Last Resort (17 page)

Just then, the first of the guests determined to sail for Barbados returns from their bungalows clutching handfuls of glittering jewelry, which they eagerly thrust towards the captain.

de Salle takes one look at the proffered loot and turns to me. “At the first sign of any poisonous clouds I will turn around and return.”

I am about to say something more when Conner pulls me to the side and whispers, “Shut up. Let them go. Look who’s trying to get onboard—the old and the weak. He can have ‘em. They won’t be much use defending this place from the islanders, and besides, it’s more food and water for everybody else left behind.”

Conner continues to grip my arm, staring me down, daring me to protest any further. Over his shoulder, I see Don and Amy come out of their bungalow. I shirk Conner’s hand off and head towards them. Amy drags a hastily packed suitcase and the front pocket of Don’s shirt bulges with bracelets and necklaces. I repeat my warnings of the radiation clouds. Don huffs but stops to hear me out, while Amy anxiously looks at the throng around Captain de Salle, each haggling for a spot on the ship.

“Don, c’mon,” she urges.

I stand before them knowing they are already gone—that my entreaties will not sway them.

Don regards me with sad, kind eyes. “Listen, kid, I’m an old man. I’m not cut out for war with the people on this island.”

Amy prods Don by pressing her hand on his back.

“Phillip, we’re sorry to leave you like this,” her voice catches. “I wish we could all leave together. Believe me, as soon as we reach Barbados we will send help back for you.”

I respond with a grateful nod.

Nearby on the beach, de Salle appraises the jewelry offered in trade.

Pamela remains near Gwen, making no effort to get on board de Salle’s ship.

“Don’t you want to go?” I ask her.

She looks to the anchored ship and shields her eyes against the sun. “I thought about it. Then I thought about what you said—that you couldn’t get hold of anyone from Barbados on the radio and that there are radiation clouds. Sailing for Barbados is a big risk, just as staying here is. Without Bill, I guess it doesn’t much matter either way.”

Nearly a third of the guests vie to sail with de Salle. Of those who do not, I estimate half seem like they desperately want to sail away but know they have nothing to offer to buy their passage, and the rest seem interested in the drama but have no desire to risk their lives on the open ocean.

Don plops a fistful of jewels in de Salle’s hand, easily purchasing space onboard the ship for Amy and himself. More people haggle to get onboard than there are spaces. It comes down to two elderly couples—one British and one American. The value of the jewelry offered by the American couple puts them in the lead for the final spots, but the old British husband turns to his wife and says, “Evelyn, I’m sorry, love, but we must.”

Evelyn, a tiny, white haired woman, wraps a protective hand around the large, antique diamond wedding ring she wears. She cannot even form a word, her only protest being an anguished little squeak.

Her husband gently takes her hand, looking as tenderly in her frightened eyes as he probably did when they first married so long ago.

“Love, please,” he says. “It is only a stone and some metal. It does not matter so long as we have each other.”

Slowly, she gulps, removes the ring, and hands it to de Salle. He gestures to his men to allow Evelyn and her husband aboard the ship.

“Pardon me, Captain,” Evelyn says with a tremulous voice. “How long is the voyage to Barbados?”

“With a good wind—two days.”

Evelyn’s husband, a slight man with fine, delicate features like a sparrow, licks his thin lips and asks, “And you have food to last us?”

de Salle places his hands on his hips. “Not for you. There’s only enough for me and my crew.”

The fifteen guests lined up for the rowboat that will take them to the anchored ship all get the same idea at once and head towards the restaurant supply room.

Conner leaps ahead of them and blocks their path. “You’re
not
taking our food.”

The fifteen guests suddenly halt.

“It’s our food, too!” One of them argues.

Conner clenches his fist, making it clear he has no qualms about beating any of them senseless. “It’s not your food anymore. It belongs to the people of the resort. Sail away if you want to, but the food stays.”

The elderly guests hurl curses at him, but none dare try to push him aside. The rest of the guests, those remaining behind, say nothing and do not intervene. It is wrong to send these elderly people off without so much as a drop of water, but some selfish part of me—a part focused only on my self-preservation—sides with Conner. It shames me, but I must admit that I want to keep as much of the supplies here with us as possible.

Trying to keep the peace, Jonas approaches Conner, but Conner shrugs him off.

“I don’t give a shit,” Conner growls to Jonas. “They bought their ticket out of this; we’re left behind. The food remains with us.”

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.