by Kovacs, Jase
"Wait, Matty. Stop and think."
"No! There's no time, Zac! We've got to get after him."
"He just appeared? Then... ran away? Why would he do that?"
"Cause he's a cowardly piece of shit!"
I place my hands on her shoulders. "No, Matty. He's not." Ian shakes his head as he steps away and even Rod has stopped, the unexpected dynamic of our conversation muting his boyish excitement. "Reuben was many things. He was smart.... evil... and calculating. But never a coward. We have to stop and think."
She shoves me with the shotgun. It's not a hard blow but it's enough to make me stagger back. "Get off me, Zac. You didn't see how fast the bastard moved!"
"None of us saw him, kid," says Ian quietly.
She wheels on him, her knuckles white, the shotgun across her body, barrel to the sky. "What are you saying, mate? You think I'm making it up?"
"He's just saying he didn't see Reuben. We believe you, Matty," I say, as gently but as firmly as I can. "But don't dance to Reuben's tune. There must be a reason—"
"Cause he's having a laugh! Laughing at me, laughing at all of us."
"Matty, he was baiting you. He's baiting you, trying to get you to chase him." And those words, as I say them, finally unlock the mystery that has built in my head over these last weeks, the seeds of which were planted by my conversations with Larry on Aotea. I turn to him now and find him at my shoulder. He looks past me, at Matty, a look that is equal part careful and concerned. A grateful part of me realises he had positioned himself to back my play whatever it was. When I speak to Matty, I speak also to him. I speak to everyone present. "Everything leading up to this trip has been bait. The canoes attacking the patrol. The prisoner's taunts. The empty resort and village, each one a juicy chunk of bait, and we've taken each piece and swallowed it whole. Leading us deeper into the island. Further from our yachts. And now we're hooked good and solid, spread across miles of sea and shore, spread so thin, spread so—"
"Follow me!" shouts Matty.
My heart sinks. I expect her to be run down the path in hot pursuit of Reuben. Chasing him alone if no one will follow. A solo sailor once more.
But instead she backs away from us, her face pale, her eyes beseeching, her shotgun down as she waves us towards the path leading back to the anchorage. "To the resort! We have to go, right now! Rod, you're rear guard, cover our asses but don't get left behind. Everyone else, get your things and run!"
***
We hear the screaming before we see the resort.
We run along the path as fast as we can. Either side is a dense wall of thick vines and broad heart shaped leaves. Matty and Ian in front, then a couple of the locals with their machetes and spears. Their weapons up and ready.
Abigail falls. Abella and I pick her up between us. She looks at me and says, "This is madness. You're right. This is a trap."
I shake my head. "We're in it now. There's no turning back."
Solomon raises his blade to stop us in our tracks. "Listen," he says.
The scream is as thin as a razor and cuts the air just as keenly.
A child's scream.
Matty looks to me. "Blong!"
She is off again, not hearing – or perhaps caring – when Larry shouts, "No, wait!"
He turns to us, furious at his part in allowing this situation to develop. "Come on! After her."
No control. No caution now. As we run down the path, panic and exhaustion loosens my mind and sends it floating. Wait-a-while vines scratch at my flesh and knife edged kunai grass scores my bare skin but I barely feel their sting.
Instead I think of Matty praying to the etchings of the Green Lord, like a pagan priestess entreating her winter god to accept an offering of flesh. Afterwards, Abigail asked me the question I dreaded most of all: how could we trust her now? Was her leadership fatally compromised? Did we have a responsibility to the others to reveal Matty's night walking?
I refused then, and I refused now. But the way Matty called me today to verify the laying of the bodies, the spiral pattern that was obvious to any to see, that for some reasons she could not acknowledge, troubles me deeply. It speaks of a mind plagued with denial.
By now we all know of the Green Lord fetishistic obsession with spirals; the tattoos, the etching in the walls, the talk of maelstroms and vortexes are all symptoms of the disease that consumed him.
Except for Matty. For her, his totems hold a significance beyond being unnerving symbols of a sanity adrift. For her they are sigils imbued with puissance. To Matty, the painting in the bar and the spiral of corpses possess connotations as deep and profound as that which I once attached to Christ on his cross.
