Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

  He crept along to the bedroom. It was the largest room in the house and, unsurprisingly, his father had claimed it for himself. His parents had lived on the other side of town, but after his mother had passed, his father’s health had started to fail and the old man had decided to move into his son’s house.

  Dale didn’t have fond memories of his childhood; in truth, he didn’t have many fond memories of any kind.

  Haider Clayton was an unpleasant man, and Dale thought his father had always been that way; it was in his bones. Some people were born happy, some were born optimistic or pessimistic - his father was simply born to be unpleasant.

  He slipped into the bedroom. His father’s chest heaved noisily up and down under the covers as he slept. Dale started to root through the boxes scattered around the room. On the floor piled high was the history of the town and of the island, and somewhere hidden in here was what he was looking for. Every now and then his father’s breathing would stop, and Dale would look up, but then the snort would come and his father would sleep on.

  It took Dale around half an hour of looking before he finally found his prize. Deep inside one of the oldest boxes was a piece of parchment. The paper was old and had been placed in a sealed bag to preserve it.

  Dale took it out into the light and stared down at the faded writing; it was a deed of sale for the monastery and the surrounding land.

  The deed had been signed over 300 years ago. While the island had been occupied for almost 400 years, the Chosen Order of the Nine Divines had arrived on these shores long after the original settlers.

  The story went that the religious order had shown up one day looking for a new life. Their members were a harmless bunch who only sought sanctuary and a place to practise their faith unencumbered.

  The islanders had taken to the helpfulness and open natures of the newcomers.

  They had brought with them a leader who had been, by all accounts, a holy man and also a healer. Apparently, Dale’s great-great-etc-grandmother, Leticia Clayton, had fallen gravely ill. Her husband, Ancelot - the town mayor, had heard about the healer and, overcome with grief and pain, he had approached the holy man to heal his wife.

  Beranger Abel had supposedly worked a miracle in bringing Leticia back from the brink of death. Ancelot had been so grateful that he had gifted the Order the land on which they had built their monastery, and right now, Dale was holding the only proof that such an agreement had taken place.

  The Order had no use for such documents, and he remembered his father telling him that they were lousy businessmen for not getting the deal in writing, but they’d had faith in the agreement and in the townsfolk to honour it, more specifically for the Claytons to honour it, and they had - until now.

  “What are you doing, boy?”

  Dale jumped at the sound of his father’s voice. He’d been so caught up in the piece of history in his hands that he’d forgotten to listen to the man’s breathing patterns.

  “Nothing,” he answered instinctively.

  “Don’t lie to me, child. It’s yet another thing that you were never very good at.”

  “I’m just trying to help,” Dale mumbled.

  “What? Speak up, you worthless whelp.”

  “I said I’m just trying to help, Daddy,” Dale said, louder, but still his voice was that of a child.

  “What have you got there?”

  “It’s nothing; go back to sleep.”

  “Nonsense, it’s nothing. I may be old but my eyes still work well enough. What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

  “I... I can help the town, Daddy. I can save them.”

  “Save them?” His father laughed bitterly, a laugh that turned into a coughing fit. “Oh you really will be the death of me, boy. And just tell me, who’s going to save them from you, pray tell?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the only cancer in this town, boy. You’re the one who’s taken my family’s legacy and run it into the dirt.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dale whined. “You never did. It’s not my fault that the world changed around us. The mill can’t survive in this day and age; no one could have kept it going.”

  “Useless child. You always were full of excuses, weren’t you? Always some reason why you weren’t to blame: the economy, the business world, rising costs and declining demand. What’s next? The weather? The tide? The price of cheese on Mars?”

  “I can do this,” Dale said, his voice raising to the edge of a shout for the first time in his life towards his father.

  “You can’t do anything. Now put that back where you found it and get out.”

  “No.”

  “What did you say to me?” his father asked incredulously.

  “I said no,” Dale replied firmly. “I can save this town and I’m going to.”

  “You insolent whelp.”

  Dale stood up and backed away as his father struggled to climb out of bed. He caught a flash of the old man’s pale and skinny legs as he swung them out.

  “Daddy, don’t.”

  “You don’t tell me anything. NOT EVER!”

  Dale backed out of the room, still clutching the deed to his chest. “You have to listen to me,” he said insistently. “Please.”

  But his father started to stagger towards him. The old man hadn’t been out of bed for more than a few occasional steps to the bathroom in some months. He was weak and shaky but he kept coming on sheer willpower.

  “Daddy, listen to me. This piece of paper is the only proof that the Niners own the land. Without it, we can just turf them out. It’s all that’s stopping us from saving this town.”

  “Ignorant child. That deed is a statement of honour, our family honour. Do you really have so little in your pathetic bones? I should have drowned you like a kitten the first time your mother ever showed you to me.”

  “You don’t mean that!”

