Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

  “If your friend is here, maybe I can help you find her,” Gwendolyn continued. “If it is the gods’ will, then she will be returned to you unharmed before this night is over. I can see that she is important to you - there is love in your eyes.”

  “And what if it’s not?” Caleb asked in the scared voice of the boy he’d been the last time that he’d lost his friend. “What if your gods have decreed that we’re all going to burn?” But Gwendolyn had no answer for that and the question merely hung uncomfortably in the air between them.

  CHAPTER 23

  It’s a party & everyone’s invited

  Dale was surprised to find that he felt no fear, even as they breached the outer-lying tunnel complex to the monastery.

  The backpack he was carrying contained enough explosives to evaporate him on the spot if the elderly sticks went off by accident, but he knew that they wouldn’t - that wasn’t his destiny.

  His life had been building up to this point, he knew that now. There had been a plan all along; he’d just had to wait for now to see it unveiled before him. His father had been wrong about him - they all had - but now they’d see him for what he really was: a king.

  “You sure about this?” Tommy O’Brien asked, his voice thick with anxiety.

  Dale had noticed that the others had started to question him more and more in the past 20 minutes or so. There was no out-and-out rebellion, not yet at least, but there was a definite waning of will.

  “We are here for a reason,” Dale replied patiently. “You all know that. You know what these people have done to us. You know what they will do to us if we don’t stop them first. This is evolution, my friends - Darwinism at work, survival of the fittest, natural selection - and I intend for us to be the ones left standing.”

  “What if they find us?” Tim Duke asked, sounding just as nervous as Tommy.

  “Then I’d imagine that they would cut us down where we stand,” Dale answered honestly. “So let’s hope they don’t… for their sake,” he added, wafting a machete around that he’d taken from his father’s cabin.

  All of them were armed with rudimentary weapons, blades of a multitude of shapes and sizes. His father’s gun collection had been moved from the cabin to their house in town and Dale regretted the fact that there hadn’t been enough time to retrieve any of them. They would have to make do with what they had, but his guiding light was the sense of righteousness; that would be his greatest weapon.

  He set the others to task using rolls of duct tape to secure the sticks of dynamite to several foundation columns around the tunnel complex.

  While he didn’t have an engineering degree, he was sure that these lower structures, if severely compromised, would bring the monastery above crumbling down into rubble. For the first time in his life, he had faith. The destruction would be biblical and fitting.

  He waited in the centre tunnel while the others headed out armed with bundled sticks of dynamite. Wires were unfurled and he held the ends as they moved off into the darkness.

  Dale started to hook the wire ends into the plunger one by one. Tim, Sam and Tommy disappeared in three different directions until the dark swallowed them whole. He kept hold of the wires by placing them on the ground and a foot on top of two while he waited to wind the third around the plunger terminal.

  The wire went taut, and he knew that the sticks were fixed in place, so he attached the wire to the plunger.

  He picked up the second wire and attached it quickly just as it too went tight.

  But when he reached down for the third, the wire on the ground suddenly ran away from under his foot and disappeared off into the darkness.

  Dale watched the wire run away in confusion. It was surely disappearing too quickly to be running with natural movement - someone was pulling it.

  He took the flashlight from his pocket and followed it out in the same direction. His first instinct was to call out, but the words died quickly in his mouth. The sudden explosion of noise might announce his presence and pinpoint his own position, so he kept quiet.

  He didn’t know whose wire this was as he followed it, but it didn’t much matter. He had little in the way of feelings for his companions; they were merely the tools for his ascension to the throne.

  The tunnel was pitch-black and his feet splashed through shallow puddles. There was a deep stench built into the brick walls, an aroma collected through the centuries, one that had sunk its teeth into the very foundations of the monastery.

  Dale turned the flashlight off, suddenly aware of its beacon of light, one that anyone could see from a distance.

  He moved forwards carefully, his feet shuffling inch by inch until they struck something large on the ground before him.

  His foot nudged the soft object and came away wet and sticky. There was a thick copper taste in the air and he knew that there was a body lying on the ground at his feet.

  Standing rock still, he tried to listen intently to see if there was anyone nearby. Only when he was sure that he was alone did he risk switching the flashlight back on, shining it downwards.

  Tim Duke’s dead eyes stared back up at him, the man’s face fixed in a death mask of shock and pain. His throat had been slashed wide open. Blood was splattered down his shirt front and was now pooling around him on the ground.

  Dale hadn’t heard a single sound announcing Tim’s death, meaning that whoever was down here with them was capable of moving silently through the echoing tunnel darkness, a fact that was as much impressive as it was terrifying.

  He immediately switched the flashlight off again. He knelt down on the ground with no little reluctance and searched for the dynamite wire, but it was gone - along with the bundled sticks of explosives.

  A scream suddenly rang out from somewhere close by, but the echoing nature of the tunnels made the direction impossible to pinpoint. He stood up, rooted to the spot, unable to orientate himself.

  A second scream bellowed out and he couldn’t tell if it emanated from the same man or the other of his companions.

