2050: Psycho Island

by Williams, Phil M.

  Summer lay in her bed, wearing only her underwear which was stuffed with toilet paper to soak up the blood. Her prison uniform was beneath her, providing a barrier so her bare skin didn’t stick to the plastic-covered mattress. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Her breasts leaked milk. The cabin was in total darkness, so dark that she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She’d been on the ship for two days. Although Summer was grateful not to have a roommate, she nonetheless wanted someone to talk to.

  The video had said that the trip would take four days. They’d left in the early evening on Friday. She’d remembered that it was still light outside. It was Sunday now, late. Summer thought maybe eleven or so. She estimated the days and the time by the three meals that were served each day. She guessed that they cut the lights at ten. Her skin felt sticky from sweat. A layer of salt had accumulated over the past two days of constant sweating and no shower. She’d eaten because she knew it was important, but it was hard to have an appetite in this heat.

  She’d had nightmares the first and second nights, nightmares about being chased in the jungle by madmen with machetes. Which is why she couldn’t sleep now. She tried to think of how she might be rescued. Maybe they audited the tests. Maybe they’d find hers in error. Maybe they’d send soldiers to rescue her. Maybe they’d return her beautiful Byron to her. But her mind went to something Connor had said. Back then, it was nothing, just a conspiracy theory. But now it shattered what little hope she had left.

  You have to be brain dead to think they’re only sending psychos to those islands. Guaranteed they’re sending antigovernment activists too. They probably fake the psycho test.

  64

  Naomi and Union Money

  Vernon sat across from Naomi in her congressional office. “We got a nice check from NEA, and I spoke with the President of AFT. He’d like to support us too.”

  Naomi nodded, sitting behind her desk. “Unfortunately, they don’t have much money to give.”

  “It’s a step in the right direction, but you’re right, unions are weak.”

  “They think I can fix the pension system, and I’d like to, but they’ve overpromised and underinvested for sixty years.” Naomi sighed. “I regret saying that I’d guarantee pensions with government money.”

  Vernon shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “People are used to politicians making promises. If you keep a fraction of your promises, the people will be ecstatic.”

  “I’d rather not make any promises I can’t keep.”

  “It’s difficult to get elected without bold promises. People vote for their self-interests. The more you promise, the more votes you’ll get. People understand that you’re not God. They’re not expecting miracles.”

  “Sometimes I really hate this job.”

  Vernon mock-frowned. “But you’re so damn good at it.”

  Naomi laughed and said, “Did you lock the door?”

  Vernon nodded.

  Naomi stood from behind her desk and moved closer to Vernon, her hips rocking beneath her skirt. She sat in his lap, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him on the lips.

  Their lips separated, and she said, “Let’s go to the Mandarin.”

  65

  Derek and the Landing

  They’d been at sea for four days when an announcement was made throughout the ship. Derek hadn’t even noticed the nanospeakers built into the ceiling.

  “This is Captain Draper. Welcome to sunny Puerto Rico and the United States Penal Colony East. Over the next few hours, you’ll be transferred from this ship to a landing craft and delivered to the beach. Guards will be knocking on your cabin doors. When they knock, you will place your hands through the slots on your door. You will then be handcuffed and escorted to the landing craft. If you do not offer your hands, you will be stunned and subdued with hand and leg cuffs. Let’s make this easy on everyone.”

  Captain Draper paused to emphasize the point.

  “Once on the landing craft, your handcuffs will be removed. I’ll say this once and only once. If anyone refuses to exit the landing craft, you will be shot. Once you exit the landing craft, from that point until the end of your life, you are free to do as you please on the island.”

  Cheers erupted from nearby cabins, the psychopaths more than ready to do as they pleased. Derek looked at Connor, who looked white as a ghost.

  “We’ll be fine. We’ll stick together,” Derek said.

  Roughly a half-hour later, a knock came to their cabin door. Derek and Connor were handcuffed for the first time in four days. Despite the awaiting dangers, Derek was looking forward to the fresh air. The cabin smelled like sweat and body odor.

