skuttler growled. He seized Ian’s smock and drew him near. “But first yer gonna tell me where ’at Stranger’s holed up.”

  Ian pulled his face away from the man’s scabbed and weeping sores. “Stranger?” he asked, eyes narrowing with confusion.

  “Yer cellmate! Don’ play dense wi’ me, ya crazed spook! I knew ye was escapin’ from the very start.”

  Ian shook his head and struggled to pull away from Skuttler’s grasp.

  Greggy had again grown unbothered and wandered off to one side.

  “Ay! Get back here!” Skuttler called.

  “Very hot,” he mumbled before stumbling to his knees in the desert sand.

  Skuttler let go of Ian’s shirt and hurried toward the elder.

  Ian followed, hands held before him in humble plea. “He needs water. He’s taken in little all day.”

  “Ye’ll get water when yer in yer cell,” Skuttler growled, shoving Ian aside. “On yer feet, old coot. If ye wanted t’ be fed, ye shouldn’t’ve escaped!” He hoisted him upright and shoved him forward again.

  Greggy staggered and slowly trudged forward without protest.

  Skuttler turned back toward Ian. “Come on. March!”

  The trio plodded in silence for a pace before Greggy began to stumble again. He called out and listed sharply to his right.

  “Greggy, no!” Ian called, but the man tumbled forward and wind-milled to keep his balance before landing heavily in the sand. “Watch out!”

  Skuttler raised his weapon and rushed toward the old man. Ian’s word of desperate caution stopped him in his tracks. “Watch out fer what?” he asked, now standing between Ian and the old man panting in the sand.

  Silence hung over them.

  His eyes darted to and fro along the sand. There was no discernable danger that he could spot. He turned and raised his gun to point it at Ian. “Watch out fer what?” he repeated.

  “For—for falling,” Ian stammered.

  Skuttler shook his head. He kept the gun trained at Ian’s face, but he turned on the spot to better investigate the desert floor.

  “Help him up,” Ian begged. “Please.”

  Skuttler ignored the man and began kicking away the sand all around the elderly man, who was now lying on his side as if to fall asleep. His foot caught on something of a different consistency buried beneath the sandy surface. “Don’ ye fuckin’ move!” he growled at Ian before stooping and digging with his one free hand. He unearthed a bundle of sticks that was woven into an expansive flat sheet beneath the sand. Atop this were scattered leaves so that sand could be scattered on top to conceal it. “The fuck is this?” he demanded, standing back upright.

  But Ian’s gaze was fixed on the southern horizon.

  Skuttler followed the man’s line of sight to spot a large group headed through the desert toward them. He snarled and nearly dropped to his hands and feet, like a threatened wild animal. His back hunched as he craned his neck around and growled at Ian. In lurching gallops, he side-stepped and snatched Greggy up out of the sand onto his knees and placed his gun against the side of his head. “Who the fuck is that?” he snarled.

  Ian raised his hands before his face and bowed low in an unconscious gesture of submission. “Please, sir! I know not who that is! Please lower your—your—your weapon from my brother!”

  Skuttler’s inhuman face conveyed a momentary look of confusion at the notion of these two being brothers, but he did not comment. He slowly backpedalled and dragged the man through the sand.

  Greggy grunted and writhed in his grasp. “Hng—hurting …”

  “Not a step, or I’ll carve ye both out an’ shit in yer skulls!” Skuttler’s tongue flicked wildly from one corner of his mouth to the other. His mouth frothed furiously as saliva flew from the erratic-moving tongue.

  Ian remained in a kneeling and bowed position, not daring to move. They sat in motionless wait as the group drew nearer.

  “What’s ’is slap-assin’ here then?” a voice demanded as the crowd approached. There were no fewer than fifteen guards with guns aimed at the three men in the sand.

  “B—Boss?” Skuttler stammered.

  “What’s ’is scabby slug doin’ with my pris’ners?” Boss asked. The question was directed to no one in particular.

  “Uh—ah.” Skuttler struggled to speak. He grew partially more erect and regained a few of his more human-like mannerisms.

  “Put down ’at shooter
, boy, an’ I mightn’t put a bullet righ’ through ’at oozin’ gash on yer neck.”

  “Uh—” Skuttler attempted again. His mind raced. He puzzled but dared not ask what had happened to that Resin man. “B—B—Boss, I been tryin’ t’ talk t’ ye.”

  “Put it down now, or I’ll lock ye up too an’ sell yer ass fer next t’ nothin’!”

  Skuttler lowered the weapon minutely. “I was j—j—jus’ fetchin’ yer pris’ners, Boss. They ’scaped from their cell r—r—right under yer nose!”

  Boss interpreted this as a personal slight. He snatched a gun from the hands of the man behind him and stepped forward, leveling it at Skuttler’s head. Ian glanced down as the man approached the outer edge of the gaping hole in the earth from which they’d previously escaped, only to then conceal with woven thatch and bury in sand.

  Before Boss could speak—or pull the trigger—a thwap sound broke the loaded silence, and the man directly behind Boss collapsed to the ground, an arrow through his back. The group turned in unison to see the very group of escaped prisoners they’d pursued out of the valley following the explosions.

  Patrick had led the small caravan across the desert toward their campsite. They knew the guards would regroup and pursue them closely, and Ian and Greggy were lying in wait to help ambush and corral them toward the hidden trap they’d lain over the hole that Maria, Robert, and John had pulled them through. As they approached, they’d seen the three silhouettes of Skuttler, Ian, and Greggy in the distance and knew that something had gone wrong. Patrick pulled the group into a nearby canyon and hid in silence as Boss and his guards rushed past.

  Now they’d flanked the guards and approached from behind. As they lobbed arrows and fired shots into the crowd, Boss cowered behind the group of guards and slowly backed away.

  Skuttler heaved the old man up higher to shield himself completely. His hands quivered, and his finger jumped on the trigger of his gun. He nearly fired it by accident, but his survivor’s will engaged in time. He knew the old man was the only protection and leverage he could maintain in this moment, so he stood his ground.