I remember her face last night, when she turned to me in front of the glowing vortex, as naked as Eve in the Garden.
I have never seen her so happy.
Now she claims to have seen Rueben, a man I last saw bleeding to death in a shattered canoe and leads us in a mad rush towards a screaming child.
And yet I follow.
As my exhausted legs drive me forward on shrieking muscles I realised that perhaps I still had a deep reserve of faith. Except it is no longer for a deity of intangible qualities, for whom my prayers were nothing more than stones cast into the sea. Instead it is for a young woman, full of fire and flaws, who had looked at me and said, "This is war."
Ian waves us to halt and crouches. I sink into the tall grass. My lungs burn and my legs are full of molten lead. "She's scouting," says Ian.
I see the tips of the pavilion's ribs, where the shorn remanets of red cloth linger like the last shavings of meat on a butchered skeleton. My god, we're already back.
The relief that fills Larry’s face tells me he was worried about the same thing as I; that Matty had lost her head and was leading us in a wild charge. But no. We of little faith. She's stopped at the last line of trees and is ahead, assessing the situation.
Rod, leading our rearguard, joins us. "I think someone is following us."
"How sure are you?" asks Larry.
"Me not so much. Alfred is certain. He thinks five, six men shadowing, parallel to the path."
"If Alfred says so, then it is," I say.
"How though?" Larry demands. "The jungle is too thick for them to move at the same speed as us."
"Maybe another path?" asks Rod, looking at Abigail. "Something we didn't know about. Something kept from us."
"I don't know," says Abigail. "I don't know any paths."
"You lived here your whole life," says Rod. "You are our local guide, remember?"
"I just—" She turns to me. "Zac, tell him. I don't know about any paths."
"Doesn't matter now," Larry says. "Rod, set your team, rear security. Ian, you got guys up with Matty?"
"Yep, Solomon and Robbo."
Another scream lifts over the resort and now we can hear, burbling under it like an angry brook, a rumble of men's voices, raised in anger.
As if these rumblings were a challenge, a thunderclap rolls out across the bay. The ground shakes violently, and I fall on my behind. Birds take flight with panicked screeches and something wooden ruptures and falls. Then a second boom comes, louder than the first, loud enough to make the ground leap and my ears ring. A rent in the jungle allows us to see the forward slope of the volcano. The mountain is haloed by an expanding bubble of nothing, as an invisible shockwave pushes the rain clouds away. A black cloud boils into the sky and a spray of gravel floats gracefully through the air. The distance is playing a trick of perception; the little chunks of gravel are each boulders as large of a hut, blasted by the volcano to arc through the air and raise elegant trees of exploding water when they hit the sea.
"Jesus Christ," says Rod. "I want off this bloody island."
"Hey!" Matty drops suddenly into our midst. Her muddy face is streaked with red scratches, but her eyes are intent and focused. "Stop staring at the fireworks and pay attention. I can't see any enemy. There's no canoes on shore, no one at the huts. Everyone seems to b
e in the bar. I can see six, maybe seven guys. The screaming is coming from in there."
"It's one of the kids, isn't it?" asks Abella.
"It's Blong," says Matty coldly.
“Is it Rueben?” asks Larry.
She shakes her head."This is something else."
But what? Who did we send back? Kev, Jarrod, Kenzie and Dolf. Who was here already? Michael and two oldsters on his crew, Raz and John, guys Matty would dismiss as old drunks. Six or seven guys in the bar means everyone is there. Everyone except Jacka and his sailors.
And where are they?
"Rod says someone is following us," says Larry.
"Rod says it?" Matty seems sceptical.
"Alfred says it."
"Shit." All scepticism is gone, and Matty rapidly readjusts her mental picture of the situation. "Okay, maybe this is Rueben's doing. We're strung out along this path. It's a natural fire lane and if Rueben comes down this path, he's going to knock us to hell and flinders. Whatever is going on in the resort is centred on that bar. We're going to get the people out of there, find the canoes and get back to the yachts."
"What about Shiloh?" asks Larry.
