New Year Island

by Paul Draker

  “Now we come to the discussion of aspects that make psychologists and other scientists uncomfortable. But there is no denying that in the study of survivors, we see a side that is often considered mystical and unscientific. Survivors frequently describe their experiences in religious or spiritual terms. In retrospect, they often speak of faith, of an unshakable belief that they were meant to live through their experience. Some describe sensing a comforting presence when they were at their lowest ebb. Others swear that they were externally guided to do the things that ensured their survival. Unscientific? Maybe. But perhaps not.

  “Our understanding of the human brain is still only rudimentary. Perhaps there is a scientific explanation for these phenomena to be found in the fact that most of us are able to tap only a small fraction of our brain’s full potential. Survivors may represent those few percent who are able to access unmapped facilities of the brain that remain mostly dormant in the rest of us.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your time and interest. Are there any questions?”

  Hands went up. The lecturer pointed. The murmur of the audience died down as the first questioner spoke.

  “There are limits, right? I mean, survivors don’t always survive.”

  The lecturer smiled. “Yes, there are limits. Survivors aren’t superhuman. Sometimes the objective hazards are simply too great, the conditions too extreme, for survival. Even among survivors, there is always a hierarchy. Some are more resilient than others. Every survivor has his or her own breaking point.”

  The lecturer scanned the audience. For the second question, he selected a raised hand near the front of the room.

  “How does someone know if they’re a survivor?”

  “Well, there’s the rub, isn’t it? There’s no easy answer.”

  The lecturer lowered his glasses, considering the question further.

  “Well, actually, there is an easy answer, though it’s not a particularly useful one most of the time. You can conclude that someone is a survivor after he or she survives, even thrives, under circumstances that would kill most people. Until then, your guess is as good as mine. Next question.”

  The third question came from the darkness at the back of the room. It sent a ripple of displeased murmurs through the audience.

  “What would happen if a group of survivors ended up having to compete with each other to survive? Who would win?”

  CHAPTER 8

  Camilla stood at the rail on the upper deck. The megayacht glided out from under the Golden Gate Bridge and headed into open water. She watched the massive pylons recede behind her, the bridge glowing a soft red-orange in the light of the setting sun. She took a deep breath and turned her face up to the last rays.

  Closing her eyes, she let the wind play through her hair. She would go inside the salon in a moment, to mingle with the hosts and meet the other contestants. It was time to start doing what she did best. To give herself an advantage in whatever “team-oriented competition” was planned, she needed to figure out who she wanted on her team. But not quite yet.

  The ship sliced an arrowhead of white foam through the dark water. It cruised regally past smaller sailboats and pleasure craft, then turned south, parallel to the coast. Scattered lights were coming on along the headlands. Camilla pulled her jacket tighter against her shoulders.

  “You look just like that scene from the movie Titanic.”

  Camilla turned her head and raised a hand to hold her hair out of her face. “God, I hope not. That didn’t end so well.” She peered up into the easy smile of the man who had just now joined her at the rail. “This ship is amazing, though. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Have you?”

  He looked around the deck. Another contestant? She studied him. He wore a camel-hair sport coat, pinstripe shirt, and slacks. Nice shoes, too.

  “Not in San Francisco, I haven’t.” He grinned. “In St. Tropez, Porto Cervo, St. Barts, places like that—sure. Makes you wonder what they want from us, doesn’t it?” His thin-framed glasses looked expensive. A banker?

  She followed his gaze to take in the sweep of contoured white paneling, dark-tinted glass, and blond teak deck that stretched to either side of them. Blue reflections danced in the distance. “Is that a pool?” she asked.

  “One of them—there’s another up front.” He held out a hand. “Mason Gray, by the way. I take it you’re a contestant, too?”

  “Camilla Becker.” She shook his hand. He had short brown hair, a conservative haircut. “So what do you do when you’re not auditioning for reality shows, Mason-Gray-by-the-way?”

  “I’m in finance.” She was right: a banker. “Fixed-income assets and derivatives. Boring stuff. You?”

