Left on Paradise

by Kirk Adams

  “You may earn an Oscar.”

  “You really think so?”

  “You’ll have my vote.”

  Kit leaned on John’s shoulder as he pushed a log into the fire with his food. They watched the flames rise and felt the heat.

  “How shrewd,” Kit said after a time. “She wanted us together.”

  “I think so.”

  “I mean, she wanted to fix us up.”

  “I just lost Deidra and you Ryan. I hope he’s not hurt.”

  “I’m not saying,” Kit said, “she was right, because it’s too early for both of us. But it is what she wanted.”

  “I suppose.”

  “And we promised.”

  “People,” John said, “would think it perverse.”

  “We’ve done nothing wrong—unless we betray a dying friend.”

  “These children will need two parents: both mom and dad.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We could raise them together, I guess.”

  “Not from the same house. I promised my grandmother.”

  “I guess we could marry.”

  “Is that,” Kit asked, “a proposition or a proposal?”

  John looked straight at the middle-aged blonde, who nodded once to make her intention clear.

  “Will you be my wife?” John asked.

  “Now?”

  “Do you see any reason to delay?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Now John looked into Kit’s eyes and took her hands into his own. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

  Kit nodded.

  “Do you,” John whispered, “take me as your husband before God?”

  “I do.”

  “Then with God as our witness, I pronounce us husband and wife. Till death do us part.”

  John kissed his bride and gently squeezed her hands.

  “Not here,” Kit whispered, “not so near the children.”

  “You’re right,” John said, “but at least you can come closer and let me sleep beside my bride.”

  Kit nestled herself to her groom, their legs intertwined and bodies held fast. They talked a few minutes before contenting themselves with the quiet of touch. As the fire flamed and flickered into coals and ash, Kit looked toward the heavens and silently prayed—asking whether anything good could come from such a sin-stained world. Her prayers finished, Kit clasped the hand of her now slumbering husband.

  On her honeymoon night, Kit twice rose to feed the baby.

  The dark remained deep as Ryan heard voices. He lay on his stomach, perhaps thirty feet from the trail to the immediate north of New Plymouth, in a shallow ditch he had dug with his hands and where he now was hidden beneath a dark blanket and piled foliage. Mud was smeared on his face and he didn’t move at all—overwhelmed with regret that he’d failed to find Maria at the north camp during a day-long wait outside the camp in hope she might escape. By dusk, he had returned to New Plymouth and salvaged stale crackers from a discarded MRE, then found a wool blanket and looked for a safe bed down site. He chose a spot overlooking the main trail from behind thick brush—from which he could watch for his wife without exposing himself to northsmen or natives. After all, it’d do Maria no good if he were shot. Or eaten.

  Earlier, Ryan thought he saw native children running through the forest, but he couldn’t be sure and they didn’t return. Now he fell asleep, cheek pressed to the grass and arms tucked beneath the warmth of a wool blanket. He was careful not to snore and occasionally startled himself awake from fear of too much noise. But no one heard him. The birds had quieted for the evening and only tropical insects made their presence known. A few bats circled above.

  It was whispering from the trail that awoke Ryan. When he raised his head ever so slightly and squinted toward two shadows, he saw that the taller one resembled Father Donovan. When he cocked his ear toward the men, he decided that the man also sounded like the renegade priest.

  “Chuck, you catch her?”

  “I lost her tracks in the river.”

  “Where?”

  “A stone’s throw down the trail.”

  “We’ll get her tomorrow, unless the heathens eat her first.”

  “That’d be a waste of a good woman.”

  “I agree,” the man who sounded like Donovan laughed. “Some bodies are made for better things than buffet.”

  “Shhhh,” the shorter man said as he raised his hand. “Someone’s coming down the trail.”

  Ryan watched as the men crouched, then slipped into the shadows as someone approached. He listened as they whispered, but couldn’t make out their words. Only when the stranger walked past the brush did Ryan see the men spring on the unknown person—the taller man striking at the stranger’s shoulders and the shorter one at the knees.

