by Kirk Adams
Viet’s report secured political power for the War Party. By two votes, it was decided to forego a defensive posture in favor of offensive strikes. The General Will of the People authorized Viet and two volunteers to raid the northern camp—specifically to destroy the launch in order to end the northsmen’s decisive mobility along the coast. It also was voted to send a raiding party to New Plymouth to forage for supplies and free the native women. Not only was it considered inhumane to keep the women locked in the LCVP for days on end, but it also was hoped the cannibals would menace northern operations. The War Party assessed that every bullet spent on a heathen was a shot that couldn’t be taken at the islanders themselves. Three women and two men objected on grounds that the cannibals were a worse danger than the northsmen, but were outvoted. Lisa and Alan volunteered to free the natives during the night’s supply run.
Supper consisted of unripened fruit and overripened vegetables. Linh cooked a pot of breadfruit and salted-perch broth and was pleased to see her soup drained to the last cup for the first time. Babies drank warmed goat milk and toddlers nibbled from crackers and peanut butter. Children were sent to bed early and guards posted for three-hour shifts. Viet marched his team west while Lisa and Alan followed a half-dozen foragers to base camp. Because the sky was clear and the moon nearly full, the foraging party deemed it prudent to avoid the main trails.
The ambush party threaded single-file through shadows and twists of the trail. Passing through the west neighborhood’s abandoned camp, they crept to the coast before turning north. After crossing Turtle Beach, the team moved north so cautiously that it took an hour before the point man saw the light of a northern fire. Viet posted his companions as a rearguard and crept toward his foe—though it took another thirty minutes before he was within earshot. Near the north village, Viet was forced to hide behind a bush when a squad of armed northsmen passed within ten feet, though they looked neither right nor left as they filed south. Viet prayed silently for his family and his companions—recollecting for the first time in decades prayers he’d been taught by the clergy who’d sponsored his family for resettlement from Vietnam.
Several minutes later, Viet raised his head from the brush and took a long look. As best as he could see, only two men and six women remained at the camp: all of them sitting around the fire as they passed a water pipe and laughed loud. Behind them, the motorized launch was tied to a tall palm tree on the beach. After Viet watched the northerners several minutes, he heard muffled cries of suppressed anguish that he considered investigating until he remembered the critical nature of his mission: if the northerners could be slowed to foot speed, the advantage of high ground would be magnified since Mount Zion both provided a natural barrier to protect allied forces scavenging for forage and served as a natural observation post. Viet held his position and endured the cries for what seemed an hour—though he suspected the clock would have shown the passing of no more than a few minutes. Only when the wailing became the piercing screams of a tortured woman did the stoned northsmen stumble toward the far side of their village, leaving behind only a single woman—and she was sprawled nearly motionless in the sand.
Now Viet saw his chance and crawled forward, soon standing and then darting between trees. When the terrorized woman screamed from a distance yet again, Viet stopped for a moment—this time listening to the guffaws of drunken men. Whatever was taking place evidently held their attention.
It was time to make a move.
Viet jumped up and sprinted into the open straight toward the fire, his ax raised high. The woman lying in the sand tried to stand when she saw the approaching enemy, but proved too stoned to do so and fell backwards as the intruder ran toward the motorized launch. Slipping behind the boat’s fiberglass hull to catch his breath, Viet reached for the keys to the boat, only to find they weren’t in the ignition. With no time to search for the missing keys, Viet climbed into the boat to look for whatever combustible material he could find. He found a blanket, a shirt, and a can of reserve fuel—which he splashed across the boat, careful to pour plenty of the gasoline on the control panel, steering column, and the motor (whose fuel cap was removed to insure it would ignite).
