by Ian Bull
I move down the line and twist them closed as fast as I can. I then stack them carefully in my makeshift sling, which I slip over my shoulder and across my back. I tighten it, and the metal canisters shift and hiss against each other. I check the hallway outside the kitchen, see that it’s clear, and run out the main entrance.
I tear around the side of the villa to below the balcony where Julia’s room is. I look up and instantly see my route. I run and kick up into the tree, grab its lowest branch and start my climb. The Kevlar vest and the tight plastic wrap around my gut are holding my diaphragm and ribs in place, but I still hurt like I’ve been in a head-on car accident. I push through and keep climbing. The canisters move against my back like Mexican jumping beans. More than half of them are hissing and I know the gas is slowly forcing the black twist tops out of their narrow metal openings. When that happens, ten bombs will go off.
My only strategy comes from high school chemistry. If I throw these bombs hard enough, they will pop their tops on impact and turn into rockets—and hopefully hit them instead of me.
I get to a branch that is four feet below the balcony wall. I bounce on the tree limb like I’m on a three-meter diving board, and leap.
My hands grab the edge, but my body slams hard into the outside wall. The cans clang on my back and hiss at me like angry snakes. That was a big noise. Someone is coming out on the balcony, so I better get on that patio.
I vault over the edge, swing the satchel off my shoulder and pick out my first canister. The sliding glass door in front of me is open a crack, but a thick black curtain covers everything.
Someone’s hand parts the black curtain and a shaft of light comes from inside the room, so I heave my first canister toward the target of light and it goes right in. I roll to my right as bullets from Mr. Angry Poker’s gun burst past me.
The first canister hits a wall inside and explodes. Glass shatters, someone shouts and the lights go off.
My sling falls apart and canisters roll around me on the patio. Another canister explodes and, lucky for me, it flies right into the sliding glass window. The window splinters like a windshield and all the glass falls to the ground, pulling half the black curtain down with it.
I pick up two canisters and throw them inside. One explodes, and then the other. There’s more shouting, and I’m glad that it’s dark in there now. The remaining six canisters spin on the tile like misguided rockets just before launch. Another goes off and rockets right into my shoulder, knocking me to the ground. I have to shake my head to get my bearings back; that thing hit me half as hard as the bullet I took ten minutes ago.
Five hissing spinning canisters are left, ready to pop. I run over and hike them hard between my legs, one after the other, like a center heaving footballs at the quarterback, one-two-three-four-five straight at the hole in the glass. Each of them explodes and rockets around the room.
I run to the broken window, grab the rest of the black curtain with both hands and yank it down, flooding the room with light.
Caballero is face down on the bed. I got lucky; he got hit. I step inside, and see the Angry Poker writhing on the floor next to a camera. He clutches his head with both hands, my gun next to him. I kick him in the head and knock him out, then pick up my gun and shoot out the guts of the camera, destroying it. I scan the room. Where’s Julia?
Trishelle stands against the wall in her underwear, staring at me with dead eyes. Julia then gets up from behind the bed, coughing and clutching at her throat.
There’s a pile of clothes in the middle of the room, some of them mine. I grab Trishelle’s wrist and pull her toward the door, kicking the clothes at the same time. “Grab these and go!” I shout. “Now!”
Trishelle can’t move and just stares at the pile, but Julia dashes over and scoops up clothes, then grabs Trishelle’s wrist and tugs her. She’s still got the will to live, thank God.
Hearing a noise, I spin and raise my gun—it’s Constantinou in the back of the room, behind another camera and a shattered light. He’s got the same confused look as he had last night when I caught him naked with a boner. I shoot out the guts of that camera too.
I hear Julia and Trishelle open the door and leave. My turn. But as I turn to go, Caballero rises off the bed and lunges at me with a switchblade and the knife goes into my right thigh.
