de Salle makes no effort to intervene. Even if he could influence the situation, I am not sure he is inclined to. He has the jewels. That is all he cares for. Don lurches to the front of the group, waving his cane with the intention of splitting Conner’s skull, but his movements are so feeble and sluggish that he stands no chance. Amy pleads with Don to stop.
Evelyn’s husband pipes up, his voice shrill and indignant, “Give us our supplies, otherwise we won’t send any help for you when we reach Barbados.”
Conner smirks. “If you’re lucky enough to reach Barbados the captain will send for help.”
“No I won’t,” de Salle grunts, and turns to the rest of us. “Begging your pardon, but give them their supplies or no one will hear of you.”
So, the captain has a shred of decency after all.
Conner scowls. “Two bottles of soda and a box of crackers. If you ration it out it can last for two days.”
Some of those bound for Barbados begin to argue, but de Salle nods his head, accepting Conner’s terms. Robby fetches the soda and crackers for the departing guests.
Don and Amy do not look back as de Salle’s men row them to the sailboat. They raise anchor and from the bow of the ship the captain bids us goodbye by doffing his ludicrous hat.
Twilight. Holding back the curtains in the sliding glass door in the empty bungalow next to mine, I step aside to allow Dellas to enter. The bungalow belonged to a grey haired restaurateur from Pittsburgh and his trophy girlfriend. They were among the first aboard Captain de Salle’s boat. In their haste to depart, they left the bungalow in horrible disarray. Food encrusted plates and soiled laundry clutter the place. It does not matter. Dellas is obviously relieved to have a roof over her head and food for her daughter.
Rhodesia clutches Dellas’s hand and looks about the room, uncertain what to make of this new home.
“Now we’re neighbors,” I say, and then joke, “And if you need anything, a cup of sugar, milk, tea—whatever, just knock on my door. You want me to help you tidy up this place?”
She places her daughter on the rumpled bed. “No, but tank you. Dis place will do very well.”
As I leave, I glimpse Alexandra standing on the beach facing the sea. She wears a long silk dress that billows behind her in the wind. Foaming waves lap around her bare feet. Both hands clasp at her chest, much like a body in a coffin.
“Alexandra,” I call to her but she stares at the horizon so intently that she does not hear me.
I stand next to her. “Hey, Alexandra.”
She turns to me and it is clear from the vacant look in her eyes that she has no idea who I am.
“Why didn’t they take me?” her voice is so soft I strain to hear.
Now I understand why she stares at the horizon; she fixates on the spot where de Salle’s ship disappeared from view.
“Never mind Barbados. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with Conner?” I try to coax her back to reality.
Staring at the sea again, she ignores my question and says, “Why didn’t anybody ask me if I wanted to go? My jewelry is just as good as theirs. Look, see.”
She opens her hands to reveal several common seashells. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
I do not know what to say, but she smiles at me, awaiting my answer.
“Yes…yes, they’re lovely,” I say.
She beams with triumph. “See, then I could have been on that boat, too. I don’t like it here anymore. I want to go home.”
I nod. “We all do.”
She sighs. “I’m tired now.”
Without another word, she turns from me and treads through the sand back to the open backdoor of her bungalow. Conner leans against the doorframe, watching us. When Alexandra reaches him, he turns into the darkened room, gone from view, and Alexandra follows him.
Chapter Fourteen
Banging pots and shouts of alarm snap me out of my slumber. I sit up in bed, naked, and fumble for my shorts. Torchlight glides past my window as people run past my bungalow. Outside, I find Nelson running towards the lagoon. Curtis, heavily winded and looking about ready to faint, tromps behind him.
“They’re attacking!” Nelson explains to me, though I need no explanation.
Across the lagoon comes a cacophony of hooping and yowling, like a pack of ravenous hyenas, but the sounds come not from animals but from men. It can only be Action and the other marauders. Near the lagoon, Robby clangs pots together to alert everyone.