The combustibles readied, Viet climbed from the boat and looked toward the shore. After removing his shirt and swiping it across the fuel-soaked deck of the boat, he wrapped it into a ball and dipped his hands into water to wash away every trace of gasoline. Turning his back to the village and pulling a lighter from his pants pocket, Viet lit the shirt, threw it into the boat, and sprinted for safety moments before the fuel ignited and light flashed across the surf. Indeed, he took only a few steps before the fuel tank exploded—knocking him forward and singeing the hair on his back. Still, Viet kept to his feet as he ran through the surf, sprinted across the beech, and darted into the refuge of the forest.
As for the woman at the beach, though she staggered to her feet and turned toward the intruder as soon as the boat blew up, she chose not to sound the alarm when Viet ran straight toward her waving his ax. Instead, she raised her hands in surrender until the west village raider had disappeared into the cover of the trees from which he had come. Only then did she cry for help as she staggered toward the sea—where the launch was aflame from stern to bow and already beginning to list to its starboard side.
When Viet reached Turtle Beach a few minutes later, his companions were gone, so he jogged south alone. At his home village, he filled a duffle bag with spare clothing for his family and keepsakes treasured by his daughters and also found some food in the barn—which had been looted only haphazardly. The jellies and dried fruit were gone (along with the fish), but plenty of flour remained. Viet grabbed several bags of flour, a tin of sea-salt, and a canister of dry yeast. He also picked up a bag of sugar, a small tub of lard, and several cast iron pots and pans. Only as he reached the bridge over the Pishon River did he notice the bobbing of lights coming down the northern trail toward the village: a northern scouting party. Viet crept into the dark of the forest, slipped off his shoes, and moved slowly uphill, keeping as far as possible from the main trail to escape any war party waiting in ambush.
New Plymouth was sacked. Tents were torn open and poles hacked into kindling. The supply sheds were ransacked and the ground littered with broken pill bottles, opened cartons of gauze, and smashed medical instruments. The library had been burned to the ground and even the toilet was tipped. The foraging party salvaged a box of medical supplies, several articles of loose clothing, and even two crates of packaged food before triggering an emergency beacon overlooked by the northsmen. After the others began their trek toward Mount Zion, Alan and Lisa moved toward a south-leading trail to complete their assigned mission—telling the others they’d be along in a few minutes and not to wait. The foragers wished the pair good luck before disappearing into the trees and it wasn’t long before the crunch of grass underfoot no longer sounded.
Alan and Lisa crept toward the beach, watching for northern patrols and ambushes. Long before they reached the landing craft, they heard the wailing of heathen women pounding fists against wood walls—the clank of chains reverberating across water and sand.
“At least they’re still alive,” Alan said.
“And inside the boat,” Lisa added.
“Probably too frightened to leave. Or still chained.”
“Or too short.”
“I’ll lower the ramp myself,” Alan said, “since you don’t fight. Just don’t be a distraction. I want you to keep watch to the north—looking for northsmen. I can handle these pygmies. What I don’t need is a bullet in my back.”
“I won’t fight,” Lisa said. “I’m not a soldier.”
“Just scream and run for your own life if the northerners come. I’ll see to my own safety.”
Lisa nodded.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” Alan continued. “Be here.”
Lisa said she’d stay put.
Alan then slung his ax over a shoulder and jogged toward the
screeching of the natives while Lisa slipped into shadows and turned her face north. Behind her, the shrieks and screams of native women sounded so fierce that Lisa shuddered as she remembered the stretched breasts of the cannibals: elongated from suckling babies whom they had eaten. A shiver ran across her own breasts and she clutched her nipples.
A moment later, the heavy thud of a steel ramp against solid ground reverberated across the lagoon and Lisa stared into the darkness as she imagined what it must have been like to watch hundreds of warships dropping their payloads of armed soldiers into the terrible battles that engulfed the Pacific and brought a man-made hell to so many tropical paradises. She trembled to consider how artillery had destroyed pristine beaches and aircraft had firebombed unspoiled forests.
“No soldier,” Lisa said, “will die by my hand.”
Lisa looked back again. The noise of the women grew louder and more pitched. They seemed more fevered and maybe a little closer. She wondered how Alan was doing; he seemed to be delayed.