  “Animated film.”

  He smiled a wolf’s smile. “Okay, Miz Camilla Becker who works in animated film, probably over in Emeryville…” Boom! she thought. He’s sharp. “Look around you. What do you see?” He was watching her closely. She took her time answering.

  “Money—heaps and gobs of it.”

  “But what don’t you see a lot of?”

  Together they looked across the wide, vacant deck and through sliding glass doors into the brightly lit interior of the main salon. A few people were visible inside. They were scattered in small, awkward groups around the vast space. Their body language said they were all strangers to each other.

  “People,” she said. “There’s hardly anybody onboard.”

  “And what does that tell you?”

  “What does it tell you?” she replied.

  He leaned back against the railing, slid his hands into his pockets, and crossed his ankles. The smile left his face. “It tells me there’s a hard sell coming. And they expect to close this deal. They don’t expect anyone to back out.”

  Feeling a twinge of apprehension, Camilla looked back over her shoulder at the Golden Gate Bridge, far behind them now.

  “How can they be so sure we’re all going to sign on?” she asked.

  Mason pushed off the railing. He grinned again. “We should go inside, see how the land lays. Because if this was a three-hour dinner cruise, we’d be circling the bay. Instead we’re headed south right now, at top speed.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “This part was a piece of cake,” Cory said. “And for a change, I’m not wet or covered in some nasty shit.” The hum of the ship’s engines was loud. He eyed the client. Definitely not a scientist, this one. Cory wasn’t buying it. He waved a hand in the direction of the main salon, three levels above them. “Lights, camera, action—we’re live now.”

  “Show me.”

  “Pay me.”

  He took the envelope and thumbed through the bills, counting. They were all hundreds. It took him a while, because there were a lot of them. He had earned it, though. He was proud of the work he had done. Too bad he couldn’t reference it for future jobs. It was truly state of the art.

  “Okay, good, that’s me,” he said. “But what about the other techs? We need to pay them, too.”

  “They’ve been taken care of already. Out at the site yesterday.”

  “They were supposed to let me know when they finished.”

  The client didn’t say anything to that.

  “Weirdest job I ever did.” Cory shook his head, looking around at the gleaming chrome engines. So clean. Not like any ship he had ever been on before. He should have asked for more money. “Getting tangled up in that ropy shit, all those goddamn animals. Those big ugly things—Jesus, I was sure one of us was gonna get killed.” He rubbed a thumb along his chin, looking at the client. “If I knew what we were getting into, I might’ve said no.”

  The client didn’t say anything to this, either.

  Cory reached into a pocket. He pulled out the controller, tapped a few times on the touch screen, and handed it to the client. “Go nuts. I watch Discovery Channel sometimes. Let me know how it turns out.” He slipped the envelope into his pocket. “Well, okay then, that’s it.”

  The client looke
d at the screen, slid a finger back and forth across it, and nodded. “Yes, that’s it.”

  The pain was unbelievable. Cory fell to the floor, gasping, and watched the client’s other hand slip something back into a pocket. His world faded to white.

  • • •

  “Know the rule of three?”

  Cory’s eyes flickered twice, then opened. It felt as though some time had gone by. The engines sounded different now. His whole body hurt. He strained to remember what had happened, but couldn’t. He recognized the voice, though. It was his client. Something was very wrong here.

  He tried to move and heard a crackling noise beneath him, like plastic. A tarp? His eyes flew wide. He was tied down, his arms and legs restrained somehow. He could barely twitch them. A blast of adrenaline jolted his limbs, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Three months without human companionship.”

  The client’s voice came from behind Cory’s head. A bright light dazzled his eyes, making him squint. The light came from long LED strips running directly above him, in a ceiling fixture that seemed too close. Where was he? Sick with terror, he tried to yell, but only a wheeze came out.

  “Three weeks without food.”

