Left on Paradise

by Kirk Adams

  Donovan and Chuck climbed aboard the yacht as Commander Johnson helped them over the rail and waved his hand across the boat.

  “Take anything you need,” the retired sailor said.

  “Let’s take a look at the mattresses down below,” Father Donovan replied.

  “They’re too flimsy.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Donovan replied as he stepped toward the hold. “Maybe we can shore one with some planks.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Commander Johnson and Father Donovan descended into the hold of the boat while Chuck lit a cigarette and stayed atop—where the two women spoke in whispers. A moment later the thud of a distant firework sounded and everyone looked toward New Plymouth to see that a red flare had burst over the beach and slowly fell to earth.

  “Something’s wrong,” Cynthia Strong said as she stood. “What’s going on?”

  Chuck remained composed, though he did pause before answering. “I’d guess,” he said, “they need the launch.”

  “Why a flare? That’s a distress signal.”

  “We use ‘em around here all the time,” Chuck said with a shrug, “since we don’t have phones or radios.”

  “That’s really odd,” Jackie Johnson said.

  It was at that moment Donovan emerged from the stairwell alone—a knife in his hand and blood smeared across his shirt.

  “God save us,” one of the women cried out.

  “No one has to get hurt,” Donovan shouted, but the women didn’t listen. Cynthia Strong sprinted for the helm as Chuck dropped his cigarette and jumped to block her escape, but didn’t get far as he tripped over Jackie Johnson’s outstretched foot and smashed his face hard into the deck. Before Jackie could make a break, however, Chuck grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down. When the woman twisted around and drove a knee into his groin, Chuck cried out even as he grabbed her by the hair and drew a knife from his belt—plunging it deep into Jackie’s breast as she slammed a fist into his nose. The blonde’s eyes rolled backwards and she fell limp as blood soaked through her shirt where an artery had been severed. When Chuck released his grip on the woman’s hair, her red scarf fluttered to the deck.

  Meanwhile, the dying woman’s sister reached the cabin and fumbled to unlock a desk drawer with Father Donovan hot on her heels. Just as she pulled the drawer open, Donovan lunged over the desk, knocking both the woman and the drawer to the ground. Still, the woman found what she sought and racked a round into the chamber of a black pistol as Donovan grabbed her wrists. Both fought while kneeling—which meant that Donovan was unable to leverage his greater strength against the desperate woman. Four hands struggled for the grip of the gun until a single shot was fired and Cynthia Strong slumped to the floor—blood gushing from a gaping hole in her neck.

  Father Donovan looked around. Glass fragments and splattered blood covered the cabin floor and the window was shattered where the bullet had finished its course. He stepped away from the quick-growing pool of blood and took a long look at the middle-aged woman—who still breathed even though she didn’t otherwise move—then returned to the deck and told Jason and the decoy (both of whom had climbed aboard) to throw both women overboard.

  “Since we’re pirates now,” Donovan said, tucking the pistol into his belt, “might as well feed them to the sharks.”

  The two men did as told and dragged the bodies to an opening in the deck rail where the boarding plank attached, several times slipping in the blood trails that followed their crime. A few moments later, one motionless corpse and one shallow-breathing woman slipped beneath the waves. Meanwhile, Donovan used Jackie Johnson’s cotton scarf to wipe drops of sweat and blood from his face, then wrapped the bloodstained cloth around his own head as a bandana—with a single tight knot tied behind his skull.

  “Now all four of us have killed,” Donovan said, as he pointed with a forefinger to his accomplices, “and we’re in this to the death. Let’s see what goodies they have on board.”

  The northsmen descended into the hold of the yacht as Chuck fidgeted with his swollen nose and gingerly touched a chipped tooth.

  Jim Strong sat with Ryan on a bench near New Plymouth. The yachtsman looked exasperated and the former actor appeared perturbed. Late afternoon shadows already darkened the brush and hid the forest.

  “Your people need to be evacuated,” Captain Strong said. “That Asian boy is going to die if he isn’t in a hospital soon. You can see it in his face.”

