by Brandon Enns
He hovered over top of her, his eyes wild and fierce.
"I can't tell you..." They were the wrong words, confirming his delirious allegations. "What exactly do you think I'm behind?"
"I think you don't know exactly what you're behind."
"What does that mean? Let’s lose the code-speak, Stefan."
He grinned and shook his head. "A rouse to squander my intentions. Humiliation is a powerful thing, especially for him...But no. That's not it. He'll have you believe that's it, but it isn't. You’re thinking this is a playful prank…I've seen his behavior. I saw the blood. Where is he, Erin? Where is he?" He shouted the second time. "I'll tell you. He's murdering Skye and Ashton and it'll all come crumbling down on me. An easy frame job while you two ride off into the sunset. You’ll be convinced it was all my doing…” He shook his head. “I’ve been so foolish. Tell me I'm wrong."
"I can't tell you anything until you tell me what happened between you two."
Something clicked. His eyes deadened as he looked past her shoulder at the gun on the table, her hand stretched out next to it. He lunged at her, wrapping his hand around her throat, squeezing tightly, but not enough to strangle her. She reached for the gun. It was too far, just out of her grasp.
"There's nothing to even tell. You don't want to be a part of this, but for some sick reason, you think you do. You don't want to hurt me though, do you? No, you don't want to hurt anyone. You're a kind person." He tilted his head to the side and searched her eyes.
She stopped reaching for the gun and wrapped her hands gently around his wrists. "I'm in trouble," she whispered.
He kissed her roughly on the mouth. His tongue, the taste of tequila, his hands all over her...Skye...She pushed Stefan back, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at him.
"What? I thought I was a good kisser. Or does everyone think that about themselves?" He looked deranged, menacing. He was insane. He glanced at the gun and bent at the knees.
"Don't," she blurted.
He lunged at her once more. She fired. Her ears were ringing. She had pointed away from his head and chest. It shouldn't have hit him. Did it?
The gun had more kick than she expected. It was louder than anticipated. She held the pistol up again and fired another round high and to the left, hitting the floor. She then knelt down and whispered as softly as possible, while examining the blood flowing from his shoulder. "Keep your eyes closed. I'll be back for you." He grimaced and obeyed her commands.
Knees completely wobbly with each step, she made her way down the staircase toward the surveillance room. Each step she took felt like she was walking on ice. The surveillance door was closed. She stood to the side to avoid any possible gunfire and swung the door open, spinning around with her gun raised. There was nobody.
Erin gave herself a moment to let her nerves return to a dull roar before taking a peek at some of the surveillance, expecting her leg to vibrate with a text at any second, calling her out on her staged performance. She took the opportunity to explore the technology in front of her to find some answers that weren't coming from anyone's lying lips. The majority of the unraveling had happened within the past twenty-four hours, and most questions started outside the walls of the bunker, or at least that was where she needed to begin her search.
She began scrolling through the latest drone footage. There were two different drones actually, and it appeared that one covered the east the other the west side. She accelerated the rewind, but it was a touch too fast as she fumbled to put it back to the prior speed. In doing so, she saw activity around the villa. It appeared that the drones were operating based on movement—unless a manual override took place. She stopped the video and fast-forwarded slightly before stopping it again. It was Trevor walking into the villa hours ago. The sun will be coming up soon. Then two hours of footage later, the drone shifted back onto the island. There came Stefan, staggering out of the bunker with a gun. Up ahead, someone walked in the distance, though it was difficult to make out whom. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the ground, again, difficult to see because of how dark it was. He knelt down and touched the sand. He had spotted blood. Stefan told me there was blood. That he was following someone. Dragging someone else. But from what she could see, there was no dragging—just a dark figure, with what appeared to be a hood, moving quickly through the trees.
