“You two should sit,” Cesar said, motioning to two empty chairs in front of a metal desk. Cesar nodded to one of the technicians.
The man placed a laptop on the desk, facing Jacob and Rebecca. The screen was paused, showing jungle footage from one of the drones. He pressed Play and stepped away from the screen.
Jacob and Rebecca watched as the drone moved from the jungle to the ruins of a tropical city. Cracking asphalt. Crumbling buildings. Piles of concrete. Vines and trees sprouting and covering what once was. A few tan men walked together, holding rusty machetes. The drone zoomed in on their faces, determining that they were not a match to Derek.
The drone moved on, like a bee searching for nectar. It found a man laying awkwardly against a pile of rubble, his neck lolled to the side. His upper body was a shirtless mangled mess of red meat, his intestines resting in his lap. The drone zoomed in on his face. He had a dark beard and dark hair. His skin was tan. The drone checked the facial markers against Derek’s image. Match Confirmed appeared on the screen.
107
Summer and the Sub
Summer held the wheel steady, watching the compass. Sunlight filtered through the ocean above her. She was near the surface, only four feet down, the flat-black pontoons keeping her from sinking to the bottom. Fish swam in schools, darting this way and that, as if they were controlled by the same brain.
She’d started going west for just a minute to put some distance between her and the Netas on the beach. Then she went north, exiting the bay. Once safely in the ocean, she turned the submarine east. She’d be on this heading for nine hours, then she was supposed to turn south for another forty-five minutes. Then she’d arrive on a beach in the Virgin Islands, about seventy miles away. Hopefully. She knew the coordinates and the times weren’t perfect. She also knew there was a possibility that she wouldn’t have enough juice to make it to the Virgin Islands. What if the batteries weren’t fully charged? We didn’t test them. The UTV was plugged in. But that doesn’t mean it was fully charged.
Summer vacillated between giddy excitement and nervous terror. She daydreamed about holding Byron again and seeing her father. She also knew she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Summer worried about the naval blockade. What if they made it back before she passed? They’d sink her for sure. She had visions of drowning and suffocating in the cramped submarine. Summer began to hyperventilate. She put her face to the air intake. Fresh sea air came from the snorkel. Relax. It’s all in your head. Think of something else.
Her mind drifted to the dead. Freddie Jr. and Joy. Just children. Javier and Gavin. Roger and Willow. Connor. Her eyes were glassy as she thought of her fiancé. They’d had that brief reunion on the beach, and that was it. The Aryans had taken him, and Derek had killed him in the arena. She hated Derek for killing Connor, but she didn’t want Derek to die either. As much as she wanted to believe Derek was a monster, like the rest of them, deep down, she knew he wasn’t. But he’s probably dead now, and so is Fred.
She forced herself again to think about something else. She glanced at the watertight box. Summer thought about the video. Roger thought, if the world saw the video, they’d close the island prisons. She wasn’t sure if that was true, but she’d try. She had to get to Panama. The Darién Province. She had to find Steven Parker Jr. and Silver City.
Roger thought Dad went there.
108
Naomi and the End of a Marriage
Naomi followed her husband down the stairs. “Alan, wait.”
But he didn’t wait. He slammed the front door in Naomi’s face and hurried to their car.
Naomi opened the door and called out again. “Alan, would you please wait?”
Their Toyota was parked along the street, directly in front of their Georgetown townhouse, only ten paces from her front door to the car.
Alan climbed into the car and slammed that door as well.
Naomi had never seen him so angry. She took three quick steps toward the car, and it exploded, blasting Naomi backward, her body slamming against the front door. Naomi lay on the ground, groaning, her face and chest burning, her ears ringing.
Up and down the block, car alarms blared with the force of the blast.
109
Derek and the Dead
By the time Derek reached the islet, he collapsed on the beach, coughing and spitting sea water, his arms and shoulders burning from the swim. His T-shirt and pants stuck to his skin. Derek had asked Gavin about the islet once. It was visible from the fort. Gavin had said it was uninhabited.