  “Can you get him out?”

  “The only chance he has is for us to get medics and doctors here. Pronto.”

  “Can you call for help from your ship,” Ryan said.

  “As soon as I return to it,” the captain replied. “For the record, it’s a yacht.”

  “Someone’s coming,” Ryan said as he turned toward a stout Latino coming from the path to New Plymouth. “A northerner.”

  When Ryan asked the man where the launch was, the northerner pointed toward the sea and said that a neighbor named Mark had broken his leg and was being moved to the yacht.

  “We have timetables,” Ryan winced. “You should have checked.”

  “Sorry,” the man said, “the bone stuck through his knee. They’re going to send for the doctor once he’s on board.”

  “Stick around,” Ryan said, “we’ll need help ...”

  The northerner cut him off. “I’ll be back in a minute. I have something to do first.”

  Before Ryan could object, the man disappeared on a north-leading trail.

  “That’s a friendly neighbor,” Captain Strong said.

  “Probably setting up a drug lab,” Ryan replied.

  Neither man laughed.

  “It could be a while before they return,” Jim said. “Let’s make a call now. You do have long-range transmitters, don’t you?”

  “Two radios and a cell phone,” Ryan said, “only for emergencies.”

  “Let’s fire one up.”

  Ryan started for the storage tents of New Plymouth and Jim Strong followed. When the men came to a large tent marked for emergency use only, Ryan unzipped its flap and stepped inside.

  “Ouch,” Ryan said as he brushed against something jagged and then groped in the dark until he found a large flashlight on a stand just inside the door—which he shined across the nylon floor and gasped. Both radios were in pieces on the ground and the satellite phone was crushed. A sledgehammer had been left near the broken pieces.

  Captain Strong used the flashlight to look around. Though nothing else was broken, he appeared concerned.

  “There’s mischief here,” Captain Strong said. “Hand me that flare gun.”

  Ryan picked up an emergency flare gun and three flares and handed them to the visitor. Captain Strong loaded a flare into the gun as he hurried outside. Aiming the weapon high and in the direction of his yacht, he pulled the trigger. The flare shot upwards and exploded over the beach, like a fireworks celebration exploded out of season.

  “My brother-in-law,” the yachtsman explained after the flare had fallen into the sea, “will know how to respond to a clear warning.”

  “What can he do?”

  “He can secure the yacht and call for standby assistance.”

  “The sooner the better,” Ryan said. “I don’t really know these people any more.”

  “And he can arm himself.”

  Ryan looked perplexed as he shook his head. “Guns,” he explained after a long pause, “are illegal in Paradise.”

  Crack.

  It was at that very moment that the report of a pistol shot echoed across the lagoon. Shocked by the sound, Captain Strong ran for the beach while Ryan shouted for help and followed at his heels. Once they reached the shore, Captain Strong pushed a kayak into the water and paddled hard toward his yacht while Ryan rallied the men and women of New Plymouth—sending a long-legged girl running toward Mount Zion to sound the alarm and a short boy toward the east village to summon Steve. Dr. Erikson and several others armed themsel
ves with axes and shovels as Ryan picked up a set of binoculars kept near the flagpole and watched Jim Strong paddle.

  Ryan watched through binoculars as the yachtsman rose from his kayak and scampered up the ladder. Even the islanders watching without binoculars saw movement against the side of the boat—though only Ryan could see that one of the northsmen held something in his hand as he waited for Captain Strong to draw near.

  Crack.

  Though Ryan was the first to realize what had happened, even those watching with the naked eye saw the distant form of a man fall into the sea.

  “Oh lord,” Dr. Erikson said, “they have guns.”

  “That’s illegal,” a tall woman said. “They can’t keep them.”

  “What’re we going to do?” Dr. Erikson asked. “We aren’t armed.”

  “Shit,” the tall woman said as she turned pale. “Only criminals have guns.”

  The sound of quick steps from the woods startled them and everyone spun around, weapons raised. There was no need since it was Steve and two sturdy compatriots from the east village.

