by Cole Alpaugh
The former pirates continued to rotate slowly, bobbing ever so slightly from the motion of the mating birds.
Chapter 48
Dobby dropped anchor within a stone’s throw of the reef. A strong current pulled the old tugboat broadside to the island.
“That your island, girl?” Dobby asked Butter, as the four stood on the starboard side of the main deck.
“That’s my home.” Butter couldn’t tear her eyes away from the battered landscape and the strange, unfamiliar birds circling in crowded flocks over what had been the jungle interior. The entrance to the lagoon, where the hundred people of her village had joined hands to greet the big wave, was just out of view. The island’s tallest tree, a majestic old coconut palm at the north end of the cove, was gone. That was where Franklin Roosevelt, the island’s best climber, had held lookout for the wave after the island had received the emergency radio warning.
“The tree is gone.” Butter spoke softly, tears silently streaming down her brown face, her eyes red and puffy. Lost were the families of parrots that had burrowed homes into the crotch of the soaring tree, hidden and protected within the crown of leaves. And all those tiny blind snakes, no more than a finger length, looking like shiny black worms under the deadfall at the tree’s enormous base. Along with the sadness, rage had begun to take root deep in the girl’s stomach as she realized the amount of hate required to do this to her home. A god all filled up with hate and anger for no reason at all. One who thought it was fun to kill, just like those rotten boys who hurt her animals. Butter clenched her fists, ragged nails digging into her palms and creating bloody little half-moons.
Butter wanted to scream at Jesus Dobby, demand he set things right immediately. But she had a growing sense that no one could do that, especially Jesus. She had witnessed him drunkenly attempt to change a light bulb by screwing it in the wrong direction, over and over, swearing, the threads repeatedly popping the bulb back out of the socket. Even a savage like her, as he always called her, knew better. She’d watched him finally give up and try to toss the uncooperative bulb into the sea, only his throw would come up short, and the bulb would explode against the gunwale into a thousand shards of thin glass.
Whether or not Jesus had conjured the wave, he had allowed her animals to die, and they were never coming back.
* * * *
“How do we get to the island?” Dante asked.
Ophelia pointed down to a smudged yellow valise at the captain’s feet. Dobby squatted, opened a red flap, extended the painter line and gave a hard pull. In thirty seconds, the self-contained CO2 inflation system had completely filled the four-man life raft.
“There’s enough cash in the backpack for Dobby to take you home,” Dante whispered to Ophelia, as they walked to the far side of the deck.
“You’ll die here alone.”
“The doctor said I could die any second. Does this seem like such a bad place for it?”
“How am I supposed to just leave you?” Ophelia looked down at her feet. Her white canvas sneakers were stained with mud and grease.
“That’s been the plan from the beginning.”
“That was before I got to know just how helpless you are.” Ophelia watched the captain prepare to launch the life boat off the stern. For all of Dobby’s tough talk, he’d stuffed bags with dozens of cans of Spam and mixed vegetables, all ready to be dropped into the life boat.
“I’m not that helpless,” said Dante, shrugging his shoulders, also watching the captain work. “Hey, I just learned how to shave and brush my teeth. I’m a fast learner.”
“Your teeth are yellow and your face is scruffy. Congratulations, you’ve learned enough to make you look as well-kempt as the wino I arrested last Wednesday for pissing in a doorway.”
“I told you we needed a bigger boat.”
“Can you even build a shelter?” she demanded. She was the senior sergeant raising her voice as the captain and little girl turned to look at them.
“If I wanna stay dry and out of the sun, I better learn real quick.” Dante smiled his goofiest smile. Not retarded, Ophelia thought, suddenly embarrassed she hadn’t defended him from the captain’s mocking. He’s just mostly a child all over again.
“How will you eat?”
“I bought enough fishing gear off the captain to feed a village. And how do you know I wasn’t a Boy Scout?”
