Sacrifice Island

by Kristin Dearborn

  7

  Alex didn’t want to go into the shadows. He didn’t like this place, and it blew his fucking mind that Jemma seemed so taken by it. Suicides don’t make for nice environments. He wasn’t sensitive, but did believe there were things out there he couldn’t see. The equipment would have interesting things to say when they set it up tomorrow.

  If they made it back…

  Why would Mr. Lucky have left them here otherwise?

  The jungle teemed with life. Alex wondered how many creatures out there watched him as he blundered around. He’d hoped to see monkeys and monitor lizards. Now he didn’t want to see either.

  They had to kill time somehow. He steeled himself to explore. To do exactly what they’d set out to do. While he walked the path, he thought about Ralph’s signal fire. Was Jemma his Jack? Or was Jemma Ralph, and he was Piggy?

  Alex stared into the jungle, at greens so dark they turned black.

  “I haven’t sensed anything,” Jemma said.

  “No?” With all the surrounding creepiness, he expected a maelstrom of spirits.

  “I’m rather sad about it, actually. Though they may be shy, they may only come out at night. I’ll know for sure after we set our gear up.”

  “Or night falls on the island here.”

  “I would be surprised if we spent a night here and didn’t discover some evidence of the supernatural. I’d rather not be here when that happens.”

  So she didn’t entirely adore this place. Though he felt petty, it pleased him. Made him feel like they played on the same team again.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said.

  He agreed, and listened as hard as he could. The wind in the trees mimicked the sound of water rushing over rocks. He wished all this nature would shut up. Give him the sound of horns, of cars, shouting. Good, city, human sounds. You couldn’t be isolated in New York.

  “Maybe that’s a path?” She pointed to a black spot of jungle, darker than the foliage surrounding it. “It could lead to water? Maybe the stream that runs red?”

  Before he could argue, before he could tell her the gaping mouth scared the shit out of him, she headed off. He wasn’t particularly interested in finding a blood stream, particularly when they’d been abandoned here.

  The trail reminded him less of a trail and more of a route frequented by hungry predators, the vegetation worn down by wily, ravenous paws.

  “I hear water,” Jemma said. He willed her not to be so loud here. The jungle bore down around them, listened to each word.

  She froze. Scanned the trees.

  “Something’s here,” she said. He’d heard the expression about blood running cold, but there in the jungle he felt it.

  “Hello?” she cried. He first resisted the urge to pounce on her and clamp a hand over her mouth, second the urge to bolt back to the beach and wait it out. A boat would go by at some point, surely?

  “Hello?” a voiced echoed back.

  Jemma and Alex stared at each other. Someone else on the island. Someone else who spoke English.

  Alex still wasn’t sure they should answer. Just because they called “hello” didn’t mean they were friendly.

  “Hello!” Jemma called back. She moved past him, and he reflexively shrank out of her way and gave her space to pass unimpeded. “We’re coming!”

  Alex could have kissed Terry he was so happy to see him. The perpetually nervous Englishman stood by the dormitory.

  “Are you all right?” He stared past them at the jungle. Oh shit, what was back there? Alex kept looking over his shoulder, trying to figure what kept Terry’s attention.

  “We’re fine,” Jemma said.

  “What the hell happened to Mr. Lucky?”

  “Mr. Lucky has had a family emergency,” Terry said, still scrutinizing the jungle. He turned and headed to the beach at a brisk pace. “He asked me if I would be so kind as to see to your safe return.”

  “He left us here without a word!” Jemma said.

  Terry kept glancing over his shoulder, past Alex. Every time, Alex looked back, too.

  “The island’s a nice place,” Jemma said.

  “I’m so glad you like it. Let’s get back to the resort now.”

  Alex could have kicked her as Jemma said: “Already?”

  “We’ve had plenty of time to check the place out,” Alex said.

  “What did you find?” Terry finally focused some attention on Alex. “No, never mind, we can talk on the way back. Get on the boat, please.”