  “I heard gunshots,” Steve said. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Ryan handed Steve the binoculars.

  “It was the northsmen,” he said. “They shot Jim Strong and smashed our radios. Also it looks like they’ve commandeered the yacht.”

  “What’s this about?” Steve said.

  “It’s not about anything good,” Ryan said as looked Steve in the eyes. “Jim Strong was talking about war crimes when he heard of the trouble with the natives. I wonder if they’re trying to escape.”

  “Or headed,” Steve said, “to Columbia for more dope.”

  “There were,” Ryan said, “four people on that yacht and I’ve heard only two shots. The women may be hostages.”

  “They have their boat,” Steve said. “We can only hope they’ll leave.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dr. Erikson said. “Look.”

  Everyone turned seaward. Flames now rose from the deck of the yacht and lit its hull like a torch as the launch shoved off and motored north.

  “It’s to the death,” Steve said. “We need to move everyone inland before they catch us in the open. We need weapons, blankets, tents, food, medicine, and matches from the emergency tents.”

  No one moved.

  “Now!” Steve barked out loud as everyone scampered for supplies.

  Within minutes, couriers were sent to brief islanders in the south, east, and west villages—to warn of danger and direct loyal citizens to secure a stronghold in the hills. Ryan and Steve also instructed a runner to sound the emergency alarm.

  39

  The Second Amendment to the Constitution

  Soon after a distant siren broke the still of the evening, John instructed west villagers to light a bonfire to signal to scouts posted atop Mount Zion that their warning had been received. As Kit soothed her fussing baby near the fire, the rest of the western villagers assembled in the mess tent. Though no one knew what had happened, men sharpened weapons while women and children gathered provisions as speculation ran wild. Some thought the alarm caused by jittery nerves while others guessed a raid by escaped cannibals. No one supposed it was their own kind gone awry.

  As dusk darkened, west villagers noticed the bobbing of a flashlight descending Mount Zion and it wasn’t long before a winded runner arrived from the trail near the Pishon River. The runner paused to catch breath before explaining the situation—warning westerners of northern treachery. He gave directions to the emergency assembly point before sprinting toward Mount Zion while shouting a final warning for the west village to make haste.

  Now John took charge, posting Sean and Olivia as sentries and ordering everyone else to fill backpacks with blankets, tents, clothing, food, and other necessities—and advising everyone to wear boots and to bring enough water and firewood for several days. With preparations soon complete, sentries were recalled and given a few minutes to retrieve personal gear before John led the column of armed refugees toward Mount Zion: an unsheathed ax in his right hand and a dimmed lantern in his left. Olivia and Ilyana tucked hand axes into their belts and helped Lisa carry a medicine chest. Behind them, Kit and Maria herded six children and a goat as Linh coaxed Tiffany forward. None of the mothers possessed weapons except for kitchen knives stored in their backpacks. Ursula walked before Sean and Viet—who shouldered a thick pole from which jars of water and bundles of wood dangled—while Sean carried a long-handled ax and Viet armed himself with the steel helmet originally found on Roanoke Island and a hand ax slipped into his belt.

  As the party of westerners inched up the slopes of Mount Zion, their voices became little more than grunts and whispers. When the refugees saw fires burning from the northern end of the island, they knew their enemy didn’t sleep and moved even more quietly through the night. When the westerners reached the crest of Mount Zion after a three hour march, they met two armed men who led them to a large ravine and showed the new arrivals where to pitch camp—warning the latter to keep fires small so flames didn’t reveal their position.

  While Sean and Viet pitched tents, John searched for Ryan and Steve. He found them in a ravine.

  “Glad to see you two,” John greeted the two men.

  “And I’m glad to see you made it,” Ryan said. “Is Maria with you?”

  John nodded.

  “Kit?”

  John pointed toward the western refugees and nodded a second time.

  “How’s Tiffany?” Ryan asked.

  “Slipping into shock.”

  “I’m sorry about Deidra. How’re you doing?”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “Just trying to survive.”

