Survive

by Tom Bale

  He warns Jody to keep back, then flips up the metal clasps and tests the lid. He turns it slowly, anti-clockwise, and it moves easily. Three, four turns and there’s no sense of pressure. Nothing about to spring out at him.

  Then his stomach burbles, reacting to the smell before his brain can catch up. It’s like walking into a bakery.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he mutters, and takes off the lid. He and Jody lean forward at the same time and nearly bump heads.

  ‘Is it food?’

  ‘God, yeah.’ He brings out the contents one by one, setting them down on the sand for Jody to see.

  Four cans of soda, with foreign writing and an unfamiliar logo. Four energy bars, also foreign. Then a slab of cake, wrapped in cellophane. It looks similar to the cake in the breakfast buffet at the hotel.

  Jody lets out a moan of desire. ‘Oh my God…’

  He’s not finished. Next comes a bag containing four bread rolls, so fresh that up close the smell nearly makes him pass out.

  ‘Wow.’ Jody stares at Sam, a broad smile on her face. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’ Suddenly he can’t share her enjoyment. In fact, he feels sickened. We’re supposed to be grateful for this, when they’re treating us like animals in a zoo?

  As he moves back, Jody tips the container towards her and goes rooting around inside it. Sam thinks of that cartoon – Winnie the Pooh, is it? – where he’s searching out every last drop of honey from the pot. There’s a packet of antiseptic wipes and a single foil strip of pills. Jody holds them up as if she’s found a stash of diamonds.

  ‘Painkillers. These might help Grace.’

  There’s a clunking noise as she sets the container down. It isn’t quite empty.

  Once again she feels inside, and brings out an old-fashioned iron key. Sam takes it from her, flakes of rust coming off on his fingers.

  ‘What the hell is this for?’

  ‘Looks like it ought to open a treasure chest.’ She doesn’t sound particularly interested. They have food, drink, medicine. Who cares about an old key?

  He’s inclined to leave it, then changes his mind. He pulls on his chinos and shoves the key in his pocket. Jody refills the pot and they gather up the bungee cords while discussing what to do next. She thinks they should share two of the cans straight away.

  ‘Isn’t that too much?’

  ‘We’re all exhausted, Sam. We need the calories.’

  She’s right. A decent drink, along with some fresh food, would build up his strength before he goes in search of more water.

  They rejoin the kids, who react with delight. Jody opens one of the cans and takes a cautious sip. It’s some kind of lemonade. She pops out a painkiller and encourages Grace to swallow it with a drink. That becomes a mini-drama, because Grace isn’t used to pills: at home the kids have liquid Calpol. Sam watches their tussle, trying not to get uptight about all the lemonade Grace is using up.

  He shares a can with Dylan. The drink is sweet, lukewarm and gassy, but it does at least ease the pain in his throat.

  Then Sam takes out the bag of bread rolls. Normally he’d want to add butter, he’d have ham or cheese and tomato, but here just a plain roll is a feast. The saliva’s almost dripping off his tongue in anticipation.

  He tells himself it’s okay to be first – he and Jody have to test everything, after all – but still it feels more like naked greed than a safety precaution. He takes a small bite and it’s everything he hoped it would be: the outside dry and crisp, the individual flakes snapping against his teeth, the soft fluffy innards swelling a little with the moisture on his tongue before slowly dissolving, creating waves of pleasure to rival an orgasm.

  He’s aware of the other three looking on, wide-eyed and thrilled, sharing his experience the way as a family they’ll stop to watch each other open presents on Christmas morning. It’s my turn soon.

  He hands the bag to Jody and nods: go ahead. Then takes a second bite, much bigger and if anything even more delicious than the first… but Jody’s expression is changing, looking worried, just as he feels a tickle on his upper lip, a bitter tingling in his mouth.

  And movement. Something crawling on his tongue.

  He jerks the roll away and sees ants spilling out from a hole in the centre. They’re scrambling over his wrist, running along his top lip. And they’re still in his mouth.

  ‘Shit!’ He drops the roll, clawing at his face while spitting frantically, but he can feel some of them mashed against the roof of his mouth. He has to hook his little finger in to scrape them out.