“I gave him a damn good deal,” Dobby called over his shoulder, sorting through a huge greasy toolbox.
Dante looked her in the eye. “I’m here, Ophelia, and this is it. I came a long way to find my peace and I’m not turning back.”
“And there’s nothing I can say?”
“Nothing.”
“You know that means I have to stay, racer boy.”
“I can look after the girl.”
“It’s you who needs looking after.”
“This island is on the International Red Cross route,” Dante said. “The girl says they come regularly.”
“They brought supplies to the village every month or two.” Ophelia said, shaking her head. “And sometimes they couldn’t get crews together for six months. We had a relative here; we know how things worked.”
“We’ll have all the necessities. Butter said they even have cisterns for water.”
“You tell me what a cistern is and maybe I won’t think you are a hundred percent full of shit.”
Dante stood quietly, watching the captain sort through the toolbox, tossing some tools into a pile and dropping others back inside.
“What could go wrong out here? I mean, other than a big wave coming along and killing everything?” Dante asked.
“That’s not funny.”
“We won’t need the supply ships.”
“Good, ’cause with no village, they won’t be back.”
“You have family, Ophelia, your mom.”
“It’s six hundred kilometers, not the moon.”
“But your job?”
“That’s my business,” Ophelia said, pointedly. “And things are probably different on my island than where you come from. I might just be expected to stay on and look after a crazy white guy and a little village girl who’s lost her family.”
“You goin’ or stayin’?” Dobby asked Ophelia, as the pair walked back across the cluttered deck. “Your boy’s got the cash for a run back to your island, if you want. No sweat off my back, one way or the other.”
“Stay,” Butter whispered, still watching the island, perhaps willing the shadows to be hiding the people and animals she had known. Then, from out of the north, came an enormous albatross, its nearly ten-foot wingspan spread wide to catch the warm thermals as it glided across the sparkling water. The huge bird swept in low over the reef, nearly meeting its shadow as it hunted fish and squid near the surface. “Stay with us,” Butter said loud enough for Ophelia to hear.
“Dobby, give me two hours to look around the island before you go anywhere.” Ophelia helped him lower supplies into the bobbing life raft, amazed he’d given them so much.
“Two hours.” Dobby checked the face of his broken watch. “In two hours I’m gone—with or without you.”
Butter was the first to jump down into the raft.
Chapter 49
Albino Paul was seething under the broiling afternoon sun as he crouched on top of the island’s highest ground, a small bluff not more than two meters above sea level. He was sick to death of this god-awful place. There was hardly a scrap of shade left because of the damaged trees, and now blisters had broken out across his palms and along manicured fingers. Whatever the hell had happened here should have come twice as hard, washing the whole damn island back into the sea.
He hated the idea of abandoning this gig, and having to eat it on so much fuel added insult to injury. A setback like this would cost him months in his plans to buy Malakula, and his drug dealing bosses were major hard-asses about fuck ups. Not being able to track down a couple of two-bit ass-bandits despite the solid GPS trail w
as a fuck-up of the top-shelf variety.
The bloodthirsty cannibal stood up with his shovel then quickly dropped back down at the sight of the old tugboat. It was anchored out beyond the reef in the same spot he’d originally parked his boat. Albino Paul rubbed his eyes, blinking away ghost images from the bright sun, and watched two white people—one man and one woman—and a little brown girl in a bright yellow dress climb into a raft and begin paddling across the reef. He figured the tugboat was just some local garbage trawler, since its main deck was piled with the typical crap floating in these waters.
“Okay, new plan,” the cannibal whispered, feeling that good old adrenaline flood throughout his body. It was the rush of a hunt back on, of the sudden and surprising appearance of some very sweet prey.
The sight of the young girl at the front of the rubber raft, reaching down to touch the choppy water as the adults paddled, made Albino Paul’s stomach rumble with hunger. The white people were a gift—more than any self-respecting bloodthirsty cannibal could dare hope for out here in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere—but the little one was a dream come true. Child victims were the once in a lifetime, ultimate delicacies. The prospect of eating the girl made the thought of having to gnaw on the bones of the sour smelling Fiji ass-wranglers as disgusting as it got.