  The cabin door opened, and a guard led them single file with a small group of prisoners. The guards were careful to only escort groups of around fifty at a time, always making sure that the guards outnumbered the prisoners and that the prisoners were always handcuffed.

  They were led down the stairs and to the back. The massive ramp on the back of the ship had been opened to reveal sparkling blue water and a bright cloudless day. Twenty landing crafts were arranged two-by-two, facing the open ramp. The front of each landing craft had lowered a ramp of their own and had an empty holding area where prisoners were packed in tight. Connor and Derek were pushed toward the back. Once the hull was packed with human cargo, the ramp was raised and shut, the only light now coming from the slots on the side. The slots had the same dimensions as the slots on their cabin doors. Body odor and urine and flatulence hung heavy in the cramped hull.

  A few guards, standing outside the landing craft said, “Put your hands through.”

  Derek complied and was rewarded with the removal of his cuffs. Connor did the same. Some jockeying occurred among the prisoners for positions to have their handcuffs removed. A fight broke out, one man beating another with his bound hands, then kicking him until the man stopped moving.

  The guards made no attempt to intervene. The fight and most of the bickering occurred toward the front of the hull. A large bearded man moved toward the back, away from the fray. In the dim light, his pale skin almost glowed. He wore wire-framed glasses, one of the lenses cracked.

  “Connor?” he asked.

  “Mark?” Connor replied.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” Mark said, smiling.

  Connor clenched his fists. “This is your fault.”

  “It wasn’t me. Javier …” Mark shook his head, his smile gone. “I don’t know what they did to him to make him talk.”

  “They didn’t do anything to me.”

  “They waterboarded me.” Mark hesitated for a moment. “The worst experience of my life.”

  Connor was slack-jawed. “Jesus.”

  “Have you seen Summer?”

  Connor’s eyes were like saucers. “Is she here? On the ship?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I saw her with the women when we were loaded in Baltimore, but I didn’t get a good look. Have you seen Zoe or Javier?”

  “No. You think they’re on this ship?”

  “I don’t know. Zoe might be. Javier was arrested before us. He might already be on the island.”

  Derek knew Summer was Connor’s fiancé and Javier and Mark were Connor’s friends from their conversations over the past four days. “We can try to find them when we get on the beach,” Derek said, interrupting.

  The pale man looked at Derek with a Who-the-fuck-is-this-guy? expression.

  Connor then motioned to Derek. “This is Derek. He was my roommate. Derek, this is Mark.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mark,” Derek said, extending his hand.

  They shook hands, Mark’s palm soft and sweaty.

  The landing craft started to move, the conveyor belt under the hull propelling the landing craft into the water. Once in the water, the motor rumbled to life, chugging toward the island, the craft rocking up and down with the choppy waves.

  It was stifling hot inside the hull of the boat, preheating tempers. Outside, the water was
bright blue, like a postcard. The approaching beach was white sand but littered with seaweed and upturned palm trees and other unidentified debris. No fastidious hotel staff to clean the beaches from the succession of hurricanes. Beyond the beach were the ruins of high-rise hotels, with vines snaking up their crumbling facades.

  The landing craft’s ramp lowered, filling the hull with bright sunlight. Water lapped over the ramp. A loudspeaker blared. “Exit the front of the craft.”

  The men shuffled forward, some pushing, eager to exit; others hanging back, hesitant. Splashing and raucous voices came from the men as they jumped into the water. Derek stepped over the man who had been beaten to death. The large pool of blood near his head slickened the steel floor.

  Connor and Mark stuck together, the crowd separating them from Derek. He jumped into the hip-deep water, soaking his pants and boots. When he looked back to the landing craft, two men remained inside the hull, afraid or unwilling to exit. A slot opened like a gun port, then came muzzle flashes, the loud pops making Derek and many others flinch. The two men still in the landing craft dropped like sacks of potatoes.