  Then he’s sick, more from the shock than anything. That’s the fizzy drink wasted. He leans over, stars exploding in his head, aware that Grace and Dylan are sobbing, and Jody as ever doing her best to calm them down.

  ‘Oh, the bastards…’ he moans, ‘the evil fucking bastards.’

  His hand is stinging from where the ants must have bitten him. His tongue feels numb. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so repulsed, so full of disgust and anger and violence. Whoever came up with this idea, put them in front of him right now and Sam could kill them – with his bare hands, if he had to.

  Yeah, that’s big talk, says a voice inside his head. But only because you know you won’t get the chance.

  47

  First, Jody is distraught, then heartbroken. How much more of this sadism will they have to endure?

  ‘Let’s get back to the boat,’ she says, and Sam meekly agrees. His temper has flared and died down in its usual firework manner.

  He takes over the duty of comforting the kids while Jody kneels to examine the half-eaten roll. It’s covered in sand, the last few reddish brown ants crawling from their hiding place inside. She’s tempted to salvage what she can, until Sam says, ‘Forget it.’

  She spins the neck of the bag to seal up the other rolls and puts it into the container. The ingenuity of this sick practical joke makes her want to weep. Like a doughnut, only with ants instead of jam. Who does something like that? And what if one of the kids had eaten it?

  She can’t quite believe how the joy at having secured this food has soured so quickly. She barely says a word on the way back. The only bright note is that Grace claims to feel slightly better. Jody had given her one of the wipes to press against the back of her neck, promising it would take her temperature down. She was relying on the power of suggestion to do the rest, and it seems to be working.

  What she’s come to think of as their home beach is just as they left it. They sit to the side of the boat that’s coming into shadow. Jody empties the container, takes another of the rolls from the bag and holds it at arm’s length before slowly tearing it open.

  There’s nothing inside. The other two rolls are also empty. They look, feel and smell normal. (No, they smell ridiculously, insanely delicious!)

  ‘So how’s that for odds?’ Sam says.

  ‘It was on top,’ Jody points out. ‘That was the idea. A cruel shock, but the rest of them can be eaten.’

  She goes ahead and proves it, but the kids remain stubbornly resistant. They don’t want any of the ‘nasty bread’, as Dylan puts it. He notices the key, which Sam is idly tapping against his knee, pesters for it and then aims it at his dad, like a gun, and fires: ‘Pw! Pw! Pw!’

  Normally Sam would play along, pretending to be shot and firing back, but this time his reaction is only a heavy-lidded look of despair.

  ‘All right, guys,’ Jody says quickly. ‘The rolls later, I think.’

  Her suggestion is to eat the cake, because it’s perishable, saving the energy bars for last. She upends the container to use the base as a table. The cake is wrapped in cellophane, which she unpeels as cautiously as if defusing a bomb. She leans forward and sniffs, stifling a groan of pleasure, then breaks off a corner and dabs it on her tongue. It has a sweet vanilla flavour, maybe with a hint of honey.

  She savours the taste before swallowing, then breaks off a larger section, ready to jump back if more ants should pour out. But there are no ants,
no maggots or worms. The cake crumbles easily, though towards the centre it gets a bit sticky. The smell alone is enough to bring on a sugar rush.

  ‘Come on,’ she says, using the mum-in-charge voice. ‘We’re all having a piece of this, but not too much in one go. It’s quite sickly.’

  Sam and Grace take her advice but Dylan is still reluctant. He’s retreated into a world of his own, jabbing the tip of the key into the sand, carving out shapes with such vicious intensity that she wonders (and not for the first time, if she’s honest) whether he doesn’t have a little of his Uncle Carl’s aggression.

  ‘Dylan, put it down. It’s time to eat something.’

  ‘Don’t wanno.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re “big greedy Dylan”, remember? The cake monster!’

  ‘Not a cake monster.’ He’s stabbing the sand, over and over. Oh God, he’s a serial killer in training.

  In a low growl, Sam says, ‘Do as you’re told, Dylan.’