I howl in pain and my knees buckle, but I don’t drop my pistol. I won’t lose my weapon, not for a third time. I keep moving for the door. Caballero rolls off the bed and I know he’ll find another weapon soon. A bullet hit me square in the back and it knocks me to my knees, but I get one foot under me and dive out the open door. Julia yanks it shut and we all fall, just as gunfire rips into the heavy wood.
Julia, Trishelle and I tumble down the staircase in a spinning ball of clothes.
We land at the bottom and I aim my gun up the stairs and wait. When the door opens a crack, I send a bullet back up the staircase into the narrow space, and it slams shut again.
“Get your clothes and go,” I say through gritted teeth.
I push myself up against the wall and prop my one good leg against the metal banister to keep me from sliding down. I’m shot, stabbed, and I have a broken rib, but I’m conscious and my adrenaline is pumping. I can do this, I think. I have to do this.
Julia kisses me on the forehead.
“Thank you,” she says, and I feel her hand go into a pocket on my pants, leaving something there and then they are gone. I hear their bare feet running across the patio and then disappear.
From here I can guard the staircase and keep the bad guys in their room for a bit. When they are brave enough, they will find a way down from the outside, but the whole island is now empty and quiet enough that I will hear them coming.
I see double and shake my head to clear my vision. I’m sitting in a sticky puddle of my own blood that’s slowly growing larger. I grit my teeth and push my leg harder against the staircase railing. I stare at the door, then listen for a noise on the patio.
Minutes pass. How long?
The door opens again, and I send another bullet up into the wood. The door slams. I hear soft voices. They’re on the outside balcony and will be coming down that way soon.
More minutes pass. How long?
The door opens once more, I fire again and the door slams. They’re trying to distract me now. They’re coming at me from the other side. I can hear them.
Constantinou’s office is still open, so I roll away from the staircase and scamper on my hands and knees inside and slam the door shut with my foot. I get to my knees and lock it just as the doorknob twists frantically. I dart into the bathroom and twist the window shut and lock it too.
There are windows behind the thick curtains, so I stay low as I crawl back into the office. I roll onto my back and my body sinks into the plush carpet. Nice rug. Comfortable. A good place to bleed to death. I hear banging on the door and the outside windows, but the noises seem far away. I feel warm all of a sudden and I don’t hurt so much, which is also pleasant.
Once I close my eyes I probably won’t open them again, so I look around one last time. The walls are dark wood. Cozy. There’s a cobweb under the table. It reflects silver. Pretty.
I notice the monitors. It makes me want to see Julia again.
I count backwards from five and then haul myself up to a sitting position. I almost faint, but I grab onto the editor’s chair, reach up and hit the space bar on the computer.
Julia’s face fills the two screens. She stares in the distance, her hair blowing in the wind. She looks strong, determined and scared all at the same time. Most of all, she looks beautiful.
It makes me regret all the photos I took of her. I’ve done all I can. I hope she makes it.
Then I remember—the why behind all this is also somewhere in this room. It’s in the papers, the filing cabinets or on the laptop. I feel one last twinge of anger and regret poke at me, and I feel energized again. I suddenly want to know.
They are
old friends, my anger and regret. They’ve been my driving force for the last five years, and I need them to give me a bit more energy for this last push.
Chapter 48
Julia Day 11: Sunday
We run down the stairs, out to the beach and then into the trees. I stop and make Trishelle pull on Steven’s shorts and T-shirt, and I pull on my oversized shoes again.
“Follow me,” I say.
I’m running again. My muscles feel like lead, and my lungs ache. I want to stop and grab my knees and gasp for air, but I remember Rolando’s face and his hand on my throat, and a new burst of adrenaline kicks into my veins and I sprint through the trees close to the beach.
I don’t want to run on the beach because we would leave tracks and be in the open, so I try to run on the hard sand just at the beginning of the tree line. Branches and twigs whip my face.
I sense that Trishelle is falling behind. “Come on!’ I yell at her.