Albino Paul wiped at his mouth, furrowing his brow at his wet hand. Then he smiled wide. He was drooling like a feral dog. No time to retrieve his spear; the garden shovel in his left hand would do just fine. With its forty-four inch wooden handle and heavy steel blade, it was an adequate weapon. The trio’s route to the island would lead them right past the sandcastle he’d kicked over. In full hunting mode, Albino Paul minced off the bluff and bent forward with the shovel held out in both hands, making his way down to the edge of the jungle to hide among the mounds of sand.
He hated to lose sight of the life boat, but he trusted his instincts. And he could now smell these newcomers as vividly as a next door neighbor’s sizzling barbecue grill.
“Come on, just keep coming,” Albino Paul whispered, crawling from the last of the broken trees to the remains of the sandcastle, which consisted of three large heaps of white sand and a scattering of small round coconuts. The island reached out toward the water here and the two adult paddlers were headed straight toward his new position.
The little girl was sitting upright in the boat, just meters from the beach, looking toward the treetops. Albino Paul followed her gaze upward, back over his shoulder, wondering where all the goddamn birds had come from. The trees were jammed with cackling winged creatures. He glanced back down, briefly considering how he’d neglected to notice the dozens of birds on the ground all around him. He must have pushed through them to get down to this spot. Hell, there was guano all over the place; he could feel its slimy wetness against his skin. But Albino Paul’s attention was pulled back to his exquisite target. The girl’s fragile neck was so deliciously exposed, and her small pink tongue darted out to wet those pouty, juicy lips.
The bloodthirsty cannibal let out a moan that was almost sexual and immediately scolded himself for getting so carried away. A few birds hopped away from him. This was no ordinary hunt, he reminded himself. This was to be an epic feast, something of legends, virgin meat brought to him by white people. The story he would bring back to his tribe would be passed down through generations, would inspire the dreams of young cannibal boys and provide the platform for the resurrection of his people, his entire culture.
Albino Paul was shaking as he allowed the girl and then the tall white woman to stroll past his hunting position. They walked through a parting flock of seagulls, as the most dangerous of the group—the white man—secured the small rubber dingy.
“Not too soon,” Albino Paul whispered, as he smelled the white man’s approach from the other side of the great mound of sand he pressed into. “Wait … wait …”
When the bloodthirsty cannibal heard the tall white man’s footsteps pass and then begin to crunch the dry, broken palm fronds at the edge of the jungle, he rose up from hiding. Albino Paul screamed the ancient tribal screams of his proud ancestors, making what seemed to be ten thousand birds take flight from surrounding treetops, and nearly scaring to death the tall white man who had been following what he assumed was the path of the woman and the little girl.
“Your flesh is the nourishment of my forefathers!” Albino Paul shouted in his people’s ancient tribal language, although his skills were imperfect, and what he actually yelled was, “Your flesh tastes like foreskins!”
* * * *
Since the only foreign phrases Dante had ever known had to do with picking up scantily clad drunk women in noisy Euro bars, there was no chance of him being confused by the lunatic’s words. Whether or not his memories of foreign pick-up lines were intact, he recognized a death threat when he heard one. It came from the crazy headhunter who had tried to kill them once and had been lying in wait here on the island. As the hard steel shovel struck him squarely across the side of the head, the former world class ski racer’s eyes saw that death had come for another visit.
Dante’s knees were locked, keeping his stunned body momentarily upright. A stream of crystal clear images ran across his vision as he teetered on the brink of consciousness. A green winter jacket lay across the woman’s lap and a woolen hat was pulled down over her ears. It was his mother, much younger, before she’d gotten sick with cancer. He looked down at his clothes and saw that he was just a boy, sitting on a bench in a huge, familiar room, where he’d been many times. Gigantic wooden beams extended just below the high ceiling, and the fireplace in front of him was tall enough to walk right into when it wasn’t lit. Gray rocks formed an arch over the crackling fire.