“A couple of them tried to sneak across where the bridge is burnt out,” he breathlessly tells me. “The moment I sounded the alarm all the rest of them showed up. There’s got to be fifty of them.”
At least fifty torches bob amongst the shrubbery on the far side of the lagoon. There are so many torches that the cliff wall at the back of the resort glows orange. If the thugs intend their cacophony of animal sounds to intimidate us, they succeeded spectacularly. My rubbery legs threaten to buckle beneath me. Wild-eyed old women dressed in flimsy nightgowns, their hair matted and gnarled, run in circles, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do.
“Phillip!” Gwen rushes towards me with an armful of Molotov cocktails. “They’re trying to cross at the bridge. We’ve got to stop them.”
I grab more bottles of gasoline from the stack and catch up with Gwen.
We are badly outnumbered. Unlike the resort defenders, all of the marauders are young and strong. We stand no chance in open combat with them. If the marauders cross the lagoon, it will be a massacre.
More than halfway across the lagoon, Conner stands at the end of the bridge. Wielding an axe, with his head high, Conner acts as a lightning rod, drawing the murderous mob to him. Rather than disperse and try to cross the lagoon from several different points, thereby making it hard for us to prevent them all from getting across, the mob converges at the tip of the burnt out bridge. They mass together, torches held aloft to form a giant, incandescent dagger pointed at the resort.
“Hide the bottles,” I say to Gwen as we place them behind Conner. “I don’t want them to expect this.”
Robby and all the younger guests join us brandishing our self-made weapons. We use our bodies to shield the cluster of unlit Molotov cocktails from view. Roughly twenty-five feet of water separate us from the mob. Many in the mob wield machetes taken from the papaya and pineapple farms; others wield pitchforks, small knives, and even crowbars. Packing onto the stub of bridge that remains on their side of the lagoon, they cluster to the charred, crumbling edge of their bridge, but they do not attack. They hoot and holler—an ungodly chorus, howls of the damned—but they come no closer.
Pamela clenches a rudimentary spear, legs planted firmly apart. Her chest heaves from the exertion of running to get here, but she does not seem exhausted. She seems enraged. These men killed her husband. This is the moment of her revenge.
My heart pounds and my mouth feels as dry as an old piece of leather. I wish I stood as valiant and eager for battle as Conner does. Instead, I reckon where I can hide in the resort if we are overrun.
The howling intensifies, builds to a crescendo, and the mob points their machetes at us, stomping in gleeful anticipation.
“Phillip, I’m scared,” Gwen looks upon the jeering horde with terror.
Then, as though flipping a switch, the howling stops. The mob parts. Action steps to the front. In his fist, he grips the neck of a wine bottle. Standing opposite Conner, Action takes a long, contemptuous swig from the bottle, wipes his mouth, and lets out a satisfied sigh.
“Hey, Yankee man,” Action addresses Conner. “Give us food and drink and we spare your lives.”
“You want our supplies? Come and take it,” Conner brandishes his axe.
The firelight cast deep shadows on Action’s gaunt face making him appear ancient, deathless, his eyes deep pools of malevolence. The men around him tense, each one waiting for the command to strike. Action takes another swig from the bottle, and then says to Conner, “You like stories, Yankee man? I have a
good one for you. One time I catch a big fish—a fish too big for my little boat. Looking at dis great fish, I say to myself, ‘Action, you will feast tonight.’ But first, I have to get de fish home. So I tie it to my boat and row for land. Dat is when de reef sharks come. Now, de ting about de sharks, Yankee man, is dey are quick and dey come all at once. Dey rip into my catch, every one taking a little piece,” he makes a motion with his hands like teeth snapping together. “Soon, only de bones are left. Dat is how we will take your woman, Yankee man. We will kill you last so you can watch as we take her, watch as she begs for death.”
The dread that gnaws at my gut must be nothing compared to what Gwen feels. If I die, it will be quick. But Gwen…
A clap of Action’s hands is the signal to attack. So many thugs leap into the water the surface of the lagoon becomes as wavy as the open sea. Conner shouts something unintelligible. Everything is motion and noise. Thrashing bodies churn the water. Elderly women screech and flee back to the bungalows as though there could be any safety there.