“I’m barefoot!” she yells back.
I let her catch up. Reaching me, Trishelle falls to her knees and gasps, sucking air into her lungs as hard as she can. She’s had too little exercise and too many nights bumming cigarettes in nightclubs.
My hands go to my throat. I’m breathing fine, but every muscle and bone in it aches, like something inside is bent. My head even tilts to one side. Fear instantly goes into my legs and I feel the overwhelming need to run again.
I grab her wrist, but Trishelle pulls it back. “I can’t,” she pants.
I come close and grab her face with both hands. “It’s my turn to help you now,” I whisper, “You can do this.”
A tear comes to her eye and she nods. I pull her.
We run on the sand heading north—one mile, then another. I taste blood and metal on my tongue I’m running so hard.
Then I spot the three rocks and slow down. Steven was right. They’re sticking out of the water just a little bit more than two hours ago. I line myself up with the first one, just like I did earlier in the morning, then turn and run inland through the trees.
“Where are we going?” Trishelle asks.
“Just keep up! You’ll see!”
I dart left and right, green whipping past me. I reach familiar palm trees—then I spot the packs and we reach Carl.
I stop and Trishelle runs right into my back. We stare down at him lying there on the ground. His right leg is bare from the thigh down and his skin is seeping red from under the gaffer’s tape. He’s bleeding again. His face looks as grey as when we found him this morning.
“Who’s he?” Trishelle asks between gasps.
I don’t answer. Instead I take the brake off the IV coil and lift the coconut up high, and watch the coconut water dribble into his vein. Is this working? Or making it worse?
“Is he dead?” Trishelle asks.
“Not yet,” I whisper.
After five minutes his right eye opens. I fall to my knees and grab his face. “You okay?”
Carl nods, his eyes closed.
“Will you tell me who he is now?”
Carl opens both eyes and smiles.
“Trishelle, this is Carl. Carl, this is Trishelle.”
“Hello,” he breathes.
“Hello,” Trishelle says.
“Water,” he mouths, but no noise comes out.
I cup his neck up and help him sip from his pack, but I know he needs what’s going into his vein more. I just hope it gives him the punch he needs to get on his feet.
“I’m going to get us out of here,” I whisper.
“You better hurry,” he says, trying to smile, but he looks scared.
I hand Trishelle the coconut. “Hold this up for ten minutes, then take out the tube but leave the needle in his arm. Then carry all this gear to the beach and meet me there,” I tell her, pointing to all our supplies on the ground.
“Where are you going?” she asks, her eyes so wide with fear there’s a circle of white around each iris.
“To get the raft,” I say. “You’ll be fine.”
“You can’t leave. What if they come?” she begs.
“If they’re coming then we don’t have much time, so I have to go now,” I tell her.
Then I look at Carl. “And when I come back you have to be strong enough to move, because I’m not carrying you.”
“I’ll crawl there if I have to,” he answers.
I grab Steven’s pack and I unzip the bottom and pull out the swim fins, give Trishelle’s arm a squeeze for luck and I run. I dart through the trees, ducking branches and jumping over roots that are now familiar.
I reach the beach and kick off the dumb deck shoes so I can get real traction. I dart across the soft hot sand and reach the hard pack at the water’s edge where I can run faster. The breeze hits my face and cools my skin, giving me my second wind.
I pass the beacon and the rocky point, then run over the berm and reach the north end of the island. I don’t even pause. I tumble into the water, pull my fins on and start swimming. I’m still wearing the sundress I was supposed to die in and it drags and slows me down, but I’ll need it on the raft to protect me from the sun. The fins make up for it though, and I kick harder. I aim for the beach on the other side, which is about three hundred yards away now. I put my head down and I do the crawl stroke as fast as I can, but the warm current is pushing me sideways faster than I can move forward. I lose my strength and I turn over on my back and just kick. With both ears in the water all I hear is my breathing and my own heartbeat as I stare at the blue sky above me.