  A woman’s scream sounded as the stranger fell. The shorter man raised a spear and drove it into a small woman who had been knocked to the ground and died without another sound. The spear was pulled and blood wiped in the grass as the two men discussed the kill.

  “Nice hunting,” the taller man said. “I didn’t have to fire a shot.”

  “Don’t waste them on the natives. It’s your last magazine and we still have armed islanders to hunt down. We can take care of the cannibals with spears and knives. And the women.”

  “How many are left?”

  “Let’s see … John … a couple western women and their brats … Ryan and Maria … two eastern men and three southern women … and Morales. Plus we have the nurse. And there’s the deserter on Roanoke Island. Maybe a few more. Hell, I never knew half these people.”

  “That’s at least a dozen,” the taller man said. “Plus kids. Probably more.”

  “With six bullets.”

  “But if you take out John, we win. Morales is a scholar and Godson didn’t even do his own stunts. He shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “What about the cannibals?”

  “We can arrange a heathen hunt when the real enemy is gone. They’re not very smart about leaving tracks.”

  “We shouldn’t have any trouble with them,” the shorter man said. “Just string up Godson by the thumbs and they’ll come sniffing for dinner. He’d make great bait.”

  “The performance of a lifetime.”

  “Good manners might require us to let the heathen have a few bites before we kill them. Last meal of the condemned and all that.”

  The men laughed before moving toward the beach while Ryan wiped sweat from his forehead and pressed his face into the dirt—hoping help would come soon.

  The day hadn’t yet dawned when Lisa sailed from the motu. She left a note saying she didn’t want to take food from the mouths of children whom she couldn’t in good conscience fight to defend—and so left Paradise with a sailboat, two day’s rations, a box of matches, a blanket, two gallons of fresh water, and a compass. The note explained that the boat would be of no further use to John since he couldn’t fit all the children and necessary supplies in the small craft for a voyage into open seas. The note also indicated that Lisa herself would return once she’d retrieved more food and an emergency radio from Roanoke Island. She thanked John and Kit for their kindness and reiterated that she really was the most expendable member of the party.

  Kit wept when she read the note while John commended Lisa’s courage, not only for this current mission but also for decoying the northsmen while Viet and the women freed captives and attempted their escape. After a time, Kit fixed a sparse breakfast and John fished until he hooked a meal-sized perch and speared a small crab, both of which Kit cleaned and cooked as John collected a dozen clams (which he threw into a bucket of water for future use). Meanwhile, one of Linh’s daughters wept while thatching grass and her sister listlessly milked a goat until she filled a baby bottle. The four younger children cried for more food until Kit fed them stale flatbread. Only then were they satisfied enough to play along the beach: Theodore and Tyrone building sand castles while Sally’s daug
hter and Brittany splashed water. Kit kept the cannibal’s son in the shade since she was unwilling to risk sunburning such a young child.

  It was noon when John heard the distant thumping of rotary blades. He immediately shouted that helicopters were coming and told Kit to pile brush and wood into three piles that he set ablaze using his gasoline bombs. They threw every stick they could find into the fires and the smoke rose high even before the helicopter reached the archipelago. By the time the reconnaissance helicopter approached from the east side of the main island—its reverberations only partially muffled by Mount Zion—John was calling for the children to find more wood while he broke off the branches of a dead tree and Kit threw sailcloth, oars, and even an empty backpack into the fires. The smoke soon grew thick and dark and it wasn’t long before the signal drew the attention of the helicopter’s pilots—who turned from Mount Zion for the west motu, banking hard as they reconnoitered the small band of refugees.

  As John waved and Kit hugged the children, the pilot hovered a short distance offshore and gave a thumbs-up. When an emergency medical kit and food rations dropped from the sky like manna from the heavens just before the aircraft flew toward the horizon, John and Kit fell to their knees and thanked God for the United States Marine Corps.