  Do it for the angel lady, Jody nearly says. But Dylan has picked up on the threat in his dad’s voice, and in a fit of petulance he hurls the key towards the trees.

  ‘Hate you!’ he shouts, and Jody has to put an arm in front of Sam to stop him lunging at his son. He ought to know the boy by now. This is simply the last act of face-saving defiance before he gives in.

  ‘Please don’t fight,’ Grace cries.

  Glowering, Sam takes a lump of cake and then turns his back on them. Jody picks up the wipes and keeps her voice light but authoritative. ‘Right, Dylan, you’d better clean your hands. Then you’re having some of this cake. It’s lovely.’

  He slumps on to his knees in front of her, sullenly holding out a palm. She gives him a few small pieces of cake, pinching it between her fingers to make sure it contains no hidden perils. Grace has already had enough, and announces that she intends to take a nap. Without a word, Sam follows her round to the other side of the boat. Either he’s seeing her safely into their little den, or else he’s had enough of Jody’s company.

  ‘Daddy doesn’t mean to be cross,’ she says to Dylan. And when that gets no response: ‘We’re all a bit tired and grumpy.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he barks, and Jody can’t help laughing.

  By the time she’s wrapped up the cake and put it back in the container, Dylan has curled up on his side and shut his eyes. Jody watches him for a few seconds, knowing she ought to get him to join Grace. But he already looks so peaceful, on the brink of sleep, and the boat’s shadow is slowly spreading out on this side…

  Her head slips down and snaps back up, the way it sometimes does on the bus home from work. She blinks a few times, unable to believe how easily she began to drift away. She has barely enough energy to lie down and wriggle close to Dylan. Is it any wonder, after such a stressful morning, and so little sleep last night?

  There’s no shame in surrender, she tells herself. The sugar overload is probably a big part of it: their bodies need time to digest the food.

  She’s almost gone when the possibility occurs to her that it’s something more sinister – they’ve been drugged again – but by now she feels so mellow that she dares to believe this might be a good thing. They were brought here under sedation, after all. It’s quite possible that the same method would be employed for the journey home.

  Oh yes: cling to that idea, Jode.

  We’re going home, home, home.

  48

  It’s mid-afternoon when Gabby arrives, having first returned home to shower, freshen up, settle her nerves.

  This season she’s been staying in an apartment on the edge of the largest town on Sekliw’s south coast. The place is a dump, frankly, but it’s conveniently placed between the seven or eight hotels she services on behalf of Sheldon Travel. She shares with two other reps but Gabby barely sees them – when they aren’t on duty they’ll invariably be on the beach or in a club.

  It’s a full-on lifestyle, exhausting but exhilarating; not something she can imagine doing much past her mid-twenties. This is her second season on Sekliw, with only six weeks left to run. She’s already decided that next year – if she remains in the job at all – she’ll go somewhere else for the summer.

  The day is stunningly hot. Stepping from the air-conditioned car, it’s like being dropped into a hot bath. She feels the prickle of sweat on her back, a flush of heat where the sun catches her neck.

  This is her second visit to Borko’s mansion; the first is one she’d rather not dwell on, not least because it was when she signed up for all this. There was quite a crowd on that occasion, including a dozen or more girls who she regarded as far more attractive than her – truly beautiful, some of them – but still she had a very narrow escape.

  He’s a frequent visitor to the island and has been pursuing her, when the mood takes him, for most of the season. The problem is that, by resisting, Gabby has presented him with a challenge – and Borko is a man who feasts on challenges.

  The other problem is that, leaving aside what she knows about him (the facts and rumours both) she can’t deny that she finds him attractive. Very attractive.

  Borko wants her body, and pragmatic single-minded Gabrielle fears very much that, if she doesn’t leave the country soon, her alter ego – that pleasure-seeking, impulsive tart Gabby – will give it to him.

  She spent the journey trying to get into character. There’s zero chance of feeling like she belongs at such a mega-exclusive gathering, and she can’t really understand why he’s invited her (yes she can it’s completely bloody obvious) but in this country you don’t get to say no to the president’s son.

