by Ryan King
But Jack ignored the advice. Falling forward into the stagnant pool, Jack slurped up muddy water. It was the most delicious thing that had ever passed through his lips.
When he was unable to drink any further, Jack carefully got on his feet again, mindful of not using his wounded shoulder.
"Need to find someplace to wait out the night," he heard himself say. "Someplace safe. And dry."
Jack looked around. He knew much of Bog Island from years roaming its wooded slopes and marshy lowlands as a youth, but nothing looked familiar. He turned until he could find the setting sun. They had chased him from the north; maybe he should keep heading south.
Staring longingly at the setting sun, Jack turned left and proceeded south down a small valley path. He looked for any shelter that would protect him all the time conscious of the lengthening shadows and waning light.
He was beginning to despair when he spotted a darker than usual shadow in the nearby hill. Climbing with difficulty up the wooded slope, he found a depression in the earth. It wasn't as deep as some animal dens he'd seen as a child, but it would have to do. Jack lay down in the hole and pushed himself as far back as he could while pulling leaves and branches in after him. Hopefully they would provide him some insulation from the night cold and the ground.
And prevent any pursuers from seeing him.
Jack thought about his friends, and he had to hold back tears.
I'm sorry I brought to here, he thought. All my fault, so sor—
A troubled sleep pulled Jack into a deep embrace.
Chapter 9
Moses Mitchell had learned during his short life that it was important to be grateful for the little things. Big things were often unattainable or a mirage. Little things were what made life bearable.
So he was grateful for the setting sun and another night of freedom.
They'll stop searching for you in the dark, said Billy. They're afraid of the night.
Moses wasn't afraid of the night. He'd become comfortable with it living on the streets and appreciated the safety darkness could provide.
Still have to be careful, said Delores. You break a leg or something in the dark and you're as good as dead.
Slowing slightly, Moses made his way back towards where he'd seen the group of young people in the water. He'd heard the gunshots and knew they were likely captured by the bad men or worse, but maybe they had left something useful for Moses. The sky was hazy, but enough moonlight filtered through trees to allow him to find his way.
Better watch for booby traps, you booby, said Nate. They've done it before.
Nate was right. That's how they had caught him the second time. Moses squatted down to look ahead through the grass. If they left a surprise for him, it would probably be around the waterhole where they had likely killed those others.
Moses stopped and studied the terrain more and more often as he got closer, but didn't see anything. He moved up slowly until he could look down into the rocky bowl filled with water.
"Oh, those dirty bastards," whispered Moses. They hadn't left him anything. Not even the music player.
He started to back up into the security of the forest shadows when he noticed something to his right. Square and burnt orange in color.
Moses had to make his way slowly to avoid getting tangled in the thick vines on the north side of the bowl. Whoever had put the orange thing in the vines must have really wanted to hide it.
Moses chuckled when he saw the tackle box. He popped it open and saw lures, fishing line, hooks, weights, and even a long, sharp dressing knife. He could do a lot with this bounty.
Look around, dummy, said Nate.
Moses did and his eyes got wide. Not only were their two collapsible fishing poles, but a black duffle bag and small cooler. He felt the outside of the cooler and found it was cold.
Don't open it, said Delores. This isn't a safe place. Let it stay cold as long as possible, whatever it is.
"Good idea," he whispered reaching for the black duffle. He unfastened it slowly to minimize the sound. He couldn't believe what he found.
There were two packages of hot dogs along with buns. Bags of potato chips and boxes of snack cakes. He even found a couple of cans of mixed nuts. Moses' mouth flooded with saliva, and his stomach rumbled loudly. He reached for the nuts.
Don't do it, said Billy. Take it all away to a safe place.
Moses whined indecisively and then picked up the can of nuts anyway.
You want to get caught and end up back in the camp? Dolores asked. They'll take not only all of this, but your freedom too. This time they are going to kill you, Moses.
"I'm so hungry," Moses whispered. "Just a little bit, that's all."
Paaaleease, said Nate. You've never been able to do anything halfway in your life. You start eating here, you won't stop until you make yourself sick as a dog. At least get someplace else first, you dumb shit.
Moses hated it when they teamed up on him, but knew they would keep at him unless he did as they wanted. He collected up all his treasures and then slowly melted back into the forest's protective darkness.
Chapter 10
Jack's friends were in trouble. Something was coming through the woods, menacing and evil. Jack screamed at his friends to run, but they ignored him. Loud music blared from the very heavens, the sun thumping to the beat of the drums.
He was running through the forest toward them, but they were impossibly far away. His feet were sucked into the muddy ground and thick vines reached out to wrap around him. Jack was a child again and his father was in trouble somewhere.
"You got to help 'em," said Uncle Johnny.
Jack looked over and saw the old black man whittling away at a branch with the pearl handle pocketknife. The letters JAT glowed eerily on the handle.
"How?" Jack asked.
The old man smiled. "You'll figure it out, I wager." He turned back to his whittling. "Or you won't, but you gotta try. Otherwise this island will chew you up and spit you out. It ain't a place for the weak or the unworthy. You want to make it here, you better be prepared to spit in the devil's eye."