"We’re near high water. If we can get her out, then great. Otherwise, we go. Listen to me ladies and gents. Zac is right – we have waltzed into a trap and any moment now the jaws are about to snap shut. The only question is how much skin we leave behind. So let's get this done."
I'm right behind Matty when we break out of the jungle. Shouts come clearly from the bar, voices lifted in anger and now I can make out Michael’s strident screeching beating down another's wild protests.
"Rod, get in the storeroom! Cover back up the path!" shouts Matty, pointing at a wood walled shack just to the right of the bar. Rod yelps something as he drives in the door with his shoulder, his rifle swinging in like a club.
A figure bursts from the bar and almost earns a face full of buckshot from Matty. Jarrod runs at us, his face streaked with panic, like a child rushing to a parent to report an accident. "Matty, Michael is pissed, and he's smashed in Kev's head!"
"What's he angry about?"
"Not angry! Pissed. Drunk!"
Behind Jarrod comes John, a tall white-haired man whose skin is a wild leathery map charting of a lifetime of mistakes and misdeeds. He has an empty bottle of rum in his hand, and he lifts it like a judge threatening a belligerent defendant with his gavel. "Now you fucken just hold up, missy. It's time you and I had a good talk" he says with a lecherous, condescending grin. Then his eyes focus and widen as he sees all of us coming. "Uh, Michael, there's a—"
He goes sprawling on the ground as someone shoves him. Matty, Solomon and I are first into the bar. Blong and Molo crouch over Kev’s prone body. Both boys’ faces run with tears but they are not distraught. Instead they boil with rage, shrieking defiance at the uneasy cluster of men standing around them. Michael is at the centre of the group. He wears a pair of green work shorts and his pale, flabby body is covered in purple bruises and yellow welts. His belly and chest and face are blotched with crimson stains, as if someone had splashed him with paint, and his ridiculous comb hangs to the side. He holds a shattered bottle of gin by the neck, its broken base laced with blood. He turns to us, his eyes focusing with difficulty as we close on him.
By his side is Raz, the other oldster on his crew. He leans against a roof post, grinning wildly at the confusion around him. His blue eyes swim and lips tremble as he stands at the fork of a road that leads to either mirth or madness.
Behind are Kenzie and Dolf, bewildered, looking from Michael to Kev and then back to us. I can see they want to leap in and take Michael down, but are not sure if they should. Even now, despite his state, he commands authority.
"You fucking bitch," Michael bellows at Matty. "Look what you have done! You've got everyone twisted up with your stupid ideas and look where it's got us."
"What have you done Michael? What the hell have you done?" It's not Matty who says this, but Larry, pushing his way to the front.
"I want a word with you," says Michael, fixing his eyes on Larry with difficulty. "I've got a question. I'm confused. Why does a dirty queer follow this bitch? It isn't ‘cause you want to fuck her. So what is it?"
Matty snorts, completely unconcerned with Michael's ugliness. "Larry, secure these fools. Abella, treat Kev." Her shout is not sign of anger, but instead pitched to get people moving. "EVERYONE ELSE, get away from the bloody doors and windows! There are hostiles out there!"
Larry advances on Michael, his arms spread wide. Solomon to his right, Kenzie and Dolf to his left.
"Don't you niggers come near me!" Michael lunges at Dolf with the bottle. Dolf darts away from his wild stab, and Kenzie strikes, bringing his machete down as quickly as a striking viper. My heart leaps in anticipation of a bright spray of arterial blood painting the walls. But Kenzie is more disciplined than that; he has reversed his machete so the dull edge comes down on Michael's forearm. The blow is still hard enough that Michael's hand springs open, the bottle falling to the ground. "My arm!" Michael screeches. "You broke my arm, you dirty, dirty—"
Larry steps in and drives his right fist up into Michael's gut. Michael woofs out a great blast of air, and his face goes scarlet. Then Larry steps back, sizes him up and sends in a left that catches Michael under his chin, lifts him off his feet and throws him against the pole.
"I've been waiting years to do that," says Larry as he watches Michael slump to the floor. He rubs his knuckles as he looks to Raz. "What about you, mate? You gonna dance?"