The drone flew back to the villa. It remained at a distance, but it was close enough to film Trevor leaving the villa. He walked with broken, inconsistent steps, almost as though he was drunk. The drone closed the gap, the lamppost on the dock giving her a better visual. In his hand was a black gun, and there was blood all over his shirt. She stepped out of the room and back up the stairs with her gun in hand. Her phone vibrated, stopping her halfway up. Another text. “Bury him. Northeast corner. The cross along the edge will suffice. A fresh grave is required.”
A fresh grave? As in there are existing graves there?
If Stefan had understood her when she shot him, maybe he'd hang on long enough for a fake burial. She continued up the stairs, preparing the best instructions to whisper to him, planning how she would approach his body to make it look like she assumed him to be dead. Erin turned the corner and stopped. Only blood smeared across the floor remained. He was gone. Another text came in. “You lied.”
"Please!" she shouted, looking around at the ceiling frantically to get their attention. "Take me instead!" Another text. “Not how this works.”
"Then give me time!" Her voice was hoarse. "I'll find him. Let me bring him to you! Yeah, you can finish the job!"
“You're on your own.”
The ambiguous response made her sick. Erin looked up at the ceiling again. "Just...give me time to fix this." She ran out of the bunker this time, no automated locks to stop her.
She felt so exposed out in the open. Erin stepped onto the docks, the floats underneath the dock shifting her back and forth, her wobbly legs wanting to give way. The gun was heavy.
She stepped inside the villa and fell to her knees. Skye's throat was slashed open and her skin was gray. There was so much blood. All she could see was the blood. She leaned forward on her hands at the foot of the bed. Her hands made perfect prints in the blood on the floor, warm and smooth, almost causing her to slip flat on her face.
She rose to her feet and stared at her dead friend with her hand over mouth. How would he have responded when Skye told him she couldn't do it anymore? Couldn't do it to her friend...She tried to convince herself it was someone else, but she knew. Trevor murdered Skye.
Leaning over the dock and washing her hands, the red drifted away into the ocean blue, leaving only her reflection. She couldn't just leave Skye there, but she had no choice.
The walk back to Stefan's bunker was quiet. Only the palm trees spoke in the wind.
Chapter Twenty-two - Trevor
Trevor stood outside the front door of Bruce's cabin. What to do? He wasn't exactly Special Forces. He held the gun out from his side awkwardly, paranoid about shooting his own foot or worse. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. He threw the door open.
Bruce sat in his Lazy Boy recliner, facing Trevor. The only element missing from the moment was a 360-degree swivel in the chair. Bruce didn’t appear startled in the slightest.
He had a mug in his hand. "It's decaf. I have regular if you like?"
The image of Skye's open mouth stained his mind. "Start with why," said Trevor.
Bruce pulled a lever and his feet kicked out in a more relaxed position. "Why what?" he said. "I told you I got nothing to do with your relative’s tricks. Don't have time or the care for it."
"You killed her."
"Killed who now?" He pushed his feet back down and clicked the footrest into place, leaning forward with concern. "You better tell me what in the hell you're talking about." Bruce's eyes were hard, his wide brow narrowed.
The man was a sociopath. His mannerisms were on point on. They were believable. "Are you lying to the guy with the gun?"
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"Are you gonna tell me who is dead or not?"
"You know, you son of a bitch."
He leaned back in his chair, an understanding seeming to resonate within him as he took another sip of his coffee. He set it down on a stand next to him. "The who of it doesn't matter. What matters is what will come next."
"Which is?"
"I've been here for thirty years. And little by little, I'd stumble upon some, let’s say, interesting things...No, horrible things. I'd like nothing more than to shed some light on the matter, but I don't think you're of the right mindset to accept what I've got to tell you. So, I'm in a tough position, particularly with that gun pointed at my head."
Standing up against the wall in the corner was a rifle. Trevor walked around and collected it while keeping his gun pointed at Bruce. He set it next to the door, then lowered his gun with distaste.
"I could give you a speech about my particular set of skills...but I think I'll just let you know that before you get started, I can pick up lies. And I'm starting to like the feel of this gun in my hand."