"I don't understand," said Jack. "Where's Dad?"
"Your father's dead, boy," answered Uncle Johnny, not unkindly. "Time to grow up and be a man on your own. That time comes for everyone. Be strong, son."
"If they catch me," Jack said, "they might kill me."
The old man stopped whittling. "Ain't you been listening to me, boy? There's far worse things than dying. Everybody dies, you only get to chose whether it's lying down or standing." Uncle Johnny then threw the pocketknife at Jack's feet where it stuck in the ground with the pearl handle pointing up in the air.
Jack reached down and pulled the knife out of the ground. When he looked up the old man was gone. Folding up the pocketknife, he saw that it now said “Bog Island” on the handle. Jack put the knife in his pocket and started walking towards where he knew his friends waited.
Soldiers with guns fell in beside him. Jack tried to get away from them, but his feet were not his own. He was dressed as they were and carried a rifle with a bayonet attached. They all giggled and smiled in anticipation of what was coming.
His friends were waiting for them in the rocky bowl, but each was stripped naked and bound to a stake in the earth. Their eyes were wild and pleaded with him for help. Jack felt the pressure of the soldiers behind him. He knew what was expected. What he had to do. He shook his head, tears pouring down his face.
"No," he said. "I won't do it."
A ghoulish half-dead version of Urchart laughed. "Jack, you've already done it."
Jack looked back at his friends and saw they all had blood pouring out of their chest and stomach. Their accusing eyes pierced him. His hands dropped the rifle with the bloody bayonet.
The ghoulish soldiers laughed, and Jack ran. He heard them chasing him, not just the soldiers, but his dying friends. They shambled through the brush, falling and climbing back up, determined and eager for his blood.
Running for what seemed like eons, he burst out of the forest onto the cove where they had left their boat. The water was peaceful and still, but there was no boat in sight.
"You know this isn't real, right?" said a voice to his right.
Jack turned to see his father sitting on a log, fishing. His father, not as he had been when he died, but young and vibrant. The night had suddenly been replaced by early morning.
"Dad?" Jack asked.
"You're having a nightmare," his father said, casting his line far out into the water. "Brought on by fever from that gunshot."
"Gunshot?" Jack looked at his shoulder and saw the blood and felt the pain anew. When he looked up, his father was gone. Jack turned to find Urchart standing there.
"I bet it hurts," he said. He pulled back his fist and slammed it into Jack's injured shoulder.
Jack fell backwards in agony. He looked at his shoulder and saw Uncle Johnny's ivory-handled pocketknife sticking out. On the handle, it read, “Jack's gonna die!”
Water was seeping up over his face, pulling him out into the water. It was hard to breathe. Jack flailed and struggled, but it was no use.
"Wake up," said half-dead Urchart gleefully. "Wakeup wakeup wakeup." His voice slowly changed from the rough rattle to a young girl's. The water closed over his face and pulled him down deep.
Jack struggled up out of his delirium and opened his eyes to morning light and waves of dizziness. The next thing he saw was a pretty waif of a girl with jet-black hair shaking him.
"Wake up, wake up," she said. "You're sick, got to get you some help."
He stopped struggling and felt like he was going to be sick. Jack pushed himself up on one elbow with a herculean effort. After a moment, he was able to keep himself from vomiting. He lay backwards again, breathing heavily, and looked at the girl.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
She smiled. "Don't worry, I'm a friend."
Jack shook his head. "I don't have any friends. All my friends are gone."
Before she could answer, he lost consciousness again.
Chapter 11
Lucas Ross was an avid chess player. He relished outthinking his opponent and always staying a few steps ahead. So often, he was able to do the same in real life. Being surprised was enough of a novelty that Lucas could appreciate it, but President Wilkens had not surprised him.
In fact, she had made the worst of three available moves. She could have done nothing in reaction to Governor St Keel's interview and talk of a presidential campaign, allowing the speculation to run rampant. She could have been receptive and supportive of St Keel as a future VP candidate and thereby abandoning Vice President Tipton. Instead, she had publically supported Tipton and renounced St Keel.
Her political advisor should be fired, he thought.
Lucas studied the numbers again. Janice Wilkens' approval ratings had dropped five points since her latest emotional press conference. Better yet, the leading candidate challengers weren't terribly popular either. The American people wanted something different. They wanted someone who was about results, not just empty promises. Someone like Eric St Keel.
Bridgett, one of his aides, knocked on his open office door. "Sir, you wanted to see me?"
Lucas waved her in. "Did you leak that story about the governor avoiding a bribe when he was a young intern?"
His aide smiled. "Yes, sir, there should be an exposé on the virtues of the governor next week."
"Good work," he said. "Don't let that reporter stray too far. We need him for a while longer. Also, don't give it up too easy. Make him work for it so he doesn't get suspicious."
"Allen doesn't suspect anything," she said with a smug smile, "and he's not going anywhere."
Lucas nodded satisfied, and Bridgett left. He had orchestrated the meeting between the two a year ago, and now they were lovers. In addition to planting storylines in their favor, Bridgett was able to obtain valuable information about what would be published days before the public ever knew.