  46

  A Sword East of Eden

  Prevailing winds were southerly and Lisa struggled to hold a course to Roanoke Island. She was miles further south than planned and was trying to tack north when she heard the distant whine of turbines. Though the helicopters were mere specks on the northern horizon, she knew American military forces had come. If she tacked northwest, she’d reach Paradise by nightfall—and with it both salvation and civilization. Lisa stared beyond the seas as she lowered her main sail and drifted in the swells of the sea—her face buried in her hands as she weighed options.

  There was no good alternative: life in the United States was corrupt and the tropical paradise was a veritable hell. Pollution, militarism, racism and moralism plagued the old order while cruelty, lawlessness, poverty and oppression ravaged the new world—and the land itself was scarred after several days fighting. Lisa remembered the bodies and burning, the hatred and hysteria. She shuddered to think how many animals had lost homes: how many birds were driven from nests and how many insects were no more. It seemed everything human brought evil and exploitation in old world or new society alike. Their hopes had proved baseless and their idealism had been exposed as a childish fantasy. As she drifted in the warm water of the Pacific, the young woman wept until her tears dried and throat hurt. After a time, she took a drink of water and ate raw breadfruit as her boat continued to drift in the open seas.

  Lisa looked south and wondered how far it was to Easter Island. They didn’t eat people there. It was bad luck to have encountered cannibals—who’d ruined everything with the help of the northern druggies. Remembrance of the first weeks came to Lisa’s mind: mornings of gentle rain, afternoons of caressing sunshine, and hours of natural love. Lisa felt her skin flush from the memory and her breasts warm. It’d been long time since pleasure stirred and she threw her tattered green shirt into the sea, then slipped from her shorts and tossed them overboard too—unmindful she’d polluted the ocean. The sun rained its warmth on bare thighs as cool breezes massaged warm breasts and long hairs on tanned legs tingled; and it wasn’t long before her eyes grew heavy and she slept to the whispers of the wind.

  When she awoke, the sound of military machinery was no more and the sun neared the horizon, so Lisa hoisted her sails and steered south, having decided to let the wind take her where it would.

  A couple hours after she first heard helicopters fly above the island of Paradise, Maria startled at the sound of a pistol shot and a burst of automatic gunfire that followed it. The young woman cleared the brush from her face and looked to the trail, hopeful that help was on the way. She couldn’t be sure who was close and didn’t want to be the last victim of Chuck’s spear or Donovan’s gun, so she remained hidden in the thickets.

  Fifteen minutes later she heard a second burst of automatic weapon fire, this one followed by the shouting of a man who sounded like Ryan. When the shouting ended, she crawled from the brush and stretched: her legs cramped from confinement and skin sore from scratches.

  She hadn’t moved from the briars all night.

  Maria looked at herself and frowned. Two days of captivity and hiding had left their mark: her arms and legs were bruised, her skin scratched, her shorts dirtied, her shirt bloodied, and her hair matted with twigs and leaves. She was filthy, but she was alive. She waited another twenty minutes before creeping down the path and it wasn’t long before she heard the giving of orders and the sounds of shouting—and more helicopters buzzing over Mount Zion. Maria listened as one of the aircraft hovered for a moment over the forest, then continued toward the main beach. Just as she began to run, the young woman encountered pickets posted on either side of the path.

  “Halt.”

  Maria stopped as a man in desert camouflage and carrying a rifle (pointed down) emerged from the brush.

  “Go slow, ma’am,” the man said, “and raise your hands.”

  Maria did so.

  “You have any weapons?”

  Maria shook her head.

  “Stay there while we get the sergeant,” the Marine said as two compatriots also emerged from the brush, one of them bolting toward the beach while calling for help. The other two men just watched Maria.

  Sergeant Abbott soon approached at the double-time, accompanied by the picket and two additional Marines. When they arrived, two guards were standing in the clear as they eyed the captured woman.

