Children of the Island

by Wright, T. M.

  At the age of forty-five he left his wife and his two children—a boy and a girl, nice kids—and his job in Raleigh, North Carolina, as a Fuel Systems Design Engineer for a company serving the aerospace industry. He came to Manhattan and almost instantly fell into what he still called "the easy life."

  For five years, as long as his personal savings lasted (he had left his wife and kids with the family account, which was substantial) he drifted from one sleazy hotel to another even sleazier, until at last he was forced to find, as he called them, "the meanest accommodations that Mother Fate has to offer"—the streets. Occasionally, if the weather was especially bad, he sought out an abandoned building or a particularly secluded part of the subway, but he liked to avoid these places. They were dangerous and lonely, and they went against the grain of what he felt he was doing (or had told himself twelve years earlier he was doing)—getting to know "the real people," the "naked ones"—the men that society had tossed away and who, therefore, lived "according to their wits and sinew."

  He had gotten to know these men, and the occasional woman, as well as anyone. He had become one of them. And he had long since stopped using pretentious little phrases to describe himself and his "ambitions." He admitted quite freely and happily that he had few ambitions beyond scrounging up his next meal and a place to sleep.

  His name was William Devine.

  Chapter 15

  Fred Williams recognized in himself the symptoms of shock—weakness, lightheadedness, shortness of breath. He leaned forward in the chair and saw that the wound across his chest was bleeding again, though it was only a trickle (the air was cold, the wound was shallow, his clotting factor was good). He straightened in the chair, murmured "Jesus Christ," and his lightheadedness intensified until he thought he might fall out of the chair. He bent forward again. "Jesus Christ!" he repeated. And he realized that he was very frightened.

  Marie was standing beside him. It had taken her a long while to struggle back from where her panic and desperation had carried her. And now that she was back, her fear had returned. "I don't understand," she said. "What could possibly have done that to you, Fred?"

  "I don't know," he answered quietly, confusedly. "I was asleep, I fell out of the chair . . ." He trailed off, his confusion deepening.

  "Maybe it was a nail," Marie said, and she began poking the floor with the toe of her shoe. She leaned over and moved the palm of her hand slowly across the floor. "A nail, Fred. It could have been a nail sticking up out of the floor." She stood abruptly. "No," she whispered. "I suppose not."

  Jim Hart was standing close by, a little glassy-eyed. His memory was playing tricks on him; it was showing him things he didn't remember seeing when the wound had opened on Fred's chest; it was showing him more than mere shadows; it was showing him, though very briefly—in milliseconds—the suggestion of arms, and legs, a pair of breasts, and buttocks—two bodies moving with such impossible quickness that they might as well have been invisible. But halting in their movements just long enough that, if only in memory, he could see them again.

  It scared the hell out of him. And he wondered if he should say something to Fred and Marie. He didn't know what.

  "It felt . . ." Fred began, and paused; he fingered the wound delicately. The bleeding had stopped. "It felt," he repeated, "like something bit me."

  Seth and Elena's only concern was that the little ones be protected. The birthing was just days off now, and it was a process that had taken months to reach maturity, a process upon which the very survival of their species depended.

  The big man in the house, the one called "Fred," could easily stop it if he were allowed. If he knew of it he would stop it. Without hesitation. He would try to destroy them, and the little ones too. Seth and Elena knew this. They had tasted him, ingested him (and so knew him better than he knew himself).

  Killing would be an enormous and dizzying pleasure for him, as it was for them, but he would seek it out, beyond what was necessary. He would come back for more, again and again and again—

  Seth did not smile of his own accord, from his own pleasure. He smiled only in imitation. When he felt pleasure, or anticipated it, it coursed through him like a drug and left his face as blank as stone and his muscles rigid.

  Elena touched him. She felt the anticipation coursing through him, and responded in kind.

