“You’re supposed to store a lithium ion battery at a 50 percent charge. Of course, with no power, everybody ran ’em dry, and they sat dead for years. Now they won’t hold a charge, at least none of the ones we’ve tried.”
“What about the Netas? They have those electric trucks,” Summer said.
“They also have automatic rifles and thousands of men,” Gavin replied.
“The Netas were the only ones here right after the hurricane,” Fred said. “They looted and hoarded everything they could on this island.”
“We’ll find the batteries,” Gavin said.
“Until then, we’re stuck.” Fred turned his attention back to the submarine. He pointed to a tank mounted on the underside of the craft. “That’s the ballast tank. You open the valve, water rushes in, and the sub dives. It won’t dive real deep.” Fred pointed to the pontoons leaning against the wall. “Those pontoons keep the sub just underneath the surface. As the sub dives, the wings rotate on a hinge, with a stopper that stops when the wings are mostly overhead, and the sub’s about four feet deep. To force the water out of the ballast tank so the sub can surface, I made a compressed air tank from an old refrigerator and a fire extinguisher.”
While Fred explained the ins and outs of the submarine, Summer examined the craft, trying to look like an expert.
“I still have to install the snorkel. My plan is to have a standpipe in the right pontoon that’s connected to the hull of the ship with a blower to force the air in, then another standpipe on the left pontoon for the air to exit. It should be pretty comfortable in there with the air circulation.” Fred pointed to the plastic windows on the cockpit. “Windows are plexiglass. Not as thick as I’d like, but this thing’s not goin’ very deep.” Fred turned from the sub to face Summer. “My big concern is runnin’ out of battery before Roger gets to the Virgin Islands—”
“She doesn’t need to know that,” Gavin said.
Fred waved him off. “Who the hell’s she gonna tell?”
Gavin frowned but didn’t respond.
“We have a map of the Caribbean and an ocean current map, and we did some rough math and figured out that, if we get the batteries we need, this thing’ll get very close, but close ain’t good enough. The open ocean ain’t a great place to go for a swim.”
Summer nodded, then glanced at the pontoons leaning against the wall.
“The pontoons can be attached with two pins. It won’t fit through the door with the pontoons on, so we’ll slap those on right before. My other concern is whether or not the drones might see the floats. My thinkin’ is that the motor is below the water surface, so they wouldn’t see that heat. What do you think?”
Summer cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. I don’t know much about drones.”
“What do you think about my ballast tank? You think it’ll work? We haven’t tried it yet.”
Summer gave the ballast a cursory look and said, “Um, … looks good to me.”
Gavin stared at Summer and said, “You don’t know shit about submersibles, do you?”
“Stop being a dick,” Javier said. “Give her some time to settle in.”
Gavin shook his head. “You lied, Javier. You just wanted to help your friend.”
“Is that so bad?” Summer asked, holding out her hands.
“I knew it.” Gavin glared at Javier. “I’m telling Roger.” Gavin turned on his water shoes and walked away, toward the stairs.
“Come on, man,” Javier said in his wake.
Fred sighed and went back to work.
Javier and Summer followed Gavin up the endless stone steps to the upper section of the fort. At the top of the steps, card tables and plastic chairs were set up in haphazard groups. A few people carried armfuls of fruit outside. Two people came from the stairs, carrying buckets of water. Gavin followed the people outside.
A courtyard was outside, surrounded by stone walls. Tables and chairs were arranged in a neat line. About thirty people sat and ate fruit and dried meat. The group was predominately male, but half-a-dozen women were there too, one holding an infant. Another child, a toddler, sat in a man’s lap at a table.
The men carrying the water filled faded plastic cups. Gavin was greeted with smiles and pats on the back, but Gavin didn’t respond, instead making a beeline for a middle-aged man with gray hair and a stubbly beard. Javier led Summer to the same man.
“She doesn’t know shit about submersibles,” Gavin said to the middle-aged man.
The man swallowed a bit of mango and looked up from his plate to Gavin.
“We gave up a gun for her, and Javier lied.”
“I’m sorry,” Javier said. “She’s my friend. You know what would’ve happened to her.”
The man exhaled and stood from the plastic table. He glanced at what was left of Summer’s pregnancy, then looked her in the eyes. “Why don’t we take a walk? See if we can’t work this out.”
“There’s nothing to work out,” Gavin said.
“She’s a good person,” Javier said.
“They lied.”
Roger glared at Gavin. “You weren’t worth a shit when we bought you. Don’t forget that.”
Gavin opened his mouth to reply but shut it instead.
Roger and Summer walked away from the group to the opposite end of the large courtyard, out of earshot. Roger looked like a beach bum with tan weathered skin, a threadbare T-shirt, shorts, and no shoes.
“I’m Roger Kroenig,” he said with his hand outstretched.
“Summer Fitzgerald,” she replied, shaking his hand. “You were a congressman.”
“Until my conscience got the better of me.”
“You just disappeared.”
Roger chuckled. “You mind if we talk about you?”
“Sure.”
“What was your charge?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why were you arrested?”
“I helped a friend hide a video.”
“Must’ve been some video.”
Summer nodded.