  He heard the client’s steps, moving away now. He was lying on a table of some kind. He could see shiny tools and parts gleaming on the spotless walls. The ship’s machine shop! But he couldn’t turn his head. This was bad, really bad. A tremor ran through his body. He wheezed again, feeling the spit dribble down his cheek.

  “Three days without water.”

  Metal clinking. Scrapes. Cory could hear his own gasping. Oh Jesus, he’d give the money back, all of it, never say anything to anyone about this ever. He needed to tell the client that. But he couldn’t form the words.

  “Three hours without shelter.”

  The client stepped into view, holding a four-foot pipe wrench. The heavy wrench thudded onto the table beside Cory. The client was wearing a plastic rain poncho now, the disposable kind.

  “Three minutes without air. You should focus on that one right now.”

  Cory realized that even if he could speak, nothing he said would matter. He was going to die. Another heavy wrench thudded onto the table. And a third. He felt his bladder let go.

  “The rule of three comes from the Air Force. It’s how long the average person will survive when deprived of those things.”

  The client leaned into his view again, holding the shop’s impact wrench now. Cory’s eyes traced the wrench’s pneumatic hose to its connection point above the table. Bile flooded the back of his throat, filling his mouth with its sour taste. The client grinned and blipped the wrench’s trigger twice, splitting the air of the engine room with its loud auto-body-shop whizz. The sound hurt Cory’s ears. Tears leaked down the sides of his face, tickling wet against his ears.

  “Not everybody is average, though. That’s what makes it interesting.”

  The client moved down to his waist. Something clinked on the table down there. The impact wrench shattered the air again—a sustained scream this time. Vibrations rattled Cory’s bones as agony exploded through his hip, sending an entire universe of pain unfolding through his body. His arms and legs shook. He felt himself slide a few inches sideways. Wet pattering noises, something splashing and dribbling on the plastic tarp down at his waist. Oh Jesus, blood—his blood! He sucked in a huge gulp of air to scream, gagged instead, and vomited.

  The client held up the impact wrench, socketed another long, sharp-tipped metal screw, and put it down again to pick up one of the heavy pipe wrenches. “Sorry, but we just can’t have these things coming off of you when you go in the water.”

  The wrench screamed again in the closeness of the machine shop. Cory’s body shook and slid on the tarp again. It went on for a while. Then the wrench was mercifully silent. He blinked. A soft burnt-hair smell hung in the air, like in a dentist’s office. Vaporized bone.

  His consciousness was fading. He heard the plastic tarp rustling, felt it moving against his body, and then came a ripping sound he recognized: duct tape.

  “There’s one last part to the rule of three. It trumps all the others. And I can see from your eyes it’s going to be the deciding factor here. Do you know what it is?”

  As Cory’s world faded to black, the client’s voice seemed to come from a great distance.

  “Three seconds without hope.”

  • • •

  The cold air revived Cory a little. A mist of salt spray wet his face. He turned his head and looked down into the churning black water that flowed past, just below him. His body was lying on top of the plastic tarp sheeting. The client put a foot against his side and pushed. He slid along the megayacht’s rear sundeck, the slick plastic protecting the boards. Heavy metal shifted against his thighs—the pipe wrenches the client had bolted to his pelvis. His shoulders were hanging off the deck now. He teetered, balanced on the verge.

  He looked up, uncomprehending. The client was a shadow silhouetted against the stars. Cory couldn’t make out the face.

  “It’s possible to survive for hours in the water, even injured, if you put your mind to it—the weights won’t help things, though. How good a swimmer are you? I’d love to stay and find out. But I can’t, unfortunately.” The shadow’s head turned, looking toward the bright light from the main deck and salon above. “I’ve got to get back to the party. The other contestants might wonder where I am, and I don’t want to miss our host.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Camilla stood just inside the entrance to the main salon, with Mason Gray, the banker, at her side. The interior of the split-level space was a showcase of gleaming chrome, travertine, and cream-leather luxury. Together they surveyed the salon and its occupants. She had a good feeling about Mason. He was smart, she could tell. His eyes roamed the room, mind clearly active behind that lazy grin. She sensed confidence—cockiness, even. There was always some risk with his type, but she decided she wanted him on her team. If she signed on, that is.