I flip over and plunge my face under the water and see that the shallow sandy bottom is farther to my right. I slow down and let the current carry me there. Four more strokes and I reach down with my feet and my fins touch sand.
I pull off my fins and wade out of the water. Four, three, two feet deep, and I’m on the beach again but on a brand new island.
My legs are cramping, so I grab my knees and suck air into my lungs. The trade wind blows against my wet skin, making me shiver.
I look up and see white clouds on the blue horizon. A gorgeous sight, worth seeing a second time. I hope I see it tomorrow.
Time to run again. There are barely any trees on this flat island, which is like an overturned dish that popped out of the sea with nothing to block the strong wind. I lean into the breeze, and it blows sand granules into my eyes and mouth which I spit and blink away, but already I can see the other side of the cay.
I run past debris on the beach and the black torched hull of the boat I saw burning last night. Almost nothing is left.
Reaching the other end of the island I see nothing but crusted sand hills and grass blowing in the wind. I run into the grass and zig zag back and forth, searching, and the thin stiff blades cut against my feet.
It’s not here, someone took it. Maybe Carl moved the raft. I’m screwed—
I find it. It’s a small black Zodiac, seven feet long, with a Coleman 5-horsepower outboard motor. I motored around on the same kind of boat on Lake Shebandowan back in Ontario when I was a kid, zooming with my friends between lake houses on long summer nights.
I find the bowline and drag the Zodiac out of the grass, over the berm and down into the water. I step inside and push off from the beach.
The boat drifts as I pump the bolus bulb on the metal gas tank and send a shot of fuel into the engine. I flip the switch and yank the cord and it starts up right away, then I sit down in the stern and twist the throttle.
The engine whines to life and I know that people will hear it over a mile away, but I have no choice. I have to get to Carl and Trishelle and get everything inside the boat before they get to me. I steer the Zodiac into the shallow water next to the small island and twist the throttle more. The nose of the Zodiac rises up high as it picks up speed.
I glance down at the inside of the raft. I have rope, a survival kit, two oars, and that red rescue beacon. I have to get far enough away before I can hit that thing. That’s the goal.
I reach the s
outhern end of the small island and cross the few hundred yards back to Elysian Cay. My new speed gives me confidence. I am almost there. In front of me is the fifty-foot-high remote tower with the red beacon that pulses at night, and I realize why it’s there: there’s a long line of rocks jutting out of the water, and I must go west four hundred yards to find a way past them. I peek over the side and see huge limestone rocks covered with coral and surrounded by fish—a miniature mountain range just under the surface.
I slow down and find a break between the sharp rocks shallow enough to ease the raft through, and the bottom brushes the top of a boulder. I then twist the throttle and zoom forward, making the nose rise again.
Then, I see her. Trishelle is waving on the beach, surrounded by all the gear.
I run the Zodiac right up on the sand, cutting off the power and tipping down the handle to lift up the propeller just in time. I’ve beached these at many lake parties before, at even higher speeds.
“Let me get it higher on the sand,” I say, but Trishelle is already throwing in the gear, weighing down the raft too soon. I wave her away. I jump out, run to the front, grab the bowline and pull the raft out of the water onto higher ground. Then I help Trishelle load the two packs, the extra water, the coconuts, the dead crab, and Carl’s rifle, which I slide in carefully.
“Let’s get him,” I say and we run back into the trees.
When we reach him, Carl is already on his one good leg and hugging a palm tree. “I heard you coming, so they did too. We’ve got to go.”
I position myself under one arm and Trishelle slides herself under the other, and we all hobble together like a broken tricycle with square wheels. Carl winces with pain on every step, but we make it to the beach.
I let him go and grab the bowline and drag the Zodiac back into the water. I motion for them to follow, but they don’t need much coaxing. They’re splashing and hopping into the water and I put my hand up to stop them. “Wait! Let me get it deeper!”