Dante’s small hands clutched a cup of cocoa, with a single marshmallow half submerged. They were in the old ski lodge, the one his mom would take them to in the Catskills. It was her favorite place to ski because of the lodge, she’d said. The lifts were slow and the grooming and snowmaking far inferior to all of the surrounding ski areas. But skiing was about more than a quick trip up and down a perfect carpet of tilled snow. It was the twists through changing fall lines and sometimes feeling like you were a little lost that made a day of skiing special. And all its faults—including a lodge so drafty that you had to crowd the fireplace on especially cold days—were just part of the resort’s character.
His mother smiled at him as he slurped at the soft marshmallow. There were no wrinkles around her mouth, just smooth pale skin. She had learned to ski in college, but neither her husband nor daughter had any interest. For Dante, skiing had been a chance to have her all to himself. No evil sister and no short-tempered father. He was just a little boy trying to keep up with his mom on winding trails, the cold air stinging his face in a good way. Dante remembered the happy screams she made, the ones that sounded like a funny sneeze. Sometimes he’d crash in the deep snow and she wouldn’t notice. He’d scramble to get his skis back on and she’d get farther and farther away, disappearing around a turn in the distance. He’d be left breathing hard, struggling, suddenly alone in the cold.
The images of skiing faded. Dante Wheeler saw stars before he saw blackness, and then felt the piercing cold come rushing back all over again as he collapsed onto the sand and broken palm fronds.
Chapter 50
“Check out them legs.” Jope’s voice was full of lust, despite the dire circumstances. “You remember that place by the airport they wouldn’t let us into?”
“My head hurts bad.”
“All them guys wearin’ suits, but I had to take a pee. Big bouncer tells me to go fuck myself, go whiz in the street. But then he went for a sandwich next door. You remember that place?”
“Yeah, I remember, Jope. You really pissed off the bartender.”
“Ten dollars for two beers! ‘No way fucker,’ I said. ‘Not unless your mama sits on my lap and holds my bottle between her titties.’ ”
“The bartender went next door to the sandwich shop and
got the bouncer.”
“Yeah, real big motherfucker. That chick hangin’ there has legs just like the girl from that place.”
“It wasn’t a girl.”
“You think all rich dudes like chicks with wangs?”
“My head hurts, Jope.”
“What if there’s a whole buncha shit like that we don’t know about? You remember that movie where there wasn’t no real food left in the world? Most of the people were poor and lived in shitholes like us. ’Cept the rich people are all eatin’ the last of them fat strawberries and sayin’ ‘ha, ha, ha, you poor dumb fuckers, we still eatin’ juicy strawberries.’ ”
“It had that pissed off white cop in it.”
“Yeah, right, Ratu! I love that guy ’cause he didn’t let nobody fuck with him. ‘Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!’ You remember that? He showed them monkeys who was boss.”
“It was called Soylent Green.” More and more of the movie and that day came back to Ratu. It had been the off-season for tourists and they didn’t have much cash from dealing crank. They’d snuck in through the back door of the theater as always, but nobody had cared. It was a junky old movie reel off the rack and the owner just wanted to sell some soda and popcorn. The doors were all left open because it was cool enough to turn off the air conditioners. Even a cat had snuck in and was making sounds like it was in heat. The movie was named after the only food poor people were allowed to have. But it turned out to be secretly made from mashed-up people. Ratu and Jope had spent the next week picking out people who looked like they’d taste good with mustard or mayonnaise. “It was a good movie,” was all Ratu said.
“I hope that chick don’t gotta wang.” Jope had been looking at the leggy blond next to them with her shorts hiked to her crotch. He’d been staring at her pale thighs and just now noticed she was crying.