  And, side by side, the backs of their hands touching very lightly, they stood in the early morning sunlight, a dozen yards from the house—a pair of stoical, naked, and wonderfully beautiful mannequins enjoying the massive pleasure that was soon to come.

  Fred felt better about himself now that the lightheadedness was gone, now that he felt stronger and could think more clearly. The fear had dissipated. He despised those few moments when the fear had gripped him.

  He stood. "We're going back to the car," he announced.

  Marie smiled, relieved. "I'm glad you see it my way, Fred." She had expected an argument.

  "In an hour or two," he told her, and glanced quickly about. "Where's the gun, Marie? Where's the goddamned gun?!"

  Marie nodded at the table. "Over there," she whispered.

  He crossed to the table, picked up the gun, checked it. It was empty. "It won't do me any good like this, Marie." He glanced at her. She said nothing; she looked very tense.

  "I said this weapon won't . . ."

  "I'll get the damned bullets," she cut in, and started for the bedroom.

  Fred looked suddenly stupified. "You think I want to stick around here? You think I don't know how serious this . . . thing on my chest is?!"

  She disappeared into the bedroom. Moments later she reappeared, a box of .38 slugs in hand. She held them out to her brother. "Go ahead," she told him icily, "blow his damned brains out!"

  Then, surprising himself, Jim said, "There are two of them, Fred."

  "Two of them?" Fred grinned slightly.

  "Yes. I saw them. I think I saw them, anyway."

  "Where, Jimbo?"

  "Here."

  "What do you mean, 'Here'?"

  "I mean here, in this house."

  Fred stopped grinning. "When?" he said.

  Jim nodded at Fred's wound. "When that happened."

  Fred looked down slowly at his bloodied shirt. He looked back up at Jim. He grinned again. "You're trying to tell me, Jimbo, that he . . . that they did this? Is that what you're telling me?"

  "Yes, Fred, I think that's what I'm telling you."

  Fred looked again at his shirt. He parted it, lifted his T-shirt, studied the wound.

  And, at last, he saw two faces, just as Jim had seen two bodies—with the eye of his memory, in stark, brilliant flashes; two pairs of huge, exquisitely beautiful eyes open wide, two jaws parted and set, two pairs of lips pulled back from white, straight teeth

  Fred winced suddenly, as in pain. He breathed one word, "Bastards!"

  And a moment later he was out of the house, on the porch, and frantically loading the .38.

  Chapter 16

  He noted first that the air around him was moving fitfully, and that his view of the porch and the tall grass in front of it seemed clouded somehow, as if someone had put a pair of dark glasses on him.

  He grunted in confusion—a sound that might or might not have been a curse—and heard it repeated instantly in the moving, dark air around him.

  "Huh?" he said.

  "Huh?" he heard. At his ear. And in his voice.

  "Marie?" he whispered.

  "Marie?" he heard, from close by.

  "Marie!" he screamed. And the name came back to him an instant later: "Marie!"

  His right forearm opened up—a wide, jagged gash across both the radial and ulnar arteries; it began spewing blood immediately.

  He dropped the .38. He stared in awe at the blood flooding from his arm and onto the porch. He said "Huh?" again. And felt pressure at the side of his neck—light, at first, then much stronger—and he realized dully, because consciousness was rapidly leaving him, that anothe
r gash had been opened there, at his neck.

  And in the last few seconds before blessed unconsciousness came, Elena stood quietly before him, her mouth and face scarlet with his blood, her body streaked with it, diagonally, left to right, across her breasts, belly, and thighs, as if she had rolled herself in him. And he whispered at her, very huskily—for reasons he would only vaguely have understood—"Well, hello there, sweet thing," and passed from unconsciousness into death even before his eyes had closed.

  They did not let him fall to the porch floor. They caught him, lifted him, carried him off . . .

  Quicker than the angels—

  Marie threw the front door open. It had been only seconds since her brother had screamed her name. "Fred . . ." she started. Her hands began to shake, and then her arms; her stomach turned over; acid crept high into her throat.

