“Are they rescuing island prisoners?”
“They tried to fly drones into Puerto Rico, but they were all shot down. According to my contact, only small stealth drones can avoid detection, but they don’t have the range. You’d have to launch them from the island, but that would mean going through the blockade undetected. Not likely. Project Freedom claims to patrol the waters outside the blockade with boats and a stealth sub, in case anyone makes it past the navy.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
“No. I doubt they waste their resources looking for people who aren’t there. I think looking for island prisoners is just a side business. It’s a con. They give the families hope and take their money. They might fly a drone to the island, but ultimately they don’t rescue anyone.”
Jacob rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Is there a way to find Derek and prove he’s dead?”
“No. Project Freedom tried to fly drones with facial recognition cameras to find people. The CIA thinks they did this so they can contact the families for money for the footage. Like I said, the navy shot down the drones. I have no idea if they got footage or not.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. If the CIA knows what they’re doing, why don’t they shut them down?”
Eric chuckled. “Because these guys work for the CIA. Not directly mind you, but they’re part of the CIA drug-dealing operation. The CIA uses gold- and silver-backed cryptocurrency from the drug sales to fund off-budget missions. They don’t care about the rescue operations because they know they’re ineffective.”
Jacob blew out a heavy breath. “None of this helps me with Rebecca.”
“Then don’t tell her.”
“She already knows most of it. Most of what you told me about Project Freedom is on the internet. She said she doesn’t care if they smuggle drugs. She said they’re probably good at smuggling people too. That maybe they can rescue Derek. She’s dead set on going to the Virgin Islands.”
“You’re looking at this all wrong, big brother. You know they’ll never rescue this guy, but, if you make an effort, it’ll win big points with Rebecca. Happy wife, happy life, right?”
Jacob frowned. “So, I’m supposed to drop everything and travel to the Virgin Islands, even though no commercial airliners fly there? Then what? Pay these smugglers a pile of cash to do nothing? What’s to stop these guys from kidnapping us and holding us for ransom?”
“I have some mercenaries who can provide security. These guys are former Navy SEALs. They’re pricey, but they’re worth it. I also know a good captain with a ship who’ll take you to Saint Thomas. Boats have to take a wide berth around Puerto Rico, which adds another two hundred miles, but you’ll get there in a day and a half. If I were you, I’d make a deal with Project Freedom. Offer them some money to tell Rebecca that her ex is dead. You’ll end up looking like the supportive husband, and you won’t have to worry about Rebecca spending the rest of her life wasting your money trying to rescue her ex-husband.”
67
Summer Goes to Market
Summer and Derek had been taken without a fight, handcuffed and chained. The Aryan Nation—at least that’s who Summer thought they looked like based on their tattoos—handled the prisoners like pros. She’d seen enough old prison shows to recognize an Aryan. Of course, they didn’t make prison documentaries anymore. They weren’t much fun without psychopaths.
The Aryans had the numbers, but they also had weapons and handcuffs and zip ties. They had long chains that they ran under the crotches of their prisoners and over their bound hands. They connected about fifty people to a chain, creating over twenty chain gangs. By chaining groups together, nobody could escape.
Now, like a cattle drive, they were forced to walk through the streets of San Juan. The city looked like a war zone. Rusted-out hunks of metal that used to be cars. Dilapidated buildings, reduced to rubble by hurricanes, the heaps overtaken by vines and trees and vegetation. Cracked and heaving asphalt, also partially reclaimed by Mother Nature and her tree roots.
The man in front of Summer glanced over his shoulder and said, “Damn girl, you’re fine.”
Summer looked down.
“Your tits are wet,” he said.
He was right. Her breasts were leaking, wetting the prison-issued bra, and the bra wetting the prison-issued top. Her belly still showed, but it had shrunk over the past four days, probably faster than was healthy. The bleeding, sweating, and her lack of an appetite all contributed to the shrinkage.
“Turn around,” Derek said to the man. Derek was directly behind Summer in the chain gang.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” replied the man. “Punk-ass bitch.”