  “She’d be as ashamed of you as I’ve always been if she could see you now.”

  “DON’T YOU SAY THAT!” Dale roared.

  By now, he had backed his way along the landing and towards the stairs.

  “Worthless - that’s what you’ve always been, boy. I’d have been better off handing the keys to anyone else in town other than you. I may have well just saved myself the time and effort and flushed them down the bloody toilet!”

  Dale turned and stumbled down the stairs. His face was splattered with tears. Even though he’d thought he’d heard every cruel insult from his father down the years, it appeared the old man had been carrying a few new ones locked and loaded in the chamber.

  He reached the bottom and turned into the office. The fire was still burning with enough flames to get the job done, but still he paused. The iron will of his father still ran deep into his soul and defying him wasn’t something he was sure he could do, even now, even with everything at stake.

  Finally, he reached out towards the fire. The parchment was clutched tightly in his hand and his vision was still blurred with tears, but before he could act, a skeletal hand clamped down on his arm with impossible strength.

  He turned in horror to see his father’s face close to his. The old man’s features were bulging with the effort of making his way down the stairs. He had no idea just how a bedridden man could make such a journey, but here he was.

  “Give me that,” his father wheezed as he gripped onto Dale’s arm.

  Dale thought about everything that he wanted to be and everything that his father had stopped him from becoming. He thought about the town and his own place in it. He thought about the man he was and the man he wanted to be. Ironically, he thought about what his father would do if the roles were reversed and then he threw the parchment into the flames.

  “No!” his father croaked feebly, but it was too late.

  “There... it’s done.” Dale sighed.

  “I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them all.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell them all what you’v
e done.”

  “You’d sink this town just to spite me?” Dale exclaimed, and now he was the one clutching onto his father’s hand and not letting him go.

  “You’ve disgraced our family name. Right now, generations of Claytons are turning in their graves. Right now, your mother spits on you.”

  “Don’t say that! Don’t you say that!” Dale yelled as he shoved the old man backwards with surprising ease.

  Even though his father was close to the grave, Dale had always seen him as an all-powerful ogre. Now, he was seeing a feeble old man as he shoved him backwards.

  “I’ll... tell...,” his father wheezed.

  “Tell them what? That I wanted to save the town and you tried to stop me? That you would side with the Niners over your own blood? That you’d see this town die and everyone in it for the sake of a promise made hundreds of years ago?”

  Dale was on a roll now, and his father backed away from him with fear in his eyes and it powered Dale even more. Decades of abuse and destruction of his very soul were boiling to the surface in a dizzying rush of blood.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone anything,” Dale said, and before he’d even thought about it, his free hand had reached out and snatched up a gold-handled letter opener. The blade was swinging in an arc fuelled by the scared little boy who had always lived inside him. “Not ever again,” he said as the blade struck home in his father’s frail chest. “NOT EVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN! NEVER AGAIN!” He was screaming now as the blunt-tipped blade struck home time and time again until the old man was limp in his arms.

  At some point, he let his father slip to the floor and was vaguely aware that his chest was covered in blood.

  He sat beside the body for some time with a blank mind until a banging at the door woke him from a trance.

  “Dale? DALE!” Caleb shouted as he banged away at the front door. “Dale, you in there? Come on, wake up! We’ve got a real problem here.”

  Dale heard the voice and slowly came back into himself. He looked down at the body of his father lying next to him and felt some of the man’s legacy creeping into him now that he was finally dead.

  He looked down and saw that he was still holding the small knife in his hand and had an idea. It was a small voice in his mind, one that oddly sounded like his father’s.

  Dale braced himself before driving the knife deep into his own shoulder. He clenched his mouth shut against the pain before standing on shaky legs and making his way to the door. He opened it awkwardly before finding himself standing face to face with the only law on the island.

  “Jesus Christ!” Caleb exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”

  “It was the Niners,” Dale managed to say through the pain. “They attacked us. My father’s dead, Caleb; they killed him.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Legacy

  “What the hell do you mean, dead?” Calvin Morrison demanded.

  “Just that.” The man shrugged in reply.

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, all of them.”

  Calvin Morrison leaned back in his chair and mused over the news.

  “All of them?” he asked again.

  “Jesus, yes,” the man snapped back before immediately regretting it.

  Fortunately for him, the drug dealer had bigger fish to fry right now rather than insubordinate employees.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” the chemist prompted.

  “Hmm?”

  “The bodies. Three of them stinking out my lab.”

  “Get Rollins to take care of it.”

  “I tried; he’s not answering his phone.”

  This time, Morrison did pay proper attention.

  “What do you mean, not answering?”

  The chemist bit his tongue and stopped the sarcastic answer from spewing out. “No one’s seen him since yesterday.”

  Morrison took this news worse than the three dead junkies. Rollins was his right hand and easily the most capable in his crew.

