Next, I turn my attention to scavenging food. The nearest cabinets hold plates and cups, but nothing edible. The owner of the house most likely did not live on the island, for the refrigerator is almost empty, and anything inside spoiled not long after the power went. There is a closet at the back of the room beneath the steps leading to the second floor. I open the closet and tumble to the floor as Nelson falls from the closet into my arms.
“Nelson!”
Several bite wounds mark Nelson’s arms and legs. I can tell from the brown, crusty blood that the wounds are old and likely not fatal, though he does appear to be in shock.
“Curtis, Curtis,” he gasps, eyes feverish and distant. “I tried to save him.”
I help him to his feet and he slumps onto a wooden chair
“Where are the dogs now?” I check him for further injuries and find none.
Dazed, Nelson does not answer me, so I shake him and call his name.
“The dogs? I don’t know,” he finally responds, his voice hoarse and frail. “They were everywhere. We ran. They got Curtis. I tried to beat them off. He kept screaming for me…”
Nelson closes his eyes and a shuddering sob hunches him over. Dirt and dried blood cakes a cut above his eye.
“Here, let me clean that cut,” I grab a dishrag lying on the counter and soak it with water from the sink.
I hear a deep growl and look up. The leader of the dog pack is right in front of me, face to face, standing atop the table on the other side of the kitchen window. I am close enough to see strands of saliva drip from its glistening fangs. Before I can react, the hound shatters the window and lunges for my throat.
Chapter Nineteen
Instinctively, as I fall to the floor I bring my hands up to protect my neck and thrust the thick, wet dishrag into the animal’s snapping jaws. In a blur of movement, the rest of the pack clambers onto the outside table and tries to follow the lead dog.
“The window!” I shout to Nelson.
Grabbing the nearest object—the chair on which he sat—Nelson jams it in the window frame, trying to keep the rest of the pack at bay like a lion tamer wielding a stool. I hit the floor, the ravenous beast atop me, and tuck my legs under it and kick it to the side. In a flash, the hound attacks again before I regain my feet. It catches me in my left buttock. I yelp in pain and grab a ceramic lamp from a nearby table. Turning, I smash the lamp over the hound’s spine. It has no effect. The hound releases my buttock and aims once more for my throat. Everything is a blur of snapping jaws and furious motion. Nelson yells something unintelligible. I hear what sounds like a thousand snarling dogs, and feel the hot breath and spittle of the hound on my face. I cry out. Wrestling the hound from my neck, it bites my shoulder, instead. If I lose my hold on the dog, I will die. I snaked the electric cord from the shattered lamp around the hound’s thick neck. I roll from beneath the hound, but instead of trying to escape, I immediately return and grapple the beast from behind. It snaps at my face, and I pull back on the cord, like a cowboy yanking the reins on a horse. The hound whips back and forth, snapping furiously, trying desperately to free itself as the cord clamps tight on its throat.
I lean back, digging my knees into the animal’s spine, using all of my weight to tighten the noose. “Die…you…mother…fucker!”
A hacking cough, and then a rattling gurgle emit from the hound. The head drops—the tongue lolls out. I realize I have not been breathing, and with a gasp, I laugh triumphantly. I grab the rolls of skin on the back of the dog’s neck, lift its head up, and slam it down.
“Help!” Nelson struggles to keep the other dogs from entering the kitchen.
I grab the square end table and jam it into the window frame, wedging it tight. The snouts and snapping jaws of the other dogs poke around the sides of the small table, but they cannot break through. The rest of the pack lacks the determination of their fallen leader. Realizing they cannot enter the kitchen via the window, they retreat, howling and barking.
I climb off the dog. Nelson kicks it, shrieking “Ha!”
I peer around the table wedged in the window. “They’ve encircled the building.”
“My God, your back,” Nelson exclaims.
I touch my backside and my hand comes back covered with blood. I feel faint. Nelson steadies me.
“You’re bleeding pretty badly. Drop your pants,” Nelson says.
I manage a woozy smile. “This is hardly the time or place.”