"Noted."
"Explain these strange things," said Trevor.
"There are the graves. For starters."
"Graves?"
"Along the east beach by the trees. Rounding north."
"And who is in these graves?"
"I don't know for sure, but if I had to guess, I'd say other visitors. People such as yourselves."
"Bullshit."
"Just a theory, based on other things I've discovered, unfortunately. There are photographs of others. Happy tourists thinking they've stumbled upon some hidden gem, thinking they're special, crusaders or some horseshit. But I got a strong inclination that many of them have ended up in the dirt."
"And we've been the first visitors since you've been here?"
"No. Three other owners. All took off within two days being on this island."
"And you have a theory for that?"
"The sleeping. Tell me Trevor; have any dreams since you've been here? Maybe memories? Anything else odd going on with yourself, things you can't explain?"
Trevor was now sitting on the leather loveseat across from Bruce. He set his pistol down. Bruce's eyes never left his.
"I'll take that as a yes, my friend."
"What does it mean?"
"It's this island, sinking its hooks into you. Like when you’re fishing and you feel that tap, tap, tap, waiting for the right moment to set the hook. You stay here long enough, it becomes problematic."
"How so?"
"Thirty years. You think I want to be here?"
There was an unmistakable sorrow that sunk his wrinkled, sullen face.
"I believe speaking these words to you could mean my death, but I don't know that for certain either. What I do know is that I couldn't leave, and I never will."
"What are you talking about? We get Stefan's boat, you get your ass on it, and we sail away from this shit-show. What's so hard about that?"
He chuckled. "If it were that easy kid...I can't. I don't want to leave. It's like a disease. Or maybe it’s a virus. They won’t let up. It keeps getting worse the longer you stay here."
"Who's they?"
"That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? When I first came here, I honestly felt like I could stay forever. I had just escaped a dreadful marriage. I wasn't built for it. Wired wrong maybe, I don’t know. I shouldn't have ever married, but we do things because we're supposed to. It was ironic really, that I felt so incredibly free when I came here. Life's a real twisted bitch. But...the dreams started after a few days of getting here. Regrettable moments in my life that I'm least proud of were continuously pounded into my skull over and over again every time my head hit the pillow. Never thought I'd be begging to be one of them insomniac people, but I was sure wishing for it then. Reliving one's worst moment over and over again isn't exactly daiquiri fun in paradise."
Valencia.
Bruce continued. "And I know you know what I'm talking about because that's the way they work, or the way it works." He coughed hoarsely into his hand. "I don't trust those folks that work here for Stefan. They came before him, with the last owners. There's something wrong with them."
"How so?"
"Intuition."
"Intuition..."
Bruce leaned forward again. "It's not normal having those kids here. What? A twenty-year-old girl and thirteen-year-old boy? They shouldn't be here that much, or at all, for that matter. Mind you...If I'm right, the island has them all spun sideways.”
"What about the place on the other side?"
"No one lives in that dump. I take it you've seen the place?"
"Yeah."
"Well, there you go. I think they got a hand in this. In the island’s power. Maybe there’s something more. Some great purpose for it. I’d go as far to venture mythical...” He smirked. “Probably doesn’t matter anyway. Seems as though we’re screwed either way you slice it."
"Is there anything else you can tell me?"
He sipped his coffee again. "This roast will blow your hair back."
Trevor felt like he was going to be sick again. He lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. He had the spins like he was drunk. He took a deep breath and spit. While doing so, he heard shuffling. When Trevor lifted his head and opened his eyes, Bruce stood on the other side of him near the door with a rifle pointed his way. Quickly, he eyeballed the gun on couch and lunged for it. No shots were fired as he pointed the gun at Bruce, finger firmly on the trigger.
After a long pause, Bruce handed the gun over to Trevor. "No sense moving forward if you don't trust me."
"I could have shot you."
"Yeah, you could've."
"Show me the graves."
Bruce studied Trevor's face. "Who is dead?"