  “Run, you idiot,” his father hissed in his ear, but he couldn’t. That would prove the old bastard right about him all along.

  Instead, he tried to retrace his steps, now certain that turning the flashlight back on would be a terrible, and perhaps fatal, idea.

  He crept along as silently as he could manage, praying that he would remain undiscovered.

  “DALE!” Tommy O’Brien’s voice screamed out in terror, and as soon as Dale was sure which direction the voice came from, he moved in the opposite direction.

  Tommy’s screams accompanied him as he slunk away. Getting himself killed was no way to help anybody, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t appreciate Tim and Tommy’s sacrifice.

  He ran blindly with no idea where he was going, only concerned with self-preservation and getting away from the death behind him.

  The darkness was so thick that when he crashed into the figure standing in front of him, he didn’t see it until the two of them were falling to the ground. Tangled limbs flailed about as both men tried desperately to free themselves.

  Dale suddenly realised with horror that his machete was back with his bag where he’d left the plunger. His hands flew to his pockets, and mercifully, he found the small pair of wire cutters that he had placed there. It was a feeble weapon, but it was better than nothing - just about.

  He lashed out in the dark, and more by luck than judgement, his flailing fist caught the man in the throat and he started to cough and splutter.

  Dale took advantage of the moment and held the small wire cutters like a knife, plunging the weapon downwards, the sharp-tipped ends slightly open, and swinging it down hard.

  The Niner was fighting hard, desperate to save his own life. They rolled and fought in the blackness, unable to see each other’s face, feral animals locked in a fight to the death in order to live.

  The wire cutters struck home on the sixth or seventh swing, and this time the man roared in pain as the metal tips sank de
eply into his eye.

  Dale screamed too, but his was more in savage triumph than pain as the man squirmed under him. The man’s bucking was such, though, that the wire cutters disappeared from Dale’s grasp as the man writhed in agony.

  Dale rolled off to the side and heard the metal clank as the heavy flashlight in his pocket hit the stone floor.

  He desperately tore the light from its hiding place and swung the heavy tool as a blunt weapon. It took him several blind swings at the crawling man before the metal base struck home and the man went limp.

  Now that he had a stationary target, Dale swung the flashlight several times more. Each swing struck home with a sickening crack and soon his hand was wet with blood.

  Finally, he stopped when there seemed to be no sound coming from the Niner. With a hand trembling from adrenaline and fear, he finally managed to switch the flashlight on, but when he shone the light down, he found Sam Cartwright on the ground next to him.

  The islander was twitching and jerking. His face was caved in and white bone showed through broken split skin. His chest heaved once, then once more, then never again.

  Dale scrambled back to his feet and only just made it before he vomited violently. He desperately wiped his hand on his jacket, trying hard to get rid of the blood, but it wouldn’t come off; he thought maybe it never would.

  “Remind you of anything?” his father asked from his side, and Dale’s mind went right back to the night he’d murdered the old man.

  “There’s a difference,” he said, wiping the vomit from his mouth once he’d gotten a hold of himself.

  “Which is?”

  “You deserved it.”

  “That’s a little harsh, son, don’t you think?”

  “Harsh but fair,” Dale responded.

  “And how will you explain this little snafu to the others? Assuming that any of them are left.”

  “A Niner did it,” Dale replied simply.

  “You’re all alone down here, now. You know that, don’t you? Your men, such as they were, they’re all dead now and you’re next.”

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Not my job to help,” his father added.

  “What is your job exactly? I mean, seriously - why are you here?”

  “Hey, I’m your delusion. You tell me.”

  Dale found himself growing ever more angry with his father. Even after his death he wouldn’t leave him alone.

  “If that’s true, then I refuse to see or hear you anymore,” he stated firmly and closed his eyes.

  He waited for a full minute before he opened them again.

  “How’d that work out?” his father ask, grinning at him inanely.

  “I killed you. I banished you from my life forever. You don’t have power over me - not anymore, not ever again!”

  “Then why am I still here?”

  “You’re not,” Dale said again, closing his eyes and using every ounce of his increasing power.

  The old man was a delusion - his delusion, to be sure - but that meant he had created him, so he could destroy him a second time if necessary. He refused to live on in fear of a corpse, to cower before a tyrant; there was only place now for one king to sit on the throne and this was his time.

  When he opened his eyes again, his father was gone and he let out a long sigh of relief.

  A quick check of Sam on the ground told him that even if the man wasn’t quite dead, he soon would be. There was no saving him now, and deep down, he knew that Sam was a good man, one who would be happy to make this sacrifice for the island.

  He shone the light around the tunnels now as he searched for the wires to lead him back to the plunger. He supposed he should still be afraid of the Niner that was loose down here, but Dale Clayton had already killed men with his own hands; one more wouldn’t be a problem.

  “I KNOW YOU’RE HERE,” he yelled out to his unseen pursuer. “YOU’D BE WISE TO STAY AWAY FROM ME! I HAVE A HOLY MISSION HERE, ONE THAT TRUMPS YOUR PAGAN GODS!”