Nelson unbuckles my shorts and drop them down. The grimace on his face alarms me.
“What? How bad is it?” I demand.
“Let me get a wet cloth,” he says. “It’s hard to tell with so much blood.”
Nelson finds a clean washcloth and wets it with pump water. He dabs at my wounded buttock. To try to distract me from the pain he quips, “And here I was thinking I’d never have a young man’s ass in my face again.”
Nelson presses a dry cloth against my rear. “Here. Hold this in place. The good news is the punctures are not that deep. The bad news is you’ll probably have a scar. I’m afraid your career as a butt double in movies is over. My biggest concern is infection.”
He rummages through the lower cabinets.
“Aha,” he exclaims, and holds up a large bottle of light rum. “It seems a shame to waste this on your rear end, but this is 100 proof. We’ll use it to disinfect the wound. I’m not going to lie to you; this will probably hurt a little bit.”
He pours the rum on my injury. The pain is so sharp that I grip the counter and hiss through clenched teeth.
He reapplies the dry cloth to my wound. “That should do the trick. While I’m at it, let me put some on that hole on your leg. How’d you get that anyway?”
“Sea urchin.”
He dabs rum on the calf wound and offers me a swig from the bottle.
I pull up my pants and shake my head, declining the rum. “Not on an empty stomach. Let’s find some food.”
In the same cabinet where Nelson found the rum we discover cans of chili, boxes of dried cereal, and jars of jelly. We devour it all, mixing it into a horrendous new recipe and scooping it into our maws with our hands. I finish eating and take a deep gulp of the rum. All the while, the wild dogs outside serenade us with frenzied barking.
“How are we going to get out of here?” Nelson asks.
I stare at the dog carcass on the floor. “Help me carry that upstairs.”
I grab the thick folds of skin on the dead dog’s neck and Nelson lifts the back end.
“Now I know what they mean by the term ‘dead weight’,” Nelson grunts as we struggle to lift the dog.
Upstairs there are two small, sparsely furnished bedrooms. The room ceilings angle with the steep pitch of the roof. Before I entered the dwelling, I noticed a small upper balcony. Now, I open the window and climb onto it. Instantly, the encircling pack regroups beneath me. Oddly, even as they bark and pace back and forth, many of the dogs wag their tails, as though they cannot decide if they want to play or maul somebody.
I turn to Nelson. “It seems without their leader they don’t know what to do.”
I drag the dead dog over the windowsill and heave it onto the balcony railing. The moment the pack sees their leader they freeze, watching us with tense expectation. I clench my first and beat the dead dog’s ribs, shouting with each blow.
Pointing at the pack below, I holler, “Your leader is dead! I killed him, and I’ll do the same to you.”
I push the carcass off the balcony and it lands with a thud on the dusty, hard packed ground. Three of the dogs bolt fifty yards away, stopping to look back with their tails between their legs. Other dogs tentatively sniff the body of their fallen leader. The stunned silence from the pack is in stark contrast to their previous frenetic barks and growls. They look back up at me and I refuse to break eye contact, staring them down until each one of them looks away.
I climb back into the bedroom. “I believe I got my point across.”
We slide the ta
ble from the entrance and venture outside. Half the dogs have vanished, while the remainders keep a wary distance from us, heads bowed, tails between their legs.
“They seem almost tame without the lead dog,” Nelson notes.
I nod in agreement, and then pat the kitchen knife I tucked in the belt loop of my pants. “I’m glad we have this, all the same.”
There is a small, rusted shed not far from the main building. The sliding doors grate loudly as we push them open. The shed contains numerous useful items such as a gas canister filled with gasoline, a long spool of thick, nylon rope, pick axes, saws, hammers and other tools. We find a shovel and a pitchfork and begin digging a grave for Curtis. I am injured; Nelson is old; the noon sun blazes above. Those three facts slow, but do not halt, our progress. As we dig, we relay what happened to one another after Conner banished Nelson from the resort. Nelson explains how he wandered with Curtis; staying off the paved roads for fear that Action and his thugs would see them. As night fell, they spotted the home we are now in, but as they approached the building, the dogs attacked. I tell Nelson of Conner’s attempt to kill me, how I fled into the sea, landed on Goat Island and swam back.