“When we get these cuffs off, maybe you’ll find out.” Derek spoke in an even, calm tone.
Derek definitely belongs here.
“Look at me,” the man said to Summer, looking over his shoulder while still walking forward.
Summer looked up at the man. He was slender, average height, his dark hair cut tight to his scalp. He had a neck tat, a large nose, and scruffy facial hair.
He said, “I’m Aaron. What’s your name, baby?”
“Leave her alone,” Derek said.
“Shut the fuck up. I ain’t talkin’ to you.”
Aaron spoke loud enough to draw an Aryan who pointed and said, “Not another fuckin’ word.”
As soon as the Aryan moved away from them, the man mouthed a kiss to Summer, then faced forward.
Derek asked in a low voice, “Are you okay?”
But Summer didn’t answer, not wanting to be beholden to Derek, not sure if he wanted her for himself. Derek went silent after that. Summer didn’t know what to think of him. He helped me, but why was he here in the first place? Summer didn’t belong here. Neither did Mark or Connor or Zoe. But most of these people did belong. They were psychopaths. Derek looked like he belonged. He had this swarthy look with a wild beard and dark disheveled hair. Maybe he’s a terrorist. Summer silently chided herself for being racist.
During the walk, they took a few breaks in the shade, the obese prisoners huffing and puffing. The Aryans gave the obese prisoners water. Summer was surprised by the apparent kindness. Even though she’d stopped running two months ago, and she’d just given birth, the walk wasn’t too strenuous for Summer.
They walked for about two miles in the humidity, with mosquitoes drinking their blood and Aryans watching them, sizing them up like pieces of meat. Other men watched them too from farther away. Apart from the female prisoners she’d landed with, she’d yet to see a woman or a child.
The other men kept their distance from the Aryans, but they watched. Black men, Asians, Latinos. Just like her prison shows. Gangs grouped by race. Nearly every man that she passed looked like he wanted to devour her, to dominate her, and to own her in every possible way. Then the other men followed them, walking alongside the captives, but far enough away not to draw the ire of the Aryans. As they walked, the all-male crowd around them grew. It seemed everyone on the island was going to the same place. They ended up at a baseball stadium. Groups of men huddled in the parking lot, hooting and posturing, drinking and smoking, the smell of marijuana in the air.
Two seemingly fully functioning military trucks were parked, surrounded by men in fatigues with rifles slung across their chests. The trucks had off-road tires, armor, four doors with tiny windows, and a turret on top. Everyone, including the Aryans, gave these uniformed men a wide berth.
Inside the stadium, the stands were already packed with people. The Aryans and the prisoners were the only ones allowed on the field. Handmade signs read No Fighting. The grass was sparse and weedy, the sand compacted from billions of footfalls. No trees grew in the outfield or the infield. The metal seats were intact, but the roof that once partially covered fans behind home plate was gone, only the pillars remaining.
One of the Aryans explained their situation. “This here is a market. Most of y’all will be bought and sold into one of these gangs.”
The Aryan motioned to the crowd in the bleachers. “What they do with you is up to them. They own yer asses. If you wanna survive, make yerself useful to yer new family.” He paused for a beat. “Some of you will be used for the games.” The Aryan walked away.
Summer didn’t like the idea of being “used” for the games, whatever that meant, much less being sold into a gang.
After that brief orientation, an Aryan they referred to as The Reaper, walked along the chain gangs, every once in a while stopping and pointing to a prisoner, then continuing his walk. The Reaper was tall and built, tattoos covering every inch of his body, including his face and shaved head.
After The Reaper pointed to a prisoner, the prisoner was detached from the chain gang and taken to a holding area beneath the bleachers. The Reaper stopped in front of Summer, her heart pounding in her chest. But he pointed at Derek and that creep Aaron.
“You don’t want her?” an Aryan guard asked The Reaper.
The Reaper glared at the guard. “You questionin’ me?”