  Small waves nudged the men toward the beach. Once on the beach, Derek surveyed the area, trying to locate Connor and Mark. Male prisoners crowded around a group of females, already arguing and jostling over the fair prizes. Another boat of females landed on the beach. Connor and Mark ran toward the boat, about fifty yards away. Two women sloshed through the water and into their seemingly familiar embraces. That must be Summer. And that must be Zoe, Mark’s sister. Groups of prisoners eyed Connor and Mark, clearly coveting the women in their arms.

  Derek saw movement in the shade of the palm debris and hotel ruins.

  Men appeared on the beach. Then more men, hundreds if not one thousand tan men, most of them wearing shorts and nothing else. They held knives and machetes and zip ties and rusty handcuffs. A few had rifles.

  Despite their tans, these men were all Caucasians, nearly all of them tattooed. Some were covered in ink from head to toe, others marked up on their forearms or calves or upper arms. A few had neck and face tattoos. Most featured a swastika as the centerpiece of their body art. Some of these men were thin, others muscular, but none of them were obese.

  In comparison, the motley crew of prisoners in blue uniforms looked like pigs led to the slaughter.

  The swastika men fanned out in an arc, surrounding their prisoners. One beefy man stood front and center on the stump of an old palm tree. He was one of the few men who were obviously well-fed. He spoke to the crowd of prisoners, but Derek was too close to the sea to hear the man, his words drowned out by the waves.

  Many prisoners put their hands behind their backs, submitting to the swastika men and their zip ties and handcuffs. Others started to run, and this started a chain reaction of prisoners running for their lives, and the swastika men converging with their machetes and knives. Connor and his friends ran toward Derek, but Derek didn’t wait. He ran in the hardpacked sand along the beach, away from the melee.

  The swastika men tackled and subdued prisoners, binding their hands behind their backs. They slashed a few prisoners with their machetes, but their intention wasn’t to kill. It was to capture. Derek’s wet boots felt heavy as he ran, weaving his way in and around the human traffic.

  He looked back and caught a glimpse of Mark and Zoe being taken by gunpoint. Then Connor was tackled, but Summer still ran, two men giving chase. She was headed in Derek’s direction, toward the beach but forty-yards behind.

  Derek continued to run, glancing back every few seconds to check on Summer. She slowed in the soft sand, her chasers also slowing. One of her chasers grabbed another woman, wrestling her to the ground. A skinny man blocked Derek’s path with knees bent, his machete drawn, ready to strike. Derek stopped ten feet from the man, eyeing the rusty blade. The man tossed zip ties at Derek’s feet.

  “Put ’em on,” he said.

  Derek waited for a wave to retract, and he ran for the sea, diving into the surf. Once beyond the waves, he swam perpendicular to the shore, his clothes and boots weighing him down. Derek was dog-tired, and he’d only swam thirty yards or so. He glanced toward the shore to see if it was safe to return to dry land. On the beach, Summer lay in the hardpack, struggling, a man straddling her and another tugging at her clothes. Derek swam toward shore, a small wave catching him and boosting him to the beach.

  The two men were too mesmerized with their prize to notice Derek running from the surf. Derek tackled the thin man who held her arms. Derek pulled the man into a chokehold, the blade of his forearm digging into the man’s prominent Adam’s apple. The thin man gasped, his face turning blue. Summer struggled with the other man. She kneed him between the legs, and the man rolled off her, holding his crotch, rocking back and forth in pain.

  Summer ran from the scene, down the beach. Derek let go of the thin man and chased after her.

  “Summer,” Derek called out.

  She glanced back to Derek but still ran.

  “Summer,” Derek said again, catching up. “I was Connor’s roommate on the boat.” He took a few gulps of air. “I’m Derek.”

  She turned to look at Derek, slowing to a jog. They jogged together, their breaths labored. She had wavy brown hair to her shoulders. Blue, wide set eyes, and a round face. Her arms were thin but she had a belly, like she was pregnant, just starting to show.

  “What do you want?” Then she looked straight ahead and said, “Shit.”