Before the hurricanes, it was a public park. After the hurricanes, the only bridge connecting the islet to the mainland was destroyed, and, with the constant flooding, the place was of little use to anyone. Even now, after the minor hurricane, two-thirds of the islet was covered in seawater.
Derek staggered away from the beach, into a grove of coconut trees, worried that he was visible to the Netas. He hid behind a tree and peered across the bay to the fort. Netas in army uniforms patrolled the beach and the fort walls, but it didn’t look like anyone was coming for him.
He was thirsty. Thankfully, he still had the knife and scabbard attached to his belt. He found a few decent coconuts, cut them open, drank the milk, and ate some of the meat. After his fill of coconuts, he explored the island. He found the remnants of playground equipment and gazebos standing in two feet of seawater. He found old stone buildings and a small fort, like a miniversion of the one across the bay. The jungle snaked in and around what was left of mankind. His most important find was a massive mango tree. He ate ripe mangos until he was full, then returned to the coconut grove.
Derek peered out from behind a coconut tree, checking the Netas again. More men had arrived at the fort, but they still didn’t appear to be looking for him. After eating, he felt exhausted. Derek removed his wet boots and socks, took a few steps onto the beach, and set his wet footwear in the sun, behind a piece of driftwood. He went back to the coconut grove and lay in the sand.
He felt a stiff pang of guilt. This is my fault. I brought the Aryans and the Netas to the fort. Tears welled up and slipped down his face. He drifted off to a fitful sleep.
Derek dreamed of the dead. Fred and Willow. Roger. Gavin and Javier. Summer’s fiancé. The dead everywhere. Butchered with bullets and machetes. They came to him in his dreams and asked him why. Why were they dead? Why was he still alive?
110
Jacob and Letting Go
Rebecca had been distraught when she’d seen Derek slumped against a pile of concrete, his intestines in his lap. She’d spent much of the day in bed. She wanted to be alone.
Of course, it wasn’t actually Derek, but what difference did it make? Derek was dead; Jacob was sure of that. He just couldn’t prove it, and, if he couldn’t prove it, Rebecca would always wonder, and Jacob would have to live in Derek’s shadow forever. This was better for Jacob and Rebecca. Now they could move on.
For security purposes, Cesar’s men communicated with their home base in Venezuela via a sophisticated ham radio. They had a strict communication schedule that changed daily. Cesar promised to relay a message to their home base, to contact the ship Jacob had hired to return to the Virgin Islands to retrieve Jacob, Rebecca, and the mercenaries. Their trip was over.
Jacob sat in the break room with Rob and Billy. They ate MREs, spaghetti and meatballs, the conversation sparse. Jacob never felt comfortable with manly men, preferring the cerebral to the brawny.
Rebecca stuck her head into the break room. Her eyes were puffy, and the tip of her nose was red. “I’d like to go to the beach,” she said to Rob.
Rob stood from his chair. “You ready now?”
She nodded.
“You want some company?” Jacob asked.
Rebecca lifted one shoulder. “It’s up to you.” She turned on her sneakers and headed for the exit.
Rob grabbed his rifle and hurried after her.
Jacob sat quiet for a moment, the only sound was Billy smacking his lip
s as he ate. Jacob stood from his chair. “I guess I should check on her.”
Billy stood and said, “You’re the boss.”
Billy escorted Jacob to the beach, his rifle pointed down. The narrow pathway had been littered with downed trees. They found Rob on one knee, scanning the beach with his scope, Rebecca twenty feet away, sitting on the sand, watching the two-foot waves. The storm had cleared, the sun making an appearance. Palm leaves, seaweed, and driftwood littered the beach.
Jacob approached Rebecca and said, “Mind if I sit down?”
Rebecca looked up at Jacob and shook her head.
Jacob sat on the sand next to his wife. She wore a T-shirt and capris, her brown hair catching the breeze.
“I’m sorry. I know this is hard,” Jacob said.