  If she had been listening to herself she would probably not have heard the long, high-pitched, ragged screech that came from her because her hearing shut down in reaction to it—it was so incredibly loud, and close.

  And she did not hear, either, the same scream repeated moments later, like an echo, from the island's farthest edges, fifty yards behind the house.

  Evening

  "We'll look again tomorrow," Jim said. He was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table; his body bent forward slightly, and his arms folded loosely at his stomach. He was trying hard to appear casual. Behind him, on the table, one kerosene lamp burned in the room. His body blocked its light, so Marie, who was sitting on the floor, ten feet away, near the front door, her back against the wall, legs outstretched, hands folded on her thighs, was in semi-darkness. She had said next to nothing all day, only this, several times: "I didn't love him. My own brother and I didn't love him," which had become a source of immense guilt for her.

  "He might have just wandered off," Jim offered. "It's possible."

  Marie stayed quiet.

  "I cleaned . . . the front porch as well as I could, Marie."

  She glanced at him. He saw the barest hint of amusement in her eyes. His brow furrowed; she looked away. "We'll find him, Marie." He paused. He realized that he was merely trying to fill the silence. And why not? "You never know," he went on, "maybe he'll come wandering back. That's possible."

  She said nothing.

  "Can I get your sleeping bag for you, Marie?"

  "No," she answered tonelessly.

  "Can I get anything for you?"

  "Maybe some coffee—"

  "No."

  "We could use some coffee."

  Silence.

  "I mean, we've got to stay awake. One of us does, anyway."

  Silence.

  "We will find him, Marie. I can promise you that."

  She glanced quickly at him again, her eyes narrowed slightly.

  "So," he went on, "would you like that coffee, now?" She looked away.

  "Marie?"

  "No." There was a hard edge to her voice.

  "Food, then?" he asked. "We've got some tuna, I think."

  Silence.

  "Would you like some tuna, Marie?"

  Silence.

  "I'm going to fix some for myself."

  "I don't want any tuna," she told him, and the hard edge to her voice cracked slightly.

  "I don't think we've got any bread, Marie. I think we've got a couple of hard rolls. How does that sound?" Silence.

  "I've always liked hard rolls myself."

  Silence.

  "We used to bring them along on picnics. They were great on picnics."

  Silence.

  "We used to put hot dogs in them, and hamburgers—that was when I was still eating meat. I don't eat meat anymore; did you know that, Marie?"

  Silence.

  "I eat fish, sure. And chicken. But not meat—not animal meat, anyway. That sounds hypocritical, I know, but I've got my reasons." A brief pause. "You sure you don't want that sleeping bag, Marie? It's bound to get pretty cold tonight."

  "No."

  "Let me get it for you, Marie—why don't I get it for you?"

  "No."

  "I should probably get my own sleeping bag, anyway, if only to wrap up in it."

  Silence.

  "Marie?"

  Silence.

  "Can I tell you something, Marie?"

  Silence.

  "It's something I've wanted to tell you for a long time, something I'm sure you're aware of."

  Silence.

  "Marie, are you listening to me?"

  Silence.

  "Marie?"

  "No."

  "I wanted to tell you that I have . . . feelings for you." He lowered his head, as if embarrassed. "There, I've said it. It's done."

  "It's done."

  "Sorry, Marie?" He stepped away from the table. "I didn't hear you."

  Silence.

  He sighed, and went on, "I mean deep feelings. Feelings of love, I think."

  "Jesus, don't!"

  "I can't help it, Marie."

  "Jesus Christ, don't do that!"

  He stared at her, puzzled. What had happened to the light? "Marie?"

  "Don't do that," she pleaded. "Oh please don't do that!"

  He took a step toward her. Where had the light gone? Marie seemed to be in total darkness. "Marie?" he said.

  "Oh my God don't do that!" she pleaded; it was a tight and harsh whisper.

  "Oh my God!" Jim heard, in Marie's voice.