  Derek looked from her and saw what she saw.

  They slowed their pace and stopped. Roughly fifteen men hustled toward them. Derek glanced over his back. A handful more approached, tightening the metaphorical noose.

  66

  Jacob and Happy Wife, Happy Life

  It had been a rough weekend. Rebecca and Lindsey had been in full mourning mode for Derek: Lindsey locking herself in VR all weekend and Rebecca in a depressed funk, completely uninterested in sex or any contact whatsoever. Then she had stayed up all night searching the internet for a solution. She found a company called Libertad del Proyecto, or Project Freedom, based in Venezuela. The company claimed to rescue island prisoners, even though there’d never been a documented escape. Rebecca had been ready to go to Venezuela and spend Jacob’s money. Jacob had to beg her to wait, to let Eric look into the veracity of their claims.

  She didn’t say it, but Jacob thought Rebecca blamed him for Derek’s fate, like he should’ve helped when Derek fell on hard times. Jacob could’ve saved Derek’s farm with a few taps on his tablet, but the foreclosure wasn’t the reason this had happened. It had been April’s murder, but Rebecca didn’t know about that.

  Jacob could’ve helped April too, but, like the foreclosure, he hadn’t. Jacob had rationalized his guilt, thinking, I’m not the police. Zhang and his men would’ve killed me. Even if I had called the police, Zhang has diplomatic immunity. If anyone had been arrested, it would’ve been one of the guards. But Jacob couldn’t rationalize the fact that, if he’d called the police, they might’ve stopped April’s murder.

  Eric had been nice enough to use his contacts to help, which had surprised Jacob, but, then again, Eric enjoyed playing the powerful connected man, especially with his big brother asking for help. Eric had been waiting for information and call backs from experts on the island prison system. Jacob didn’t think he’d hear anything until Monday or Tuesday.

  Now it was Tuesday afternoon, and Jacob was still at work, but he didn’t feel like going home, not without some sort of resolution for Rebecca. Jacob leaned back in his chair, thinking of the possibilities. Maybe Derek’s dead. That would be a resolution. That’s the best-case scenario. Then we can all move on. I could tell her that he’s dead. But I’d need proof. No way Rebecca accepts that without proof. Maybe Eric could get proof somehow.

  Jacob’s cell phone chimed. Speak of the devil. He leaned forward, picked up his cell phone from the desktop, and swiped right. “Eric.”

  “I have some information for you,�
�� Eric said.

  Jacob grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from the top drawer of his desk. “I’m listening.”

  “Derek’s ship is in San Juan. They’re offloading right now. He’s probably on the ground.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We have connections with IPC and the navy.”

  Island Prison Corrections was the prison system run by the Federal government.

  “Is there a way to get him off the island?” Jacob asked.

  “Not really,” Eric replied.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means, there’s a very slim possibility, and, as far as I know, it’s never been done. You don’t really want to get him off the island, do you?”

  “Of course not. It’s Rebecca. She’ll want to exhaust every option trying to help him. That’s just who she is. In the meantime, my home life and my bank account will be taken over by her newfound cause. If I’m not helpful, she’ll be resentful, making it that much worse.”

  “Well, an escape is nearly impossible. My contact at the navy told me that hypothetically, immediately after a hurricane, it is possible to launch a submarine from the island. Apparently, the naval blockade leaves during a hurricane. Of course, the prisoners would have to manufacture a submarine without any manufacturing skills or supplies and with little to no fuel to power it.”

  “Why couldn’t they just use a sailboat?”

  “Satellite would pick up the boat.”

  “He’ll die there.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Jacob set down his pen, thinking for an instant. “Did you find any information on that company, Project Freedom?”

  “The company’s a front for a drug smuggling operation that operates in Venezuela. They smuggle drugs by submarine through Hurricane Alley to the US. They have a base in what’s left of the Virgin Islands, roughly midway between Venezuela and the US, and very close to Puerto Rico. It’s the perfect place to be if you wanted to rescue island prisoners.”