  Their sergeant wasn’t amused. “What are you two idiots doing?” he barked.

  “Keeping an eye on the prisoner,” one of the two Marines said. “Should we frisk her?”

  Sergeant Abbott sent two privates who arrived with him to scout ahead before dealing with the wayward pickets.

  “Sergeant Abbott, what’s wrong?” one of the pickets asked.

  “You two are fools. What if she was a decoy? You’d both be dead.”

  “But ...”

  “But, we already took one round and one shooter is dead. Not everyone is going to be as helpless and hapless as the last fool we captured.”

  “I didn’t think ...” one of the Marines started to say.

  “You didn’t think,” Sergeant Abbott said louder yet, “because you’re a dead Marine and dead Marines don’t think about anything at all. Now get your sorry asses back to the rear, both of you, and write your mothers letters of apology for being stupid and for being dead. I’ll mail them tomorrow.”

  “But Sarge ...”

  Sergeant Abbott snapped. “Move!”

  The men ran to the rear and Sergeant Abbott ordered the remaining picket to find a forward post. Only then did he turn to Maria.

  “I’m sorry for the bad language,” the sergeant said, “but those boys are punishment for my sins.”

  Maria said nothing.

  “I’ll,” Sergeant Abbott said, glancing at his boots, “have to check you before you can enter camp.”

  When Maria consented with a nod, the sergeant patted her down. Since she didn’t wear much clothing, the procedure didn’t take long and the Marine wasn’t too intrusive. Afterwards, Sergeant Abbott radioed Lieutenant Howard for orders and subsequently repositioned his men on the perimeter before he himself escorted Maria to base camp—taking several minutes to reach the collection of field packs and supplies that delineated the furthest reach of American diplomacy and military power.

  There, at an improvised base camp, Sergeant Abbott suggested Maria wash herself at the beach as he sent a Marine to fetch toiletries and rations. Soon, a squad of Marines gathered to watch as Maria submerged into the lagoon—snickering and oogling as they stared at the wet shirt clinging to her breasts and the dripping shorts sticking to her thighs.

  “What’re you boys doing?” Sergeant Abbott’s drawl came from now
here and the men turned around.

  “Taking a break, Sarge,” one of them replied, “till we get orders.”

  “I’ll give you Marines some orders,” Sergeant Abbott said. “I want you to move the sand from the left side of the beach to the right side and the sand on the right side of the beach to the left side.”

  The men stared at him.

  “Do you Marines know your left from your right?” Sergeant Abbott snapped.

  The men said nothing.

  “Move the sand from left to right and right to left. Is that clear?”

  “I don’t see,” one of the Marines replied, “no left or right here, Sergeant Abbott.”

  Sergeant Abbott used the heel of his boot to dig a straight line several feet across the sand. “This,” he explained as he pointed across the line, “is the left side and there is the right.”

  Two Marines smirked.

  “Move now!” the sergeant shouted and the men scampered for spades and shovels.

  Within minutes, the Marines dug fast and furious into the sand while Maria watched red-faced, not knowing what to say as Sergeant Abbott removed his shirt and placed it around the young woman’s shoulders—the shirt’s tail falling to her thighs as Maria turned away to fasten the garment and the sergeant looked into the woods until she was done.

  Only when Maria was dressed did Sergeant Abbott speak.

  “I’m really sorry,” the sergeant said. “Here, I found you a bite to eat. It’s all warmed up. The best the Marine Corps has to offer right now.”

  Maria took the heated MRE and ate—and the sergeant with her. When she was full, she thanked him for his kindness and boarded a helicopter that ferried her to a ship cruising less than thirty minutes north. After receiving dry clothing, she returned Sergeant Abbott’s shirt, along with a note expressing her gratitude for his graciousness and good manners. When she boarded the helicopter, Maria saw Ryan sitting at the foremost seat, so she moved to a rear seat and stared out a window. She didn’t speak a single word to her husband during the short flight and requested separate quarters on the troop transport after they landed.