  They waded out to where the Baby Roxanne bobbed in shallow water. Alex never thought he’d be happy to see that boat. Once they were on board, Terry flipped the ladder up, and shoved out to deeper water. He kept looking back.

  He’s scared.

  “Sorry to be in such a hurry.” He started the earsplitting motor. He fingered his wedding band and glanced back at the island. “Tell me, please. What did you find?”

  “Nothing. It’s a pleasant, lovely place. Why doesn’t anyone go there anymore?” Jemma gazed up at him earnestly. She shouted to be heard over the roar of the motor.

  “You know about the suicides?” Terry asked.

  “And that means no one visits?” It didn’t add up to Alex. He thought of the suicide forest in Japan—that didn’t keep people from visiting. It became a popular tourist destination.

  Terry stole another glance at the island. “The natives are a superstitious bunch.”

  Jemma said, “But it’s not only natives around here…the tourists might enjoy the place. And they would have no idea about the suicides.”

  “Is there something there we should be worried about?” Alex asked. “You seem kinda nervous.”

  Terry licked his lips. “Just getting a headache is all. I don’t much care for these gasoline fumes.”

  “Will Mr. Lucky bring us back to the island?” Jemma asked.

  “I’m sure he would be happy to. As I said before, he’s had a bit of a family emergency, and is very sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Look me in the eye and say that, thought Alex.

  The ride back didn’t feel as long as the morning’s ride. A brisk wind picked up behind them over the open water. Jemma got splashed by a large wave, chilling her to the bone.

  “We’ll be back in time for a hot shower,” Alex reminded her.

  “Thank heaven for small miracles,” she said. Her good mood from the island waned. Alex’s mood switched inversely.

  Back at Vista Breeze, Terry killed the motor and poled the Baby Roxanne in to shallower water. On the beach, looming like a small mountain, glowered Mr. Lucky.

  “I see he’s back from his emergency.”

  “I’m sure he took care of it.” Terry focused on setting the boat right. “Baby Roxanne’s his livelihood, so I know he’s anxious to see her back.”

  They plodded to shore. Jemma hauled her soggy skirts around her and scowled.

  “I’m going to take a shower and a nap,” she said. Alex wanted to advise her about not napping, but rather powering through the jet lag. He held his tongue. “Let’s meet at six for dinner?”

  Mr. Lucky stood as they passed.

  “Everything all right?” Alex stopped to talk with him. Jemma kept going.

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Mr. Lucky’s words were polite, but his body language screamed rage. His fists were balled, his shoulders tense. He glared at Terry and his boat. How long had Mr. Lucky waited for Baby Roxanne to come back?

  Alex decided to drop it, to soak up some sun on the beach. He moved as far as he could get from Mr. Lucky and still eavesdrop, pulled the towel from his bag, and laid it out on the warm sand.

  A scream.

  Everyone on the beach—Alex, Mr. Lucky, a smattering of tourists and Filipinos—froze and turned toward the resort.

  Jemma’s scream.

  Damn, who touched her?

  Alex took off running. So did Terry, which saved him from a confrontation with Mr. Lucky.

  Jemma sobbed in front of t
he little porch of her cabin.

  “What happened?” He instinctively opened his arms to hold her.

  She pulled back. “What are you thinking?” she snapped. “My door.”

  My door? The words didn’t even compute. And she was right, what had he been thinking? He usually remembered to keep his hands to himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It’s on my door!”

  Alex diverted his attention to her door.

  “Jesus!”

  Terry appeared behind him and made a little strangled gasp.

  At first he didn’t understand what he saw. Maroon paint? A tiny fur coat? No…an animal. Roadkill on her door?

  He took a step closer and recognized a white patch of fur, still clean amid the carnage.

  One of the bearcats hung there, nailed into the wood, next to Jemma’s lucky number six.

  8

  Once again, Mr. Lucky pulled the Baby Roxanne up onto the beach at Sakripisiyuhin Island’s natural cove. His chest hurt from the anger. He should be at home this night, eating his wife’s dinner, playing with his son. It was dark. It was late.