She reached out and put her hand on top of his. “Don’t be. I know you did your best. At least we know.”
Jacob squeezed his wife’s hand.
“What am I supposed to tell Lindsey?” Rebecca asked.
“The truth.”
The wind changed direction, and they heard faint voices.
“You hear that?” Rob said to Billy.
“I’ll check it out,” Billy replied.
Jacob turned his head to the mercenaries. “What’s happening?”
“We’re not sure. We heard voices coming from the north.” Rob pointed north, along the beach. “Probably locals.”
Billy crept along the beach, stopping every now and again to look through his long-range scope, until he was no longer visible to Jacob. Shortly after he disappeared around the bend, Billy returned, sprinting, his eyes like saucers. He said, “We need Cesar’s men.”
111
Summer and Psycho Island
There was no periscope, so Summer had been navigating solely by compass and stopwatch. A puddle of urine was at her feet. She’d been stuck in the tiny cockpit for nearly ten hours. Six hours in, she couldn’t hold it anymore. She’d taken off her cutoff fatigues and peed on the floor. The submarine cockpit was so small that she couldn’t squat or stand, so she’d scooched to the edge of her seat, propped her legs and done her business.
Nine hours and fifteen minutes in, she’d turned the craft south per the written instructions. She’d tried to surface at that point, figuring she was well beyond the naval blockade, but the sub wouldn’t surface. So, she’d continued on her heading, hoping that she’d reach the beach. Maybe the waves would wash her ashore.
The sub slowed for about thirty minutes, then it stopped completely, the pontoons bobbing in the ocean current above her. She tried restarting the craft but nothing happened. It was out of juice. She tried resurfacing again, praying that it would work, hoping that maybe the surfacing mechanism didn’t need power. She wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work.
Summer’s heart pounded. She began to sweat. I have to get out of here. I can swim to the surface and float on a pontoon. Maybe land is close enough to swim. Summer grabbed the small watertight box from the floor. A carabiner clip was attached to the box. She clipped the carabiner to a belt loop on her cutoff fatigues. Summer undid the latch and pressed on the hatch, thinking it would open, but it wouldn’t budge. She used all her strength, but it was stuck.
She sat for a few seconds, catching her breath. This time she placed her hands on the hatch and pushed with her legs. Still nothing. Why? She glanced to the hammer and the manual drill at her feet. Fred had said something about the drill. What was it? Use the drill if you can’t … That was all he said. Can’t what? Open the hatch? Surface?
If I stay in the submarine, maybe the current will take me to land. But maybe it’ll take weeks or months. I’ll die of thirst. But, if I break a window, I might drown. What if I can only make a small hole, and the water comes in, and I drown? Or maybe a storm hits and breaks the pontoons from the sub. I’d sink to the bottom of the ocean and die from the pressure.
Her mind dinged with a light-bulb connection. “The pressure,” she said out loud. “That’s why it won’t open. If I break a window, and the water comes in, that should equalize the pressure, and the hatch should open. That’s a big should. But what other choice do I have?”
The hatch was fiberglass, like the hull, but with two plexiglass windows. Summer picked up the hammer and tapped a plexiglass window, practicing, not hard enough to break it. She found a good spot in front of her, where she felt she had the most leverage. She wiped her sweaty hands on her T-shirt, gripped the hammer with both hands, and slammed it into a window.
Nothing.
She tried several more times. Still nothing but a few scratches. The plexiglass was too strong. Summer put down the hammer and picked up the manual drill. She pressed the one-inch drill bit into the center of a window, then she turned the hand crank. A small divot developed. Summer pressed the drill bit harder against the window, and the bit caught.
She cranked until the bit was through the plexiglass. Rivulets of seawater ran down the manual drill, dripping into the cockpit. When Summer removed the bit from the hole, a skinny stream of seawater sprayed into the cockpit. Summer drilled another hole next to the original hole. Then another. And another. And another.