  He’d sent Rollins back to the island to steal the mushroom crop and preferably the farmer’s secrets at the same time.

  He checked his watch and saw that the man should have been back by now but apparently wasn’t.

  “No one’s seen him?” Morrison asked.

  “No one that I’ve spoken to.”

  “It was the mushrooms?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The three dead junkies. You’re sure it was the mushrooms and not... bad health?”

  “Well I’m not exactly set up for a full autopsy down here, but yes, I’m sure it was the mushrooms. Whatever is in those things is way too potent for human consumption.”

  “So we get to cut them further than normal?” Morrison asked, thinking about the rising profit margin.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure I could cut it down far enough to negate the risk, not if you want repeat customers.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  The chemist thought about it for a few moments before answering. “No.” He sighed heavily. “No, I can’t be sure of anything with those things. I need more information about them - soil samples, growing environment, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay, leave it with me,” Morrison added before waving the man away. “Oh, and Donald?”

  “Yes?”

  “You ever speak back to me like that again and I’ll bury you next to the junkies. Clear?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

  Morrison watched the chemist leave before allowing any emotion to show on his face. He was always careful to maintain an air of all knowing around his employees. It never paid to show that there was any information he didn’t already know, but the two pieces of news this morning had both thrown him.

  Three dead junkies who had been given an already distilled version of the mushroom extract wasn’t a moral issue for him. Junkies came and went with no one to miss them, but the fact that they’d overdosed was a problem. The chemist had been right. There was no point in producing a drug that killed off his customers. He’d need more test subjects and possibly a better chemist.

  Rollins, however, was a different story. Thinking about the man now, he wondered if it was more likely that some monk had gotten the better of him or if, indeed, that Rollins had ideas about going into business for himself. The latter seemed more likely.

  Morrison spent the next few minutes phoning around for any sight of his right hand, but no one had seen or heard anything from the man since he’d set out for the island yesterday.

  He sat back in his chair and mused upon things further. He wasn’t used to indecision. On the street, indecision could kill you faster than a bullet and he hadn’t lasted this long by accident. If Rollins had gone rogue, then he would have to be made an example of.

  Morrison picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Get the boys together tonight,” he ordered without the need to identify himself.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose, calming the frustration he felt at the answer on the other end of the line.

  “Sunderland?” he asked. “What are they doing in Sunderland? ...Oh…,” he replied to the answer. “Well get them back as soon as you can then.”

  The man on the other end asked a question, and for the first time, Morrison smiled before he answered.

  “We’re going hunting.”

  ----------

  Quinn didn’t sleep the previous night. Dr Simmons’s news about her father’s rapidly declining health still had her in a fog of confusion.

  She’d spent most of her childhood and teen years hating the man, and the next 20 years trying not to think about him at all. Now he was supposedly dying, it was difficult to find the right emotion with which to tackle the subject.

  Part of her wanted to feel glad, but that part was the bitter child that still lived inside her. The adult, however, felt a cold distance from the man who’d fathered her but never
raised her.

  She showered and dressed for the day. The water was hot and helped a little with the hangover, and by the time she was dressed, she felt more awake.

  A tap at the door brought her to it, and it was only when she opened it that she realised she’d been hoping to see Caleb; instead, it was Haynes.

  “Expecting someone else?” her boss asked with a grin.

  The man was positively glowing and she had no idea why. Rumours around the company had it that the whole Clayton development was his last shot at making partner, and so far the whole thing had been a bust.

  “You look remarkably chipper,” she greeted him.

  “Well, I feel it.” He smiled back.

  “News?”

  “About?”

  “The monastery. I mean, last time I looked, they made it pretty clear they have no intention of selling.”

  “There are many ways to close a deal, my dear; it’s all about just finding which buttons to push.”

  Quinn’s head may have been running a little slower this morning due to the doc’s moonshine and the news about her father, but she wasn’t all the way gone.

  “What did you do?” she asked nervously. “Oh shit, the meeting last night…,” she continued without giving her boss time to answer. “What did you do? Pay off a couple of locals to get them all riled up?”

  Haynes didn’t speak. Instead, he wandered across the room and sat down on the edge of her bed, all the while grinning like a schoolboy with a dirty secret.

  “Have you any idea what you’re playing with here?” she demanded.

  “Hey, I’m just a businessman. I’m just trying to get a deal done. It happens every day, my dear.”

  “Look, Mr Haynes… you have to think about this. These people, they’re not..., well, they’re not like mainlanders. They’re... different,” she finished awkwardly.

  “Oh, Miss Quinn, you don’t understand. That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

  ----------

  There was a group of people already gathered outside his office before Caleb arrived.

  The wind was starting to get up ahead of the approaching storm, but it was the anger in the air he felt right now coming from the townsfolk that concerned him.