  He wanted to turn his back on Terry Brenton and walk away from his mess. The Aswang had always been a part of the island, but since the tourists stopped going there, it became more work to keep it away from the city. Terry worried the Kanos would kill the Aswang? If they could kill it without it infecting another, maybe they would be rid of the thing forever. He wondered what his father would say about that, or his grandfather. They’d protected the island and the Aswang, too. These days were more complicated than they had been back then.

  Now he brought it alms. People on the island upset it. It would be hungry and if someone didn’t tend to it, it would hunt.

  Mr. Lucky nudged a huddled form on the bottom of the boat. It mumbled, whimpered, cried out in a language Mr. Lucky didn’t understand. JapaChineeKorean something or other. He couldn’t find anyone willing to come tonight. It came too soon after the last alms…people remembered. Then he found this Chinese boy—or whatever he was—puking in the alley behind a bar, right handy to the Baby Roxanne. Slinking through the shadows, Mr. Lucky watched the boy and nailed him on the back of the head with the butt of his .45. The kid pitched forward and landed face-first in a puddle of his own booze-stinking vomit. Mr. Lucky slid one arm around his neck, the other behind the knees, cradling the boy, carrying him back to the boat, being none too gentle as he made his way up the steps.

  Now, here on the island, Mr. Lucky shoved the prone form off the bow of the canoe. The kid splashed into the shallow water, then came awake with a yell, and flailing arms and legs. He spattered the calm seas with drops of water. Mr. Lucky liked the willing ones. They never started screaming until he poled out of their reach.

  The kid tried to climb up onto the boat, but Mr. Lucky rapped at his knuckles with a long bamboo pole. He used it to push the boat out into deeper water, happy to leave the kid behind.

  * * *

  Feng sucked in a mouthful of warm saltwater and struggled to maneuver himself upright and out of the water. His hands and knees scraped coral, and finally his head broke the surface. He inhaled, thankful for the fresh, clean air. A boat. He reached for it, trying to figure where he was, why he was in the water, and why his head pounded. He tried to get his bearings. Darkness draped everything like a blanket. He caught hold of painted wood with one hand, and reached up with the other, but before he could pull himself up, a brown face appeared over the edge and whacked at his knuckles with a long pole.

  Skin split and Feng cried out, falling back on his ass in rocks, coral and sand. The man poled the boat away from shore, and Feng sat, too stupefied to try and follow. The last thing he remembered he’d been drinking with his buddies. He’d needed to throw up, but he must have passed out in the process, and now he was…here?

  The boat’s engine rumbled through the night as it started. Feng called out, first in Mandarin, then in English. “Come back! Help me!” But no help came from the man on the little boat.

  He turned to the dark shore behind him. A white strip of sand separated dark jungle from dark sea. A jellyfish brushed against his calf and he yelped, then started to cry.

  What the fuck happened? Happy and drunk one moment, fucking marooned the next. Could he cut through the jungle and get back to town? He paused and listened, but heard nothing except night noises: waves lapping at the shore, leaves rustling in a soft breeze. Feng dragged himself out of the water, and fished his expensive cell phone out of his pocket. Ruined, most likely. Maybe it had one more call…maybe he could phone for help? Something? Anything?

  No dice. The big screen stayed dark.

  Feng dropped the ruined smartphone in the sand. Maybe he’d been punk’d. Maybe this was a reality show.

  He called out: “Hello! You got me! You can come out now!” Only the soft jungle sounds responded. He tried again in English, then sat next to his phone and listened to the trees and the water.

  Not quite sober, he started to doze off.

  “Hello? Is someone here?”

  Feng scrambled to his feet. A woman. Holy shit.

  “Hello! Over here!” She spoke in English, so he did, too.

  He could see her clearly because she wore white. A flowing dress hugged her curves in the breeze. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and Chinese, too! He asked, in Mandarin, if she spoke the language, and she told him she did.

  “Do you have a phone?”