"I just wanted a drink, mate," says Raz. His features are slack, robbed of their muscle tone by the premium alcohol he has long lost his tolerance for. "We found the bar's storeroom. Crates of good piss, Bundy, Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels. Fucken years since I had a proper drink. None of this fruit wine shit—"
"Yeah, my heart bleeds for you." He turns to Dolf and Kenzie. "Smack him if he gives you any trouble."
They grin, perfectly happy with this order.
Matty just shakes her head in disgust. "What a cluster. I should’ve seen this coming a mile away."
"Matty, you did."
"Yeah, well I didn't stop it from happening, did I? Let's get the hell out of here." Most of our group crouch low, mindful of Matty's commands to stay clear of the windows. Ian rises to look across to the path. "Ian, I said stay clear of those windows."
"Yeah, love, but I think I—"
A fountain of red bursts from Ian’s neck. He slaps his hand over his ripped throat as he falls. Angry hornets whip past my head, and the air fills with splinters and shards of wood. A bright fire stings my arm, and I slap at the wound as if I would a bee. Dolf staggers back, a bright pink mist lifting from his chest.
Matty comes at me, her arms wide in a tackle. Over her shoulder I see another person fall and then, beyond them, a blazing stuttering star in jungle.
The ground comes up and drives the wind out of me. Matty rolls off, kicking sand into my face as she spins around on her guts to face the door. Now I can hear the machine gun firing, a regular BOK-BOK-BOK, like a giant sewing machine. Thatch rains from the ceiling and wooden shards explode as more bullets bury themselves in the posts and walls. Someone screams, an adult male, a high keen of pure panic.
I lay on my back, struggling to draw air back into my lungs. I feel a million miles away; floating in my own world of pain and inconsequence. I look up at the great mural painted on the wall above the bar. A sea of hands below the woman who embraces the vortex. Is she falling to the multitude, a gift from the god Matty has called the Dark Star? Or are the hands offering her up as a sacrifice? A line of holes appear in the mural, each punching a shaft of light through the maelstrom as if the galaxy was birthing a row of new stars.
Puffs of air lifts dust from every surface. Motes dance in the light shafts falling from the galaxy.
Things go dim.
And then my lungs catch and draw in a great heave of air, and I arch my back and lift myself off th
e ground.
Everything comes back to me.
"CHECK IN!" Larry yes. "Who's hit?!"
"Ian's hit, bad, in the neck. I've got pressure on," shouts Abigail.
Bullets sing overhead. The picture frames on the wall dance and vomit glass over us.
"Hold tight," says Abella. Her voice is tense but business like. "I'm coming. Kev's alive. He's got head trauma, blunt impact, possible skull fracture. Maybe internal bleeding, I don't know yet."
The gun is suddenly silent, and our voices rise unnaturally shrill. "They've stopped! Let's run!" says Solomon.
"Stay down, for Christ's sake!" shouts Larry. "They're just reloading!"
Hot knives stab my chest as I drag my air into my protesting lungs. "Dolf's hit. Bad."
"He's dead," says Kenzie, as calmly as if he was discussing the weather.
Abella crawls across the sandy ground, as flat as a lizard, to where Abigail tends to Ian. Not squeamish in the slightest, Abigail has her hands tight over Ian's ruined neck, her thumb jammed into the wound.
From outside, Rod shouts, "I think I've got a shot."
"Don't you fucken dare!" yells Matty. "You'll give away your position and get hosed down."
"Let Rod shoot the bastard," yells Jarrod. "We’re getting murdered here!"
"It's a heavy machine gun," says Matty. "Tripod mounted. Crew served. Rod shoots the operator, and they'll just put another guy behind it."
"How the hell do you know that?" screeches Jarrod, panic crawling over his words like rats fleeing a flood.
"Look at how the bullets just punch through the posts. They're seven six two or something bigger. But check out the holes."
Larry catches on first. "None less than a metre off the ground." He’s close enough to me that I can see him looking at the mural. "They can't lower the gun."
"Or haven't worked out how to yet—" Gunfire cuts Matty off. This time I can see the muzzle flash clearly, coming from the tree line just to the south of the path we followed. Did they carry that gun as they followed us? Or were they already there, set up and waiting, and we ran right past them, not seeing them in the dense jungle?