  Ryan swept his hand around the camp.

  “We’ve set up a perimeter,” Ryan said. “There are men with spears and axes hidden outside the camp and reserves posted inside. Tomorrow we’ll build walls to block bullets. We have a spring inside the camp and we’ve sharpened branches and saplings into arrows and spears. Dr. Graves hopes to concoct sedatives and poisons for arrow tips. We’ll have a fighting chance up here.”

  John asked how many guns the northsmen possessed.

  “We’re not sure,” Ryan said. “Steve said he’s only heard two pistol shots, probably the same caliber. We’re hoping there was just one or two guns on the yacht.”

  “How many of us are there?”

  “Before you arrived,” Steve now said, “we had most of the east village, New Plymouth’s staff, and what’s left of south village. The southerners have left only two men, plus women and children.”

  “Then we outnumber them?” John asked. “I mean, the northerners.”

  “They had five children and nine women,” Steve replied, “and lost one man in the war. That gives them nine men plus Jason. We figure they’ll lose a family or two to desertion. That totals maybe eight men against four westerners, six easterners, a staff member, and one southerner—plus our women. We have five or six women willing and able to fight. The northerners should have the same.”

  “That’s only half our strength. Where are the others?”

  “Some are wounded,” Steve said, “and others are conscientious objectors who refuse to fight.”

  “We can’t afford,” John said, “the luxury of protest.”

  “What can we do about it?” Ryan said with a shrug.

  “I’d vote,” Steve said, “that anyone who won’t fight doesn’t remain in camp.”

  “We can’t make them fight,” Ryan answered.

  “We don’t have food and water for slackers,” Steve said.

  “Well,” Ryan said with a sharp tone, “we can’t make anyone fight.”

  “We’ll discuss it in the morning,” Steve replied.

  It was at this moment that Viet arrived—excited and breathless. “There’s a fire to the east,” he said.

  “Campfire?” Steve asked.

  “The east village.”

  Steve turned pale as Viet led him and the others t
o a ridge on the eastern side of Mount Zion and pointed toward a bright glow near the east shore. The men watched as the flames grew higher. Even from the heights, the silhouettes of burning buildings could be discerned wherever winds had pushed the smoke seaward.

  “That’s the whole town,” Steve observed.

  “At least,” John said as he put his hand to Steve’s shoulder, “you weren’t there.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “If I had to guess,” Viet said, “I’d say they’re forcing us to fight. They probably want to bring us to open battle.”

  “That’s suicide against their guns,” Steve said.

  “We need,” Viet said, “to protect our camp and fight on our terms.”

  “Guerilla war?” Steve asked.

  “Ambushes and traps,” Viet said with a nod. “We can make them afraid to move up this hill. Set up an outer perimeter and force them into firing lanes. We can bring supplies to camp as we need them. Till help comes.”

  “When will that be?” Steve asked.

  “God only knows,” Viet said. “God only knows.”

  “There’s a sunken yacht,” John said, “and four missing Americans. Someone will be coming soon enough.”

  Soon, all of the men of the camp organized a guard rotation and each one took his turn as sentry while his compatriots rested. Already, the campfire burned down and most women and children lay fast asleep, exhausted by travel and crowded into a handful of tents. Only a few teenagers and adults unrolled their sleeping bags beneath the stars. It was decided to call the General Will of the People into session at first light.

  Dawn brought a cold breakfast since it was judged too risky to kindle a fire. Though the ravine masked firelight, it couldn’t conceal the upward spiral of smoke. Consequently, some islanders ate leftover MREs while others satisfied themselves with little more than salted perch. Two goats were milked to fill the bottles of the babies, but no one else drank—not even toddlers. No one was satisfied with small portions and there was considerable grumbling over the paucity of rations until leaders promised to send foraging parties to fetch food reserves from the villages and forests; though it also was decided the risk of danger was such that refugees must endure their hunger until nightfall. Only then could foragers be more safely deployed. No one wanted to die to scavenge a coconut.