“I need to know the details.”
“It was a video with Jacob Roth and Naomi Sutton. He offered her money for her presidential campaign.”
Roger nodded. “A socialist running for president, huh?”
“She’s not the favorite,” Summer said.
“Did Sutton take the offer?”
“She turned him down.”
“That’s surprising.” He paused for a moment. “What happened after you were arrested?”
“They classified me as an Unlawful Enemy Combatant, and they gave me the test.”
“And you failed.”
Summer nodded, thinking about Byron.
“How long did it take to get the results from your test?”
“The results came the day after I took it. The day after I gave birth to my son, Byron.” Summer swallowed the lump in her throat. “Then they took my son and sent me here.”
“I’m so sorry, Summer.” Roger glanced at Summer’s belly. “Are you okay physically?”
“I think so.”
Roger nodded. “How long did it take for them to put you on the ship?”
“Just a few days.”
“Are you an antigovernment activist?”
“No. My fiancé and his friends used to get together and talk about conspiracies, but it was never serious. Then my fiancé’s friend Mark, his sister got a job working for Jacob Roth. Mark and his sister made the video, and I hid a copy. That’s all I did.”
“You may not think you’re an antigovernment activist, but the state does. They send antigovernment activists here on fake antisocial personality tests. It’s important to the state to get rid of us quickly, before lawyers and other activists start asking questions. The state has been able to erase dissent simply by removing the dissenters. It’s brilliant in its simplicity. They had to do something because people were waking up to the treachery of government.” Roger sighed. “Anyway, it usually takes much longer for psychopaths to be
shipped to the island. That’s why I asked you how long it took to be placed on a ship. I wanted to find out if you’re a psychopath or not. We can’t have psychopaths here.”
“I’m sorry that I lied. I’m sorry about Javier too. He only lied because he feels responsible for my arrest.”
“Is he responsible?”
“No. It’s not his fault that our government’s corrupt.”
Roger placed his hands on his hips. “You can stay under one condition.”
“Anything.”
“We’re under constant pressure to defend this fort. We need supplies and weapons. We have a few small teams that scavenge around San Juan. Since we traded a gun for you, and you can’t pay us back by working on the sub, we need you to pay us back by working with a scavenger team. It’s dangerous but necessary work.”
“I’ll do it.”
Roger clapped his hands together and smiled. “Good. How about some breakfast? You must be hungry.”
“I know I’m in no position to ask, but my fiancé and two friends were taken by the Aryans. I think they were taken for the games. Is it possible to rescue them?”
Roger’s face turned serious as cancer. “I’m sorry, Summer. That’s not possible.”
Summer nodded but didn’t respond.
“Is there anything else?”
“Where are all the women and children? The children here are the first I’ve seen.”
“The ratio of men and women who are sent to the island prisons is twelve to one, so women are already scarce. The scarcity makes them in high demand, so the gangs keep their women safe at their compounds because kidnapping is common. Murder and rape are also common. It’s not easy to survive here as a man, but, for a woman, it’s much more difficult.”
“Are the children kept at the compounds too?”
“Some. Infanticide is common.”
72
Naomi Begs for Donations
Naomi sat at her desk, scowling at her laptop. “I don’t like begging for money.”
“This is what you get for having a conscience,” Vernon said with a smirk, sitting across from her.
“They’ll love hearing from you,” Diane said, standing next to Naomi, smiling. “The best campaign donors are people who’ve donated in the past.” Diane Nichols was Naomi’s Head of Marketing, a fortysomething brunette with deep laugh lines. “Click the Top Donators link.”
Naomi clicked the link. A list of names and numbers appeared. “Nobody answers the phone anymore.”
“That’s why I set up this robocalling app.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not for campaign fundraising.”
Naomi sighed.
“All you have to do is click the phone number, and that initiates the call. Go ahead. Click one.”
Naomi clicked the phone number for Trey Golden. The number flashed red for a few beats, then went green. “Am I supposed to answer it?”
“No. When the number turns green, that means the app’s either leaving a message or talking to the lead.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s quite intuitive. It reads the script we set up, but it can have a normal conversation if the prospect asks a question or interrupts. It’s designed to empathize with the prospect and to build trust and to ultimately warm up the lead before sending them to you.”
“While the app’s warming up the lead, what am I supposed to do?”
Diane smiled. “That’s the best part. You can call as many leads at the same time as you want. Only a small fraction will be warmed up and sent to you. I’d call ten prospects at a time.” Diane gestured to the screen. “Try it.”
Naomi clicked nine more numbers, initiating the robocaller. Two minutes later, a phone number and a name appeared in a little box on the screen.
“We got one,” Diane said, pointing. “That’s a warm lead. Click the green button to answer.”
Naomi glanced at the name on the screen and clicked the green button. She spoke into the mike on her desk. “Hello, Mr. Cannon. This is Naomi Sutton.”
“Oh, wow! Is this a robot, or is it really you?” Mr. Cannon replied, his voice coming from the computer speakers.
“It’s really me.”
“I can’t believe it. I’m a big fan. If you win the presidency, I can tell all my friends that I spoke to the president.”
“That’s very true. In fact, you’ll be invited to the victory party.”