“Now!” Gwen hurls a lit Molotov cocktail over everyone’s head. It lands with deadly accuracy into the packed midst on the other side of the bridge. As a ball of fire explodes, shrieks unlike anything I ever heard pierce my ears. Flames engulf the men from head to toe. Burning men fall into the water to douse the flames. Men at the front of the mob, including Action, avoid the fire, but the frantic, burning men behind them push them all into the lagoon. Pamela steps to the front of the group of defenders and hurls her spear straight into the open mouth of a machete-waving thug.
Several thugs reach our side of the bridge. Conner swings his long handled axe with both hands, smashing the skull of one marauder to a pulp. Another marauder tries to climb onto the bridge. Gwen buries a kitchen knife in his forearm.
Action paddles back to waist deep water. “Kill ‘dem!”
The rest of the marauding horde still on land bypasses the burning segment of bridge and plunges directly into the water. Trudging towards us, they shove the floating bodies of their comrades aside. We hurl bricks and rocks at the men. Behind me, someone cries for help as two thugs pull him from the bridge. Robby rushes to his aid, but the man goes under and does not come back up. Marauders swim at us from all sides. Our Molotov cocktails are useless at this close range. We resort to hand-to-hand combat. My weapon is a hammer that I found in the tool shed. A man lunges from the water, grasping for my legs. I tumble down. As he tries to pull me into the water, I hit him once on the top of his head. Instantly, he spasms violently, losing his hold of me. I push him back into the water where he drifts away face down.
Everything is a blur. Conner stalks the edge of the bridge. Men fall before his axe like wheat before a scythe. While Pamela hurls rocks at the struggling swimmers, Gwen stabs at those trying to clamber onto the bridge with us. A few marauders opt to avoid the heavily defended bridge altogether, swimming instead directly for the resort. The few that make it to the resort are bludgeoned to death before they get out of the water.
As quickly as it started, the battle stops. Action stands on dry land, hands hanging at his side, fingers curled as though ready to strangle someone. They cannot take the bridge, and the lagoon is too vast and deep for them to wade across. On the burning bridge segment, several bodies blacken in the flames. Bodies float all over the lagoon. Gwen is on her knees, gasping for breath. Conner stands as he did before, axe in hand, challenging Action to attack again. On the opposite side of the lagoon, the rest of the marauders trudge out of the water and mill about.
One of them says something inaudible to Action, perhaps suggesting they launch another assault, perhaps advising Action to retreat. Whatever he says, Action does not acknowledge him. He stares at the handful of us on the bridge, and then turns around and storms away. Within minutes the rest of the marauders follow him, dragging their injured, and forsaking their dead.
Conner lets out a raucous cheer, followed by all the elderly guests lined up at the resort who clap and hug each other. Gwen lies on her side and weeps.
Chapter Fifteen
The morning is as bright and beautiful as any other on Isla Fin de la Tierra. At a distance, one would assume our resort was a slice of paradise. Only upon closer inspection, would you see bodies floating in the lagoon, or see the guests wandering around looking as raggedy as scarecrows.
Ravenous after the harrowing battle of the previous night, I walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute—why is everyone already here before me, and why did they alter the arrangement of tables? Instead of rows of tables, the tables now form a giant square with an open floor in the center. One of the sides of the square contains the raised step the band played on. Now, instead of a group of musicians standing on that step, Conner sits there on a large rattan chair. The immediate impression is of a king on his throne overlooking his court. To drive this impression home, Conner’s axe, the symbol of his power, lays at his feet.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Conner sees me approach and motions for me to take a seat. “We’re having a meeting.”
I take an empty seat next to Nelson.
“Where’s the food,” I whisper to him.
He leans close. “You’re guess is as good as mine. I just got here a minute before you.”