Nelson shakes his head in disgust. “Conner is insane. Curtis would still be alive if it weren’t for him.”
“I have to go back there.”
“He’ll kill you.”
“Not if he doesn’t know I’m there. I can’t leave Gwen. I’ll sneak her out. We can stay here, in this home. It’s got access to fresh water and we can figure out how to grow our own food. This island has tropical fruit farms. If we work with the islanders, we can maintain them. Between fish from the sea and crops that we grow we will have enough food to survive.”
Nelson pauses from digging to catch his breath and consider my proposal.
“It could work, but what about the thugs?” Nelson asks. “They don’t want to work with us. They want to kill us.”
I lean on my shovel and with the back of my hand wipe a trickle of sweat from my eye. I wish I had an answer to Nelson’s question, but I have none. He is right. There is no chance of forming a community with the islanders as long as Action and his thugs run amok. The dwelling could protect us from the dogs should they decide to attack again, but it would not keep the thugs out. The safest place from Action and his men is the resort, and Conner ensures the resort is not safe at all.
I take an old sheet from the dwelling to throw over Curtis’s remains to spare Nelson from the gruesome sight. After a day in the heat, covered in flies, the putrid smell nearly makes me wretch. Dragging Curtis’s body to the grave is awful, grisly work—the kind of thing that causes someone to involuntarily shudder later on when they think about it. Gently placing him in the grave is impossible—he is too heavy—so we unceremoniously drop him in. Nelson looks traumatized by the crude treatment of his beloved.
“Sorry,” I say, and then grab the shovel to cover the body with dirt.
Afterwards, in the rusted shed, I loop the nylon rope from the shed around my shoulder.
“I can use this to lower myself over the cliff surrounding the resort,” I explain in response to Nelson’s questioning stare.
Skeptical, he says, “You don’t strike me as the mountain climbing type.”
“There’s no other way—not if I want to rescue Gwen. The night patrol will catch me if I try to swim across the lagoon, and because of the treacherous sea current, swimming along the coast and sneaking onto the resort via the beach is not an option. Lowering myself down the side of the cliff could work because they won’t expect it. They won’t see me after the sun goes down, and I can descend to the nature preserve.”
Nelson appears unconvinced. “Getting out of the resort will be much harder than getting in. I don’t see Gwen being able to climb up the side of a cliff.”
“I’ll climb ahead of her and pull her up on the rope,” I say with rising irritation, annoyed that Nelson finds flaws in my plan. “It’s a chance I have to take.”
“And how’s your backside?”
“Scabbing over nicely. Will you be here when we return?”
Nelson gives a mournful nod. “This is where Curtis is. I’m not going to leave him. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I reply and head off to rescue my wife.
Sunset is still a few hours away, so I am in no hurry as I walk along the road to the resort. Around the bend, I hear men talking—coming my way. I hide amidst the scraggly shrubs and tall grass along the roadside. Two tall island men walk past me, shirtless, their dark skin shining with perspiration. Gleaming machetes dangle from their belts.
“I get de tall skinny one,” one of the men says to the other.
“Which one is dat?”
“De one wit de long brown hair,” his comrade, who I recognize as Owen, replies. “Remembuh, I pointed her to you when she first arrived. De one wit de husband wit de blonde hair.”
They must be talking about Alexandra, not knowing she is dead.
The other man chortles. “I cannot wait for de night to come.”
Tonight? What do they mean? Discreetly, I follow them through the shrubbery to find out. The road forks and the men follow the branch leading to the sea. I stay far enough way to prevent the men from hearing my footsteps, but close enough so that the men are always in my sight. The land slopes as we reach the sea. The road ends at a boathouse and a bus sized wooden sailboat moored to a dock. Scores of thugs mill about the scene, all of them armed and seeming to have no purpose other than to kill time. Action strolls into view on the deck of the sailboat. This is no sleek rich man’s toy. It is a working boat with obvious signs of wear.