  “Your turn.” She put a hand on his arm. “Tell me what you see.”

  “We’re missing one.”

  “So you’re psychic now?”

  “Nine people, counting us. Four women, five men. They wouldn’t leave the sexes unbalanced. Ten is a nice, round number.”

  Camilla looked at the others, bunched in twos and threes. “All contestants, then. So where are the Vita Brevis folks? Our hosts?”

  Mason’s eyes roamed from group to group, as if sizing them up. “What do you think of our competition?”

  “Some are our teammates.”

  “At first, maybe. But there’s only one grand prize.” This, naturally, coming from a banker. “So tell me, who are they?”

  Ten contestants meant two teams of five. So she needed three more besides Mason. She needed to choose carefully, though. The key to winning was having the right team dynamic—a balance, not necessarily all the best individual players.

  At the other end of the salon, a curved zinc bar swooped beneath art-glass sconces, backlit by soft blue accent lighting. She focused on the trio standing by the bar. A half-Asian girl in her late twenties was talking to two guys. They looked to be around the same age.

  “The girl, she’s an athletic type,” Camilla said. “Personal trainer, maybe. Triathlete.”

  Mason nodded. “Rock climber—watch her hands, what her fingers are doing around the edge of the bar-top as she talks. Acts like she’s just one of the guys, but you can see she loves being the center of attention.”

  The Eurasian girl suddenly looked at them across the room, unsmiling, almost as if she knew they were talking about her. Her eyes were unfriendly, too. Camilla was a little surprised. “Whoa, girlfriend, lighten up,” she murmured.

  Mason laughed. “Amazon Girl is going to be trouble. I can tell that already.”

  Camilla shifted her focus to the two guys. “Guy talking to her, with the shaved head, African American. Wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He’s a big dude�
�must spend serious time working out. A gym owner?”

  “Ex-military. See how straight he’s standing, like he’s at attention? But she’s more interested in the other guy.” Mason laughed. “The guy who looks bored.”

  She looked at the third member of the trio: a tall Latino with short, dark hair. Her breath caught. He was movie-star good-looking. Something about him seemed familiar, too.

  “Dresses like a bartender from a SoMa ultra lounge,” she said. “Seriously? Who wears all black nowadays?”

  But she couldn’t take her eyes off the guy. Mason seemed to notice her noticing, too—she wasn’t fooling him with her snide comments. She quickly turned back to Mason.

  “Ouch!” he said. “You’re a fashion critic, too.”

  She threw him a mischievous smile. But she couldn’t avoid occasional glances at the dark-haired man in black. His eyes flicked in their direction. For a moment, his gaze met Camilla’s. My rider! That’s my motorcycle rider! She had no idea how she knew, but she was sure of it. He lifted an eyebrow, momentarily seeming to acknowledge her. Then he looked away.

  Mason was eyeing her strangely. He’d caught that, too. Awkward. Camilla smiled, almost in apology. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Then both her and Mason’s eyes were drawn to a new arrival: a slim blonde, standing in the opposite doorway. Now it was Mason’s turn to take a surprised breath.

  “I didn’t know we were doing America’s Top Model,” he said.

  The arrival of the blonde woman seemed to suck all the air out of the room. Conversations stopped. Wow! Camilla thought. And she’s used to that.

  The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She looked around, big green eyes taking in the scene, her gaze moving from person to person. Her wide, friendly, dazzling smile said, I can’t wait to meet you. A stunned Camilla found herself smiling back. Mason was wrong. The blonde woman was wearing a designer dress and heels, but she didn’t have the empty, no-personality beauty of a runway model. She was gorgeous, for sure. But there was too much excitement in her eyes, too much energy in the way she stood. She would make a runway model standing next to her look like a mannequin. At least her mouth was too wide. But even that minor imperfection simply added to her allure. Good Lord, Camilla thought, the rest of us can just pack up and go home now.