Two garden hoses’ worth of seawater sprayed into the cockpit, the water level creeping up her calves. Summer set aside the drill and pressed on the hatch, but it still wouldn’t budge. Summer felt panicky, her heart thumping, and her breath ragged. This is fine. You just have to wait for the water to fill the submarine. Then the pressure will be equal, and the hatch will open.
Hopefully.
As the waterline moved past her stomach, the submarine began to sink. Water poured from the snorkels, dousing her head and shoulders, causing the cabin to fill even faster. The seawater was darker as the craft sank into the depths.
Now up to her neck in seawater, she pressed on the hatch again, but it was still stuck. She stood on the seat and tilted her head to capture the last bits of air before the cockpit was completely filled with seawater. Just before, the seawater covered her mouth, she took a deep breath. Then she pressed on the hatch, using her legs as leverage. Still it wouldn’t budge.
Meanwhile, the submarine was sinking. She pushed on the hatch again, using every bit of strength she could muster. The hatch opened, and she swam upward in the dark water, the submarine falling to the depths, and her body screaming for air.
Summer surfaced with a big sucking breath. As soon as her breath regulated, she looked around, treading water in the choppy sea. She couldn’t see anything but water. She began to panic again. She was stranded at sea, and the pontoon she had planned to use as a floatation device was at the bottom of the ocean. The weight of the seawater in the cabin had overwhelmed the floating capacity of the pontoons.
Then she heard it. The laughing sound. She looked up to see the gulls, just like the ones in San Juan. She swam toward their laughs, wondering if the joke was on her.
As she swam, the choppy sea took her up, and she caught glimpses of land. She smiled at this, swimming faster, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She heard waves crashing as she swam toward a tropical island, not much different than the one she’d come from. Summer bodysurfed a small wave onto the beach. She took a few steps away from the ocean and dropped to her knees, kissing the sand.
Footsteps padded from the jungle onto the sand. Lots of footsteps. Summer looked up. A dozen dark-skinned men surrounded her, wearing rags, carrying rusty machetes. I’m still on Psycho Island. Summer thought she must’ve made a mistake with the compass. That she’d navigated a big circle somehow.
She stood, holding up her hands in surrender. The men eyed the threadbare T-shirt that stuck to her chest. They pointed and cackled, speaking French. She looked left and right, looking for a place to run, but they’d already flanked her. The men inched closer, smiling, exposing rotten teeth.
A gunshot made the men and Summer flinch. The men scattered, darting back into the jungle, leaving Summer by herself. For an instant, Summer thought she’d been saved. Men in fat
igues approached, rifles drawn, speaking Spanish. Summer had a sinking feeling in her stomach. The Netas.
She was surrounded once again, but the men lowered their rifles. Some of the men were white. The Netas were mostly Puerto Rican. A couple stood just behind the men. They weren’t dressed in fatigues. They looked like they were on vacation.
“Where am I?” Summer asked.
One of the white men stepped forward, his rifle pointing down. He was tall and muscular with a bushy blond beard. “The US Virgin Islands.”
Summer felt a wave of relief that almost brought her to her knees.
“I’m Rob. What’s your name?”
She looked around at the men with their rifles and crisp fatigues. “Summer.”
“Are you hurt?” Rob asked.
She shook her head. “I think I’m okay.”
Rob unscrewed the cap on his canteen and extended it to Summer. “Would you like some water?”
Summer took it tentatively, then gulped the contents dry. When she handed the canteen back to Rob, she said, “Thank you.”
“Where did you come from?”
Summer glanced back at the sea, then said, “Psycho Island.”
Continue the Story …
Click here for Book 2 of the series:
2050: Exodus (Book 2)
Citizens chose safety over liberty long ago.
Now they have neither.
Derek Reeves is stranded on Psycho Island, the most dangerous place on the planet. He’s alone and hunted by the most powerful gangs on the open-air island prison. To survive, he’ll need help. To escape, he’ll need a miracle.
2050: Psycho Island Page 37