The Aryan guard showed his palms in surrender. “No, sir. I just think Wade would like her.”
The Reaper returned his attention to Summer, looking her up and down, while still conversing with the guard. “This bitch just had a child. I’d rather trade her while she still has value.” The Reaper gestured to the stands. “Look at ’em. These dumb fucks are desperate for her.” The Reaper then moved into the Aryan guard’s personal space. “Question me again, and I’ll kill you.” The Reaper made the threat as if he were talking about the weather.
The Aryan guard took a step back, his head bowed.
The Reaper moved decisively down the line.
The crowd was restless, some encouraging The Reaper by shouting, “Hurry up, asshole,” and, “We’re runnin’ outta daylight, fuck face.”
The sun was dropping in the distance. Summer estimated that they only had two, maybe three hours of light left. Approximately one hundred prisoners were taken to the holding area, Connor and Mark among them. Connor gazed at Summer and mouthed, I love you, before being shoved into the holding area.
Zoe was also taken by the Aryans, but she wasn’t put in the holding area. She was escorted from the stadium through the outfield bleachers. Summer had been surprised by the diversity among the prisoners chosen by The Reaper. Why would an Aryan gang want nonwhites?
Men clustered in the bleachers, jockeying for a vantage point to ogle their object of affection. More than once Summer heard from the crowd, “I’m gonna fuck her,” and, “I’m buyin’ that bitch.” More than once, men exposed themselves to her, a few so bold as to masturbate with their eyes locked on her.
The Aryans allowed thirty or so non-Aryans on the field. These men were mostly older, more mature, a few holding notepads and pencils, bargaining with the Aryans, taking orders from the crowd, and making offers. It appeared that they represented their gangs for the purpose of bartering for people.
Most of the male prisoners were purchased for a song. A copper ring for a man. A half-empty bottle of rum for a man. A few plastic bags filled with fruit for a man. Two live chickens for a man. A handful of shotgun shells for a man. A pair of binoculars for a man. The gangs purchased male prisoners who looked like them. The defining characteristic was skin color.
However, the morbidly obese prisoners were often purchased by gangs who didn’t look like them. Black gangs purchased obese whites and vice versa. These obese men had barely survived the two-mile walk to the stadium, needing multiple breaks in the shade along the way. For some reason, obese men had multiple bidders and garnered payments twice as large as average-size men.
Female prisoners garnered the most bids and the highest bids, bids commensurate with the beauty of the female. The laws of supply and demand in action. Summer was surrounded by bidders. Men groped and touched her and checked her teeth, like she was a prized heifer at a farm show. One man offered a pair of used boots and a box of bullets. Another offered eight live chicks and dried iguana meat and fruit.
A young man wearing a backpack pushed his way into the bidding war. He looked more like a college student than a hardened psychopath. He hoisted a plastic box in the air and said, “A Glock nine-millimeter for the woman.”
The crowd gasped.
The Aryan auctioneer approached the young man with narrowed eyes. “Let’s see it.”
The young man opened the box, displaying the handgun.
The Aryan looked around and said, “Any other bids?”
The crowd was silent and dejected.
“Sold.” The Aryan snatched the box from the young man, handing it off to another Aryan who whisked away the handgun to wherever they stored their wealth. The Aryan unlocked Summer’s handcuffs, releasing her from the chain gang.
The young man gripped Summer’s upper arm and pulled her close. He whispered into her ear. “My name’s Gavin. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. We’re going someplace safe. Javier’s here.”
Summer turned to Gavin, her eyes like saucers. “Javier Munoz?”
Gavin nodded. “We have to go now. We’re running out of time.”
They fast-walked toward the outfield. An Aryan guard escorted them through a door in the outfield wall. Another guard nodded to them as they left the stadium. Javier was in the parking lot, waiting for them. Normally tall and thin, he was even skinnier, his bushy black hair wild and his cheeks sunken.
“Javier!” Summer said, hugging him tight, her hands gripping his backpack.