It was then that a scream penetrated the forest—a man’s howl of such anguish that Lisa froze from fear. Only when the man screamed a second time did the young woman take a hesitant step toward the pain. A third shriek, even more anguished than the others, finally broke Lisa’s trance.
Now Lisa sprinted toward the cries, slowing only when she turned a sharp bend in the path. There, under the pale moonlight, she saw Alan pinned to the ground by four natives while several others fed like dogs from the soft of his belly. He writhed hard and even from a distance Lisa heard his gasps of breathless anguish. She also saw skinny legs slipped from their chains and hands bloodied with fistfuls of bowels—as well as children slapped and kicked whenever they squeezed between the arms and legs of crouching mothers to take a bite for themselves. As she approached the stricken man, Lisa saw that Alan’s face was utterly contorted from pain and his eyes wide from trauma and terror, though she heard no words come from his mouth.
Lisa again froze—her heart racing and hands trembling. Tunnel vision obscured every sight but that of her stricken friend and she no longer heard the shrieks of the natives or saw them circling to her side. Her hands and feet felt sluggish and her mouth felt dry and salty. She saw Alan’s ax a few feet away and reached for it, almost unthinking, with both hands—though securing it with surprising difficulty. Wishing to chase the natives away, she threw the ax at the feet of a native. But stress and adrenaline proved strong and the ax sailed much further than Lisa had intended, now catching a scampering child in the back. The girl let out a yelp as her legs went limp and she crumpled to the ground.
As cannibals scattered in every direction, Lisa pulled the weapon from the unmoving child and hurried toward her fallen friend—whose stomach was torn open and guts strewn from shoulder to thigh. His eyes were vacant and he breathed slow. Blood drained from his torn throat.
“You’re already dead,” Lisa cried out. “What I do isn’t war and killing, but mercy and peace.”
Alan choked out a single breathless word—though Lisa couldn’t make it out as she raised the ax high over his chest. When she drove the ax downward with all her might, Alan’s eyes went wide with utter horror as the sharp edge of the ax broke his sternum and split his heart. His eyes rolled and a mouthful of frothy blood gushed outward. He was dead before the young woman pulled the ax from his chest. Taking a deep breath that cleared her blurred vision, Lisa turned toward the natives who had begun to circle the now-armed pacifist—their hands filled with stones and sand.
Seeing an opening, Lisa closed her eyes, and charged past an old woman—clumsily brushing the old woman’s arm with the sharp edge of her bloody ax as she passed by. The old woman fell to her knees with gasps too anguished to cry out. Though several natives already had returned to feast from Alan—once again lapping blood and chewing organs—their children swarmed the old woman: one slurping blood from the ground as the matriarch writhed in pain and others gnawing at stretched old breasts and tearing off mouthfuls of aged fat and loose skin as fast as they could. The old woman gave a blood-curdling scream when a girl poked a finger into the socket of her eye and popped out an eyeball—severing its cord of veins and nerves with a single bite before running into the woods to enjoy the delicacy. Now the old woman screamed until her voice went hoarse and even then groaned loud until her life finally drained away.
Panicked and sobbing with blurred vision and racing heart, Lisa ran for Mount Zion as fast as she could, making no effort to show caution. She cast aside the bloodied ax after a few steps and tore hair from her own head after a few more. Only when she heard shouting from a north-leading trail did she step into the shadows—stumbling into a ditch and hiding in brush. There, the bloodstained pacifist closed her eyes as she remembered the screaming, cannibalism, and a terrible coup de grậce.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
The first three shots were too high. Donovan had pulled the trigger too quick to make adjustments and the bullets whizzed harmlessly over the crest of the hill. The northerners beside him weren’t pleased.
“Aim! Aim!” Jason screamed as he squared against four islanders wielding raised axes and pointed spears—who now charged toward the northern raiding party that had appeared on the north slope in the dim light of early dawn.