“What we accomplished last night can’t be overstated,” Conner stands and addresses all of us in a relaxed yet authoritative tone. “We showed those miserable sons of bitches that this resort is not an easy target. We will not fall like the hotel across the bay.”
Many of the guests nod vigorously. Something in the way they look at Conner makes me uneasy. It is a look of blind trust and adoration. I imagine a parent would give such a look to a doctor who saved the life of their child.
“Make no mistake about it, this is not over,” Conner pauses for added significance. “The islanders will be back. We must be ready for them. Now I know we’ve all heard the rumors…our homes are gone, our families dead. Maybe those things are true. I pray to God they aren’t. In the meantime, there’s some things we know for sure. There is no sign that anyone is coming to rescue us. At this point, until given reason to believe otherwise, we have to assume that no one ever will. That means we’ve got to get serious about defending ourselves. Yeah, we did good last night, but you can bet the next time they attack they won’t be so disorganized. We also have to get serious about our food supply.”
A murmur ripples amongst the guests.
“How much food do we have?” A middle-aged man with white, wiry hair and nervous blue eyes asks.
Robby sits near Conner on a less ornate chair, much like a second-in-command. He rises to speak to us. “How much food we have depends entirely on how quickly we consume it.”
“That’s right,” Conner agrees. “We’re in no danger of starvation—so long as we follow a few simple rules. From now on, we don’t eat whatever we want, or whenever we’re hungry. We will serve food at specific times, and in rationed amounts. The all-you-can-eat-buffet is over.”
“Who rations the food?” Pamela asks.
“I do,” Conner pulls a chain from around his neck upon which dangles a key. “This is the key to the supply room. From now on, anyone wanting food has to come to me.”
In shock, I say to Jonas, “How could you agree to this?”
Jonas opens his mouth, preparing to answer, but the words disappear and he hangs his head.
Ignoring Jonas, I turn to everyone else in the restaurant. “I agree we should ration the food. You might recall I was the first to suggest the idea, and at the time, many of you laughed at me. We can ration the food without it being under one person’s control.”
Several people agree with me, albeit more quietly than I prefer.
Conner puts his hands on his hips and flashes a smile that is all teeth and no mirth. “Fine. Let’s say we follow your suggestion, Phil. How are you gonna enforce it? I suppose you expect everyone to be on some kind of honor system, taking no more than their fair share. Do any of
you actually believe for a second that would work?”
No one speaks up to support my suggestion.
Conner continues. “Tell you what—I’d give it a week and all the supplies we have would be gone if we try it Phil’s way. Listen to me people. The food is our life. Without it we die. In a situation like this, we need a strong hand.”
Conner’s words seem to sway any who had objections, and if any still agree with me, I doubt they have the backbone to defend the point. Robby is not the only one backing Conner. At a quick glance I count at least ten other people—mostly middle aged men and their wives/girlfriends—who have thrown their lot with the strongest man. Curiously, Alexandra is absent.
Robby details the meal schedule: three times a day with long, hungry gaps in between. He does not ask for feedback or approval. Conner stands beside him, hands still on his hips, nodding occasionally, watching us, and practically daring anyone to raise an objection.
“From now on we’ve got to think like a team,” Conner picks up where Robby leaves off. “And there is no “I” in team.”
I cannot believe he actually laid this tired, corporate pep talk cliché on us.
“Anybody who still has any supplies back in their bungalows needs to bring it to the supply room as soon as this meeting is over,” Conner continues. “I don’t care if it’s something as small as a breath mint. If one person hordes food it’s a crime against all of us. Another thing, every one of us has got to contribute something to the resort every single day. That means catching fish, making weapons, patrolling the grounds, cooking, cleaning, so on, and so forth. We can’t afford to carry any dead weight. Anyone hording food or failing to contribute to the welfare of the resort will be considered an enemy of the resort.”
Conner does not elaborate what will happen to those considered “enemies of the resort.” The threat hangs in the air.
With any naysayers successfully intimidated, Conner softens his stance, “Look, I know this is hard and none of us expected to live like this. The only way we will survive is by working together.”
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