  She moved close enough that he could see her delicate features. Exquisite lips begged to be kissed. An adorable little nose. But her eyes…what was wrong with her eyes? Funny contact lenses? And why did she smell like rotten meat? She changed, then, from Chinese to Caucasian, her hair changing color, and her body type changing. Her nose and lips changed. Feng broke to run, but didn’t get far.

  * * *

  Those were Feng’s last thoughts as the woman unfurled leathery white wings. Her jaw dropped like a snake’s, revealing a too-wide mouth of cruel teeth. She took the top of Feng’s head off with her first bite, cruel teeth crushing through bone. Red blood spattered her white dress. She sank to her knees with him and began to feed.

  9

  Jemma holed up in Alex’s cabin for the afternoon, which left him awkwardly displaced while Terry and Anna worked to get the dead bearcat off Jemma’s door. He’d hung around at first, offering to help, but Terry snapped at him. He’d had tears in his eyes. Alex couldn’t tell if it were compassion for the animal, embarrassment, or both. He swung past the bearcat cage and found the male—Alex couldn’t remember his name but remembered it had something to do with Popcorn—pacing and agitated.

  “Don’t blame you, little buddy,” Alex said. Popcorn blinked up at him with red-brown eyes. “I wish you could tell me who did this to your girlfriend.”

  Close to six, Alex headed back to his cabin. They still needed to eat, they’d missed lunch. He knocked on his door. Jemma stalked out past him, went to her cabin and closed the freshly scrubbed door.

  The next day, Terry couldn’t find anyone willing to take them to the island, no matter how much money they offered.

  When dinnertime rolled around, he went to Jemma’s door, hoping he didn’t have to drag her—metaphorically of course—to eat.

  She opened the door in reasonably good spirits. Weird.

  “Shall we go to dinner?” she asked.

  “That’s the plan. Are you okay?”

  “I’m all right. Sad about the bearcat. Angry we’ve lost a day of research. But you know what this means, right?”

  “Someone around here thinks killing animals is awesome?”

  “No, we’re on the right track.”

  Alex stayed silent, waited for her to continue.

  “We were abandoned on the island, and now we’ve got this warning on our door. On my door.”

  They trudged up a path to the main road and flagged down a trike. Alex sat facing back, letting Jemma have the larger seat next to the dri
ver. Alex handed him twenty pesos, and they were off, hurtling down the rutted dirt road, past bamboo buildings toward El Nido. Western standards of cleanliness did not apply here…half-stray dogs and cats sauntered through restaurants, flies landed where they pleased.

  The small, bustling city of El Nido only comprised a few blocks, but it was vibrant and full of life and color. Myriad smells permeated the air—all the seafood one could imagine, pork adobo, curries, scents from a bakery. Underneath it all floated an undertone of less appetizing scents—sewage, unwashed bodies, gasoline.

  Alex led them to a cozy bar and grill that specialized in seafood. Their table sat on the beach, plastic legs dug into the sand, and it looked out over lots of little boats like Baby Roxanne.

  “It’s called a Bangka,” Jemma said.

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “Those canoes. They’re called Bangkas.”

  They ate in silence for a bit. Alex ordered a pizza, which didn’t taste at all like pizza in New York. Jemma ordered fish kinilaw, a ceviche-type salad.

  “Should we go back?” he asked.

  “Yes, once we finish.”

  “No, I mean back to New York. Have we bitten off more than we can chew?”

  As it grew dark, she’d taken her sunglasses off, and now studied him from across the table. “We don’t even know what we’re dealing with here yet.”

  “We’re dealing with something someone is willing to kill over.”

  “We weren’t going to die on the island.”

  “I’m not talking about that. Some sicko sacrificed an animal and nailed its carcass to your door.”

  “Are you afraid?” she asked him. He found it hard to answer. He didn’t see things or feel things the way she did, but he knew they’d had their worst day of ghost hunting yet. This had always been something of a game to him. Fun. He’d read a meter and make extrapolations. They’d revealed a decades-old murder in England, and talked to girls who’d killed themselves because of a lecherous pedophiliac headmaster in Connecticut. He didn’t see ghosts, hear voices, feel chills.