  There was no reply, no sound of any kind, and Dale took that to mean he’d been understood by the man in the dark.

  He found Sam’s dynamite and was pleased to find several bundles taped to large columns, further evidence that this was indeed the righteous path.

  Heading across from where Sam had been working, he found Tommy O’Brien’s body. Like Tim, Tommy’s throat was slashed open, and he had several other ugly gaping hacked wounds across his chest and torso.

  Ignoring the body, Dale searched for and found the man’s bundles. Most of these too were strapped to columns ready to go.

  Taking the dangling wires in his hand, he gently scooped them together and followed them through the tunnel until he found his way back to the start.

  At some point, he thought that maybe he could hear a voice calling out for help, but he couldn’t be sure anymore which voices he heard were real and which were in his head, so he just kept on moving.

  He had two lots of wires connected to the terminals on the plunger. Tim’s dynamite must still be lying on the ground around him but Dale had no desire to head back into the darkness. The explosives that would be set off by the plunger should be enough to do the job, plus he was sure that their ignition would set off the loose bundles anyway.

  Picking up the plunger, he started to move backwards away from the tunnels, preparing to get himself to a safe enough distance away before blowing these pieces of filth to the afterlife - where, hopefully, they would discover that their entire faith-based system was a lie.

  It took two hands to carry the plunger, so with some reluctance, he had to switch off the flashlight and tuck it back into his jacket, ignoring the blood-smeared handle as he did so.

  The way back out to fresh air and the clear night sky wasn’t far and he shuffled as quickly as he dared.

  As he walked through the damp dark tunnels, he listened out for his father’s voice or, indeed, any of those he’d just led to their deaths, but he couldn’t hear a thing. For once, the dead appeared to be staying dead.

  The tunnel around him soon started to lighten as he approached the entrance, and finally, he could smell the clean night air again.

  He backed up all the way until he hit an obstacle. He knew what it was without turning around, but still he reached out behind him and felt the soft Niner robes of the man blocking his path.

  Running his hand up the obstruction, the man felt larger than he was and Dale trembled when his fingers touched a sticky blade that was sharp enough to cut the tip of his finger.

  Carefully, he set the plunger down a few feet in front of him and turned around.

  The Niner’s eyes were almost glowing in the moonlit tunnel entrance and Dale knew that there was one last barrier for him to overcome.

  “Well, all right then,” he said tiredly before steeling himself and launching forwards.

  ----------

  Quinn moved along between Morrison, who was at the front, and Walker, who took up the rear. She could feel that the man behind would be as willing to run away as she was, but it was hard to find the courage when she knew that Morrison would shoot them both in the back.

  She had hoped that the man’s company would be safer than being with the Niners, but now she knew that they were all as crazy as each other.

  Morrison led them up through the basement level and up into the interior of the monastery. It was now the dead of night and she could only hope that everyone was asleep, but she feared she wouldn’t be that lucky.

  Her mind kept on drifting back to Caleb. She had no idea if he was alive or not but could only pray that he was. On a wider note, she couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of guilt for helping set these events in motion to begin with.

  Haynes had offered her a promotion in exchange for her help in buying the monastery land. She’d known that the Niners were a secretive bunch, but she’d had no idea that they’d turn out to be homicidal. She hadn’t been the one to come up with the idea, but she’d been complicit. There was no
way of getting away from that. There was also no getting away from the dead bodies strewn across her homeland.

  “Which way?” Morrison hissed back at her as he reached a hallway that split into two directions.

  She had been trying to lead him out of the monastery without him realising it, but her sense of direction was all screwed up now and she only had a 50/50 chance.

  “Left or right?” Morrison pressed and she took a shot.

  “Right,” she said, pointing to make sure he understood.

  He took her direction and she followed dutifully behind. A couple of times, she risked a look back at Walker, trying to catch his eye and jerk her head away from Morrison to indicate that they should abandon the lunatic’s mission. But Walker was either exceptionally loyal or a coward because each time she tried, he refused to meet her gaze.

  The hallway they were in now was starting to look worryingly familiar and she had a sick feeling in her gut that she’d chosen the wrong way.

  They reached a tall wooden door with metal studs. It looked an important door and she was suddenly sure that they’d come the wrong way.

  “This isn’t right,” she whispered quickly, tugging at Morrison’s elbow, but he shook her off.

  “No..., this is right,” he said, reaching out and putting a hand against the solid wood. “I can feel it.”

  Quinn prepped herself to run. She was anticipating Morrison kicking open the door and charging in like the crazy man he was. When he did that, she would turn and run, take her chances alone in the monastery and try and find a way out before she was caught. But while Morrison might have been crazy, he was crazy like a fox.

  He did indeed kick open the door violently, but as he did so, he reached back and grabbed hold of Quinn’s arm. The man’s strength was amplified by her shock at the motion, and before she knew what was happening, she was being propelled through the opening.

  She flew into the room with her arms flailing about and fell onto the floor with a heavy thump. Looking up, she saw that she was not alone.

  Quinn recognised Torvan immediately. Even in a room full of several large men, he towered head and shoulders above the others.