It appears the entire gang of thugs is here. I spot the two young women from the other destroyed resort, Piper and Willow, who shared my plane to Isla Fin de la Tierra. They sit in their bra and panties on the ground, back to back, their wrists bound together with rope. Even from afar, I see how bedraggled and forlorn they are. Two of the marauders hoist one of the young women to her feet. Head bowed in defeat, she makes no effort to resist as they lead her out of sight to the back of the boathouse.
Those poor women. The thugs must have been raping them for weeks, sparing their lives only to keep them as compliant sex slaves. That is exactly what they will do to Gwen, given the chance. Now I know what the thugs are waiting for: nightfall. They plan to use the sailboat to attack the resort from the sea, which is the one direction Conner would least expect. No doubt, Action’s familiarity with the ocean has him aware of the treacherous currents just off shore. Action would know that swimming to the resort for a surprise night attack is impossible. However, sailing a boat into the resort bay is a clever way to circumvent the problem with the currents. There is no way the resort could withstand an assault from the sea. Everyone would die, save for the unlucky few, like my Gwen, who would suffer a fate worse than death.
I think of my wife, on the other side of the ridge, unsuspecting what horror is about to unfold. I must stop this attack.
Back at the house where I took refuge from the dogs, I rummage in the rusted shed.
“You’re back?” Nelson enters the shed.
“Action and his men are about a mile from here.”
The blood drains from Nelson’s face. “We’ve got to hide!”
“Relax,” I take the gasoline canister and empty some of the contents into an empty, flask-shaped glass bottle. “They found a sailboat and they’re waiting till dark to sail around the cape and attack the resort from the sea.”
“The resort will be wiped out,” Nelson exclaims. “As much as I’d like to see Conner gutted like a fish, we need to warn them.”
Using the dirt encrusted edge of a spade I carve a section of foam from inside the orange life vest I retrieved on my way back to the house. After some minor alterations, the glass bottle filled with gasoline fits snugly inside the vest.
I turn to Nelson. “First, it’s doubtful if we warn the resort that they’d even believe us. If they tried to face the marauders
on the beach, they’d be overrun. The best option for them is to evacuate, and where would that leave them? Wandering the island? Vulnerable to attacks from Action? No, Gwen and the others will never be safe so long as Action and his men roam the island.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“You’re going to stay here. I’ll try to stop the thugs,” I step outside to gauge how much time I have left before sunset. “We can’t outfight Action and his men, but I might be able to outsmart them. If I’m not back by tomorrow, it will mean I failed and I’m probably dead and you should try to hide as best you can.”
I bid him farewell and set off to confront Action.
Bold and purposeful, I walk towards the boathouse and all the thugs gathered there. Astounded or bemused, they stop whatever they are doing and watch my approach. I am barefoot and shirtless, with the black, rubber flippers that aided my escape from Goat Island dangling from a string at my waist. I carry the orange life vest in a sack. My legs are rubbery. I am about to hyperventilate, but it is too late to turn back now. Some of the thugs snigger and point at me. Three tall men saunter towards me.
I take a shuddering breath so that my voice will not squeak. “I want to see Acti—.”
Owen punches me in the side of the head. The world goes white like a camera flash in my eyes, and the asphalt rushes towards me. I am falling. Hands grab me just before I hit the ground. Through the fog in my head comes the sound of harsh, cruel laughter. The men drag me down the road, scraping the top of my feet on the asphalt.
“I want to see Action!” I manage to yell, though my words sound slurred.
The mental fog clears. I struggle but the men on both sides hold my arms in a vice grip. Lifting my head, I see other thugs forming a half circle before me. I repeat my demand to see Action, but no one listens to me. Someone shoves me to the ground. On my knees, they pull my hands behind my back, forcing my head forward and exposing my neck. Owen steps forth twirling a machete. It spins like a fan. Light glints off the blade.
Last Resort Page 18