As Jason and the other northsman continued to advance from the forest, Donovan steadied himself against a tree and took aim at one of several islanders who now charged his compatriots—and were armed with six-foot lances tipped with razor-sharp shells.
Donovan squeezed the trigger until the gun jumped.
Crack.
Crack. Crack.
Following a miss, an islander was struck in the shoulder, spun into a tree, and collapsed.
Crack.
A second islander fell—this one from a bullet to the chest. Only two opponents remained. Both of them darted to the left flank of the northerners as Donovan fired at the closer target.
Crack. Crack. The second shot struck the man only a few feet away and the man collapsed without a sound.
Now the last attacking islander retreated into the shadows of the trees as Donovan and his northsmen turned toward the refugee camp.
“Ahhhhhh.”
Someone to Donovan’s right screamed and the priest spun toward the cry. Jason had stepped into a spike-filled hole and now cried for help as blood spurted from gash to his thigh. When the wounded man tried to disimpale himself from the spike with a violent jerk of his body, he screamed out and then fainted from shock and pain. A northern raider reached to pull Jason from the trap until Father Donovan shouted that Jason was mortally wounded and must be abandoned to his fate.
Now Donovan—flanked by a single compatriot—hurried toward a ravine at the edge of the encampment, where he saw a dark-skinned woman shouting for help.
“Kill her,” Donovan ordered his associate as he himself scanned for other threats.
“Will do,” the northerner said as he charged his lance and ran straight at the woman, his weapon directed at her belly.
When the woman turned to run, she slipped in mud and fell to a knee, now screaming as the northsman closed the short distance between them at a dead run.
Ten steps ... eight ... six ...
The northsman never reached his target. The sound of running came from the woods and a terrible shriek sounded from the shadows. The lancer heard the yell and tried to turn his weapon, but moved a step too slow as an islander crashed into him. Both men staggered from the blow—the northsman’s lance knocked from his hand.
Thirty feet away, Father Donovan watched in horror as the attacking foe brought his weapon to bear against his northern target with a violent twist of his body: the ax swung shoulder-high. The northsman didn’t duck and the ax caught him across the back of the neck. His squeal was cut short as his head flung twenty feet into the forest and blood sprayed the earth. His foe killed, the attacking islander sprinted to the fallen woman—interposing his body between her and Donovan’s line of sight.
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Crack. Crack.
At least one of Donovan’s shots struck the ax-swinging islander. The man fell to his knees, clutching his side.
Crack. Crack.
Donovan fired into the woman’s breast and belly and she fell backwards.
Click.
When Donovan tried to finish off the wounded fighter (who already had staggered to his feet), he found the chamber empty and the gun’s slide locked to the rear. As his wounded enemy shouted a war cry and staggered forward with a raised ax, Donovan backpedaled into the forest—fumbling for bullets from his pants pocket, but managing only to drop several of them in tall grass during his panicked retreat. Only after he cleared the ravine did he dare stop to reload his weapon behind the cover of a tall tree.
After reloading, Donovan waited several minutes for a counterattack. When none came, he slipped down the hill and started for home: the sole survivor of the ill-fated raid. The path wasn’t as dark now and he made good time back to the north camp, arriving before dawn broke over the eastern horizon.
41
The Gulag Archipelago
The first hours of the new day were spent burying the dead and planning a stronger defense. It was decided to strengthen and extend the bermed walls around the camp’s entire perimeter, as well as to manufacture additional bows and arrows and more bundles of spears. More traps also were authorized and the General Will of the People even ordered women to man the walls, either to fight or pass weapons. The battle had been a close call and it was assessed matters might have ended in utter catastrophe if Donovan had successfully fired even one more bullet—knocking Sean completely out of action and giving himself a chance to reload. A motion was passed to keep more islanders on guard duty since too many fighters were sleeping when the enemy struck. Though the northerners lost two fighters and wasted numerous bullets, the islanders suffered three men and one woman killed and one man wounded. The odds in favor of the allied villages had been reduced and the absence even of three or four militia might cost them both a battle and their lives.