“Are you okay?” Javier asked.
Summer let go, looking Javier in his eyes. “They have Connor and Mark and Zoe.”
“I know. I’m sorry. We were gonna buy ’em if they made it into the auction, but the Aryans take whoever they want for the games or for their own use.”
“We have to go,” Gavin said, interrupting.
“I’ll fill you in when we get to the fort,” Javier said.
“We can’t leave them,” Summer said.
“We’ll talk about it.”
Gavin frowned at Javier.
A group of men approached, carrying machetes, their eyes locked on Summer.
“Let’s go!” Gavin said.
They ran from the parking lot, Summer struggling to keep pace. Gavin removed a handgun from his waistband, turned, and waved it at the men. The men stopped in their tracks, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort or the risk.
Gavin, Summer, and Javier jogged north, through parking lots, trees growing between the cracked asphalt, and the buildings reduced to piles of debris. They crossed the remnants of superhighways, with rusty cars and trucks parked on the shoulders.
Gavin was a great runner. Small and thin with muscular legs, his long brown hair bouncing with each stride. Periodically, he ran ahead and checked for threats, then waited for Summer and Javier to catch up. Gavin led them toward the jungle, through a narrow footpath. The path took a hard right, a river on their left. Gavin slowed to a walk, looking for something on his left. Summer and Javier slowed and walked behind Gavin.
“I think we’re okay,” Javier said.
Gavin found a rusted soda can hanging on a branch. At that point he turned and walked into the heavy brush, carefully pulling aside branches and vines as he went. “Found it,” Gavin said.
Gavin and Javier removed the branches that covered a canoe and two paddles. They lugged the canoe into the river, Summer holding the paddles. Summer sat in the middle, feeling useless, as Gavin paddled in front and Javier behind her. They didn’t have to paddle too hard. The canoe floated on the river, going with the current, dense jungle on either side. For a brief moment, Summer thought it was beautiful, until she saw alligators basking on the banks.
Summer must’ve been staring because Javier said, “They’re caiman.”
“They look like alligators,” Summer replied over her shoulder.
“In the same family. Just smaller. They’re all over the bay and the river. Territorial too.”
After one-quarter mile, the river ope
ned into a bay, an old shipyard on their right with thousands of rusty sea containers.
“Shit,” Gavin said, turning around. “The Netas.”
“Fuck,” Javier replied.
Gavin pointed to the shipyard. “We can hide in a sea container.”
Javier nodded and helped Gavin paddle toward the shipyard. Summer caught a glimpse of a small boat in the distance. As they beached the canoe, a few green iguanas with long striped tails scattered a safe distance from the humans. Gavin and Javier grabbed the canoe, Summer took the paddles.
“What happened?” Summer asked, as they walked toward the shipyard.
“The Netas are patrolling the bay,” Javier said.
“We’ll have to wait until early morning to cross the bay,” Gavin said. “They always sleep in.”
“Who are the Netas?” Summer asked.
“They’re a gang. Native to Puerto Rico,” Javier said. “The most powerful gang on the island.”
“They weren’t sent here like everyone else,” Gavin said. “They just never evacuated. They planned to loot the whole city. When the hurricanes came, they hunkered down at the army base. They scavenged as much as they could before prisoners started coming here, so they took all the good weapons and vehicles in San Juan and the nearby areas. Almost everything was destroyed, but supposedly the army stored some stuff underground or in a mountain. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know the Netas have those electric trucks and those machine guns.”
“Are you guys part of a gang?” Summer asked, as they approached a cemetery of rusty sea containers.
“Sort of,” Gavin said. “We call ourselves 1776. We’re mostly antigovernment activists. They don’t just send the psychos down here.”
“Roger Kroenig is kind of like our leader,” Javier said.
“We don’t have masters.”
“Wait, Roger Kroenig?” Summer asked. “Like the congressman who quit and then disappeared?”
Javier nodded. “I knew they fuckin’ sent him here.”
2050: Psycho Island Page 24