"Skye." His voice cracked saying her name.
"Tell me you didn't kill her," Bruce said.
Trevor paused. He looked him in the eyes and inflicted as much sincerity as he possibly could. "I did not kill her." Did he know that for sure? Trevor still had a lot of dead space, lost time. The first night when he had been sleepwalking, his trance in the wooded area, an unknown force taking a hold of the steering wheel…
"I didn't."
"Give me my rifle."
Trevor hesitated.
"You'll want me to have it."
I couldn't have killed her.
Chapter Twenty-three - Erin
Erin retrieved the SAT phone from the creepy basement and raced back upstairs. She pressed the button and held it down. "Is anyone there?" Nothing. "Please, somebody pick up."
The sweetest sound of static came and then a voice followed. "Who is this?"
"This is Erin." She remembered being very unsure of Arnie on their trip over on Stefan's boat. She didn't like his buggy eyes and strange tattoos. He'd flash her that slanted, close-mouthed smile from time to time just to confirm her reservations. She didn't know if she could trust him then, but she was sure willing to give him a chance now.
"Oh...Okay..." He left her hanging.
"Listen, I know you work with Stefan, but if he hasn't already contacted you, we need help right away. My friend—" Her voice cracked. "My friend was murdered by someone on the island and another is being held hostage. I need you to come with a boat and authorities to help us leave. This is not a joke, nor is it part of Stefan's plans he laid out for us. This is real. And we desperately need your help. Will you help us?"
A long pause followed, leaving her hanging on the edge of hope. Even if he wasn't one to trust, having an extra boat there wouldn’t hurt. There was the fishing boat, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t be in the same spot she saw it last.
"I don't know about the authorities...But I'll do what I can."
"So you'll come?"
"Roger that. Is there anything I should bring? Medical supplies?"
"Sure, bring some medical kits. And sulfa powder, stitching thread, and extra gauze if you can." She thought abou
t her next suggestion briefly before speaking. "And protection. Guns."
"Okay. Over and out."
His responses seemed far too casual.
Erin moved down the stairs to check the surveillance and put the phone back on the charger. Before turning in, she noticed a small blood strain that trailed into Stefan's room. She thought they had reached an understanding after she shot him—as crazy as that sounded—but there was no certainty. His manic ups and downs destroyed any chance of anticipating his intentions. Following the blood prints step for step, she entered Stefan's room and then to the storage room. It was unlocked. She went through both doors. The air was cool and damp in the secret pathway of doom. A gecko lizard scurried across from floor in front of her and shot straight up the side wall and into a crack. She watched it all the way to ensure it wasn't going to run back toward her.
Stefan had locked it before, right?
Erin consistently looked over her shoulder as she inched her way through the cement tunnel, fearing that she'd be attacked from the rear. But when she arrived at the end of the hall, she heard no sound coming from Bruce's cabin, and the four rooms that had been locked were now wide open and empty. There was blood in two of them. He relocated them. He. Stefan. Trust no one. Find Ashton.
Erin inched her way up the three steps leading to the bright green door, pressing her ear against it, waiting for sound. No sound came. She cracked the door open gently and peered inside to find an empty cabin. She stepped inside. The first thing that caught her eyes was the TV mounted in the corner of the room. She grabbed the remote and turned it on. Surveillance of the four rooms in the hallway appeared. She changed the input and found surveillance of Stefan's bunker as well.
Erin walked over to the counter in the kitchen to where she had once already stood. She touched the picture of the old tourists, the profile of who she knew to be Teresa in the background. Placed neatly underneath were more photos, photos that weren't there before. Someone had put them there for her to find. Six more photographs, all of small groups, mostly families seemingly moving farther back in time as she flipped through, finally leaving her with one photo. There, plain as day, was Teresa (who hadn't aged a day) with a man and two teenagers; one boy, one girl. It wasn't possible. She didn't even want to think the word, let alone say it out loud. Stay a while.