  "Marie?!" he said, and stepped to his right. The light from the kerosene lamp flooded the area near the door, where Marie should have been.

  "My God!" he whispered. And then he felt Fred's gun, still in the lower right pocket of his jacket, where he had put it after seeing to the mess on the porch. He stuck his hand into the pocket, felt it tighten around the weapon's grip. "Get away from her!" he commanded, his voice low, too low. "Get away from her!" he screeched.

  And the two dark, frantically moving, naked bodies near the door, in front of Marie, stopped briefly. Two exquisite faces turned in unison. Two sets of pale blue eyes leveled on him. "Get away—" they started.

  And in a fraction of a second, Jim pulled the gun out, trained it on the man's forehead, and fired.

  Then he stared in dumb, quivering silence at what the light showed him in the next moment.

  He stood very still for a long while. He felt tears begin.

  And, at last, he whispered, "Marie, oh Marie, I'm so sorry, I'm so very sorry." He crossed the room to her.

  Later, much later, he would tell himself that she had probably died instantly, and that there was something good to be said for that (it was quite merciful, no doubt, when—one moment to the next—the wall that separated life from death merely ceased to exist).

  But, at that moment, with her head cradled on his right hand, and the bullet's exit wound there oozing blood at a quickly decreasing rate—because her heart had stopped pumping—he saw only all that might have been and he wept long into the night.

  Chapter 17

  Morning came and brought moist, late summer heat with it. From high in the island's only white pine a goshawk kak-kak-kaked in agitation at a great horned owl that had perched momentarily on a branch nearby. At the island's northern edge, an old and very large beaver ambled ashore, shook himself frantically, sniffed the warm air, and ambled back into the water. In a dark corner beneath the porch of the house, a black widow spider—one of a pair of black widows brought unintentionally to the island in the little rowboat several years earlier—began work on one of its large, shapeless webs.

  Inside the house, Jim Hart said to himself again—as he had been saying to himself for an hour—"What am I going to do?" He had no answer. He had even stopped listening to himself ask the question.

  He would have to do something with Marie's body, he realized. He would have to bury it, probably, because he couldn't carry it back fifteen miles to the car. Or he would have to leave it here, the way it was now, under' her sleeping bag.

  He thought, This is not a nightmare.
Because nightmares were fleeting and unreal. Nightmares came and went and left him sweating and afraid, but the reality of morning always did away with them.

  The morning could not do away with this. The morning could only spin him deeper into it.

  He put his hand on the top edge of the sleeping bag, hesitated, pulled it back, exposing Marie's face. She had changed quite a lot during the night, he thought. She had grown very pale and gaunt; she no longer looked like she was asleep, she looked like she was ill, or malnourished, and vaguely in pain. He put the sleeping bag over her face again. He thought for a moment that he should say I'm sorry to her, once more, but decided that she probably wouldn't hear him.

  Under the porch, a blue-bottle fly caught itself in the black widow's unfinished web. The spider seized it immediately, injected it with venom—paralyzing it—then went back to work. This would be a good day for the spider. In an hour, a beautiful, bright green luna moth, coaxed from its daytime sleep by the warm air, would blunder into the web, the spider would inject it, paralyze it, wrap it up in silk, and—the web finished, at last—would wait for more victims to appear.

  The spider thanked no one for its usually full belly. It took what pleasure it could, accepted occasional hunger without question and, finally, when it was time, slid into death with no protest at all. That was its life cycle.

  All over the island, similar life cycles were being repeated.

  And, in several places on the island, the cycle was just beginning. The earth—stepmother to us all—was giving her children up.

  And oh they were lovely—

  Chapter 18

  In Manhattan

  "Seven hundred dollars?" Leonora Wingate said, astonished. "That's . . ."

  "Highway robbery?" coaxed the rental agent.

  She nodded briskly. "Yes," she said. "For one damned room–"

  "Plus attached bath."

  "For one damned room," she repeated, "it's highway robbery!"