“Oh, for real? Maybe we could dance together.”
Vernon stifled a laugh.
Naomi shook her head at Vernon but maintained a chipper voice with the prospect. “How about a handshake?”
“Do you think you’ll win?” Mr. Cannon asked.
“I do, but I need help from good people like you.”
“Okay.”
“I’d love it if you’d make a donation to my campaign. If you make a donation of 10,000 Fed Coins or more, you’ll be invited to the victory party, so I can meet you in person.”
“Ten thousand Fed Coins? Aren’t you a commie? I thought everything was supposed to be free.” People cackled in the background, the prospect and his friends having fun at Naomi’s expense.
Naomi rolled her eyes and disconnected the call.
Vernon laughed out loud.
“That happens sometimes,” Diane said.
“I don’t like doing this in front of you two,” Naomi said.
Vernon stood from his chair with a groan. “I shouldn’t be laughing. I have my own calls to make.”
“Let me know if you need any help,” Diane said to Naomi before leaving with Vernon.
Another call window appeared. Naomi spent the next eleven hours begging for campaign donations.
73
Derek and the Stew
Derek and the chosen gladiators had been segregated according to race and gender. Like gender, race was separated in two. Whites and niggers. The nonwhites weren’t a homogenous group. Many spoke different languages and had very different cultures. Derek was universally shunned as an outcast. Initially, Middle Eastern men spoke Arabic to Derek, but, when he couldn’t respond, they turned their backs to him.
The Aryans had warned against any violence overnight, but, despite the warning, two men in the nonwhite locker room were attacked as they slept, their heads split open on the concrete floor, their cries muffled by the heavy rain outside. Derek had been terrified, finding a tight corner to defend. He’d stayed awake all night, afraid to sleep.
The next morning, the men who had bloody knuckles were executed in front of all, their throats cut from ear to ear.
Now Derek was exhausted. He leaned against the outfield wall, by himself, eating some sort of meat stew. It smelled like death, a strangely familiar smell that he couldn’t quite place. The whites were near the backstop at the other end of the field, eating the same slop. The women were in their own corners. Groups of nonwhite men made alliances and plotted over their breakfast.
After breakfast, a group of Aryan trainers forced them to do calisthenics. Push-ups, burpees, sit-ups, six inches, and bear crawls. More than a few men vomited their meat stew on the field, much to the delight of the trainers. Derek did better than most, despite his lack of sleep. They ran wind sprints from one end of the field to the other, the last man punished with a leather bullwhip across his bare back. Again, Derek did better than most, never feeling the bite of the bullwhip.
Then they were given wooden swords and taught the proper grip and how to strike with the proper footwork. They were paired with partners and forced to practice their striking and blocking. Derek was paired with the one man everyone seemed to fear. Even the Aryans showed him deference. He was the only other man to stand apart from the groups, despite having the right skin color. The dark-skinned man was over six feet tall, with 230 pounds of pure muscle. During the morning workout, the man easily outshone everyone, winning every race, breezing through every calisthenic. He was like an NFL athlete practicing with a high school team.
Derek held out his hand and introduced himself.
“Jordan,” the man replied, shaking Derek’s hand with an iron grip.
They practiced, Jordan clearly better, but careful not to hurt Derek, even though he had ample opportunity. After an hour of swordplay, they switched to wooden knives. With the wooden knives, Jordan excelled above and beyond even the trainers. Again, Jordan was merciful and patient, instructing Derek on the finer points of knife combat.
With the sun high in the sky, sapping what little energy the men had left, an Aryan trainer said, “Lunchtime.”
The men ran and jostled for the front of the line.
Another trainer said, “Now you got fuckin’ energy. You’re like a bunch of fuckin’ pigs, linin’ up for your slop.”
And that’s what they were given. Lukewarm meat stew and water.
Derek and Jordan stood at the rear of the line, not interested in fighting more than they had to.
“Thanks for helpin’ me,” Derek said.
Jordan nodded.
“You know a lot about … combat. Were you in the military?”
“A long time ago.”
“How’d you end up here?”
Jordan tipped his head, his eyes narrowed. “How’d you end up here?”
A commotion came from across the field. Jordan and Derek turned and watched as Mark, Connor’s overweight friend, was hauled from the field.
“He’s not coming back,” Jordan said.
“How do you know that?” Derek asked.
“He’s been struggling all morning. Probably dehydrated.”
“Why wouldn’t he come back?”
“Our breakfast and the lunch they’re serving now? You know how it has that funky smell?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s human flesh.”
Derek bent over and retched, remembering the familiar smell. He closed his eyes and saw burning bodies falling from apartment balconies. A little water and bile spewed from his mouth, but his stomach was mostly empty. Derek spit and stood upright.
“I know it’s nasty, but you gotta eat,” Jordan said.
Derek and Jordan were served their stew and given cloudy water. They sat against the outfield wall. Derek retrieved a piece of meat from the stew, examining it. As a farmer, he’d butchered chickens and pigs, but this meat looked different. The fibers were very small. A patch of skin was attached to the meat, along with a few coarse black hairs.
2050: Psycho Island Page 26