Devin Coldwell strode into Lucas' office, closed the door, and sat down without permission. Lucas' former deputy in Oman was one of the few men who would dare take such liberties. The General tolerated these things from Devin because the man didn't read too much into them and was very good at what he did.
"Sir, we have a development you should be aware of."
Lucas sighed. "You know it's never good news when you use the word development. Why not expand your vocabulary, try catastrophe or disaster or upheaval?"
Devin shrugged, impervious to sarcasm. "I like the word development. No point in making too much of something until we know what we have."
"Okay," said Lucas, "so what do we have? What is the development?"
"They've initiated Iron Protocol at Site Iaso," Devin said. "Our hired gun there, Urchart, is claiming it is simply a routine drill."
Lucas sighed. "What is Iron Protocol again?"
"Quarantine. The locals are used to it," Devin explained. "Being a national park, they'll explain this is to protect the spawning or migration or breeding of some obscure endangered turtle or bird or fish."
"And those people buy it?"
"For short durations, sure. Plus, there are only a handful of them on the island anyway."
"So, why are you telling me about this development?" Lucas asked.
"Because my sources tell me this is not routine. There's at least one escapee, and somehow they've lost four men."
"Lost? You mean dead?" asked Lucas, sitting up straighter.
Devin nodded. "I talked to the company customer rep this morning and replacements are en route with the next group of prisoners. Urchart will certainly come up with a story about a tragic accident or the like."
"But that's not what happened?"
"Still not certain," answered Devin, "but it looks like the men were killed in a fight somehow. Not sure if it had to do with the escapee or each other. You know isolated soldiers with too much time can get violent."
"I know that only too well," growled Lucas ominously.
"Yes, of course," said Devin. "Anyway, Urchart is motivated to keep a tight lid on things, but he will be forced to let us know if anything goes too badly."
Lucas sat back and thought. Chess moves within chess moves. He smiled and sat back up.
"Let him keep thinking we are none the wiser," Lucas said. "Take steps to ensure everything ties back to Urchart if the situation should deteriorate."
Devin nodded and stood. He turned to walk out the door.
"And Devin," Lucas said before the man could open the door, "make damn sure things do not deteriorate. At least not until after the next election. After that, we can do whatever we want, but for now, the Chiron Project and everything that ties to it needs to stay totally covert. You understand?"
"That's what I'm best at, sir." Devin grinned before turning and walking away.
Lucas stared after his former deputy. Was he putting too much power in the man's hands? Could Devin take them down?
Chess moves within chess moves.
The General made a mental note to dig into Devin's background a little deeper. He had significant leverage over the man, but it never hurt to have more. As a matter of fact, it wouldn't hurt to do the same with this Urchart character.
Is there a connection between the two? Lucas wondered. Now why haven't I asked that question before?
Lucas reached over and buzzed the intercom at Bridgett's desk.
"Yes, sir," she answered instantly.
"Hold all my calls for the rest of the day, and no visitors," he said. "I need some time to think."
Chapter 12
Jack woke at times to find himself stumbling, carried along by the beautiful dark girl. Other times he was somewhere else, and yet sometimes these two worlds merged. He even talked to his friends and father while the girl supported him through the shadowy woods.
"You're hallucinating," said her oddly musical voice. "It's from the fever."
Jack r
oused himself enough to look at her. His initial hazy impression had been grossly inaccurate. This girl wasn't beautiful; she was stunning. Her face had the high cheekbones of the French, but the coloring of the escaped slaves who settled the island. She had a look that made it impossible to determine her age, and she could have equally passed from anywhere between eighteen and twenty-eight. Her black hair was pulled back and gathered together into a long braid and secured by a bit of cord that accented her dark olive-shaped eyes and full lips. Even in rough and slightly dirty clothing, Jack thought she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen.
"Who are you?" he rasped.
"Rena," she answered. "My father and I live on the east end of the island."
"How did you find me?"
She laughed. "How could I not? I was out collecting roots and mushrooms, and I could hear you from a hundred yards away yelling in your sleep."
Jack stumbled over a limb and felt the wound on the rear of his shoulder open up again. He moaned as fresh blood ran down his back.
"I'd say that's a bullet wound," she said while helping him up. "And you look like you've been running from something. What happened?"
Careful, son, whispered his father's ghostly presence beside him.
Jack remembered one of his first trials as a young lawyer. Levi Timmons had shot and killed his fishing partner over a drunk dispute about whose turn it was to buy fuel for their boat. He'd been able to get the man off with only a year. His partner had shot first after all, at least according to Levi's testimony.
"My friend and I had a fight while fishing," said Jack.
"That looks like more than a fight," she said.
Jack grunted. "We'd been drinking. A lot. Said some things we shouldn't have. We fought, and then he chased me through the woods."
"And shot you?"
"Levi Timmons tends to take things personal," answered Jack. "He'll cool off and everything will be okay. He wasn't trying to kill me; he was just mad."
"Sounds like you need some new friends," she said.