  She has opted for low heels and a simple black skater dress: mid-thigh, sleeveless, a hint of cleavage – in her case, no cleavage is practically impossible. She knows the effect it has, whether she wants it to or not, but frankly that ought to be the least of her worries.

  The main living room is like a smaller version of the grand balcony at the Hotel Conchis. A wall of glass opens on to a long terrace, with tables and easy chairs inside and out. A buffet and a bar at one end, and big cinema-style screens at every turn, broadcasting from the hidden cameras on Borko’s ultra-private estate.

  The room isn’t anywhere near full. She counts twenty or so guests, most of them middle aged or older. Billionaires, she guesses, almost to a man – or woman, for there are three or four females among them. None that would interest Borko, Gabby notes with regret.

  She feels marooned, the only muggle in a gathering of wizards and witches. It’s almost a relief to pretend to be absorbed by the images on screen, a montage in the style of a news bulletin that brings her up to date with recent events. Sam and Jody retrieving a canister of supplies from a cage full of rats. A bread roll laced with ants. From their faces, it’s evident that the family bonds are being stretched to breaking point.

  After a minute Naji Hussein ghosts to her side, taking pretend sips from a glass of champagne. ‘Borko sent me to enquire why you are playing the part of a wallflower.’

  Gabby shrugs, her senses already tuning in to that electric gaze from across the room. Borko is wearing a beautiful light grey suit and a black silk shirt. He avoids eye contact, though. As if to tease her, he is feigning interest in an elderly couple who appear to have been made out of wax and sprayed with mahogany paint.

  On screen the little boy is throwing something away in the midst of a hissy fit. The gesture catches Borko’s attention, and he sends a frown in Hussein’s direction. The aide responds with the tiniest of shrugs, causing Gabby to wonder about the significance of what she has seen – and what she might have missed.

  There’s no opportunity to ask because Naji hastily takes her arm, steering her to meet a bloated Hungarian politician who grips her hand in his own sweaty paw for rather too long. He draws her attention to the live feed and taps the side of his nose.

  ‘They sleep now, but soon there will be…’ Here his English deserts him, so he makes fists and grinds them together with theatrical menace.

&nbs
p; Gabby nods, and manages only a rictus grin. She gets the message.

  More introductions follow, Borko working the other side of the room as though they’re bride and groom at their wedding reception. Naji says nothing of Gabby’s lowly occupation, though he does mention that, as a close friend of Borko’s, she played a part in arranging ‘our magnificent entertainment’. Inside Gabby is cringing. She wants no credit for this.

  For a time she’s deposited with a pair of thickset men – Qatari brothers, awash in oil and property – and a Canadian couple in their fifties, both tall and thin, elegant in a cold, theoretical way. The wife is clearly the dominant partner, a swan-necked, fleshless woman with porcelain skin and the eyes of someone who drinks the blood of virgins. In the kind of grating voice that cuts through hubbub, she’s telling the Qataris about her ambitious plans for the human race. Gabby hears the word ‘eugenics’ and feels she ought to know what it means.

  ‘Therapies to extend life are only one side of the coin. I’m determined to live until I’m a hundred and fifty, at least – but on a planet of ten, fifteen billion? No, thank you!’ The woman’s laugh sounds like a machine gun clogged with gravel. ‘I believe a virus to be the best solution, something along the lines of myxomatosis, although they tell me that nanotechnology offers great potential.’

  They are joined by a hollow-chested, gawky man with unkempt red-blond hair and an overbite. He looks about fourteen, but carries himself like a boy emperor. In a nasal American accent, he says, ‘How’d you plan to direct it to the right targets? You can’t single out according to ethnic groups, or even IQ. Just not feasible.’

  The woman treats the youngster to an imperious sneer. ‘I am told there could be a genetic marker.’

  From nowhere Gabby hears herself say, ‘For what, exactly? Poverty? Bad luck?’

  There are gasps from the little group around her. Gabby realises it’s the word ‘luck’ that disturbs them. Before she can be dragged out and stoned for this unforgivable breach of etiquette, she feels gentle pressure on her shoulders.