Phoenix Island (20 page)

Just do it, Carl,
she thought.
Just give in this once
.

Carl shook his head.

“Last chance, Hollywood! Either kiss my boots, or I’m going to cut off your stupid head!”

Carl rocked back and extended both of his middle fingers.

Parker roared curses.

Tears burned Octavia’s eyes.
Oh, Carl . . . you just got us both killed
.

This was it.

Gripping her weapon, she prayed,
Please, God, grant me strength
. She broke ranks, starting for Parker.

Parker unsheathed the machete.

Octavia pulled the shank from her pocket, keeping it low and hidden at her side.

“Now,” Parker said, raising the machete overhead. “Now, you miserable son-of-a—”

“Stop!”

Everything froze. The command was so loud and deep, so full of power, even the wind seemed to cease.

Parker looked toward where the voice had come from and lowered the machete to his side.

Octavia put her own weapon back in her pocket. A hand closed on her shoulder, and Oteka’s voice whispered, “Back into the ranks, Gregoric,” then, louder she yelled, “Attention!”

Octavia returned to her spot and snapped to attention. From behind the ranks strode a man who looked like he had stepped straight from the pages of a comic book. Easily six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and bulging muscles, he moved smoothly, embodying all the fluid grace and power of a panther. He was dressed in all black—black combat boots, black cargo pants, a black tank top, and a black beret—and his dark eyes stared with withering intensity out of his ruggedly handsome, deeply tanned face.

“Drill Sergeant Parker,” the giant in the black beret said.

“Yes, Commander Stark!” Parker said, standing at rigid attention.

Commander Stark,
Octavia thought. Oteka’s special guest had shown up early.

“Sheath your weapon, Drill Sergeant,” Stark said.

Relief flooded through Octavia.

But Parker did not sheathe the machete. “Commander, he attacked me—”

Stark took a step forward and dropped his voice. “Are you questioning my authority?”

Parker took a step back. “No, Commander. It’s just—”

“I have given my order.”

Parker’s muscles twitched. His knuckles were white on the handle of the machete. “Yes, Commander.”

“Unless, of course, you wish to challenge Mr. Freeman to an official duel.”

Parker’s face underwent an amazing transformation, in a split second going from a mask of frustration to one of wide-smiling excitement. “Yes, Commander!”

No,
she thought,
not a duel . . .
Carl couldn’t even stand up; how could he fight?

“Of course . . .” Stark said, a sly smile coming onto his face now, “I would give your opponent time to recover.” With this comment, she saw an understanding pass between the men. The drill sergeant’s smile fell away, and she had to fight to keep one from appearing on her face. “And, observing the rules of dueling, if Mr. Freeman were to accept your challenge, as I assume he would, the terms of said duel would be of his choosing. He could, for example, choose weaponless combat.” He paused, his smile growing.

Parker said nothing.

“Well, Drill Sergeant? Do you issue an official challenge?”

Parker said something she couldn’t hear.

Stark’s smile disappeared. “Sound off, Parker. I want everyone to hear your answer. Do you or do you not challenge Carl Freeman to single combat to commence upon his full recuperation and under provisions selected by him?”

“No, Commander,” Parker said.

“I see. One more of Caesar’s many deaths.”

Half a dozen soldiers appeared behind Commander Stark, four men and two women, all looking around twenty years old, incredibly fit, and intensely dangerous. Each dressed like the commander, with one exception: instead of a tank top, each wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with a red phoenix.

“Help that soldier to his feet,” Stark said. “Pay him the respect he deserves.”

The soldiers who’d kicked Carl moved away, and these new soldiers lifted Carl to his feet. Carl managed an exhausted smile, and Octavia’s heart cheered. Maybe everything was going to be all right after all. Maybe this was the end of something. A new beginning. Her legs felt rubbery as her adrenaline faded away.

Stark unclipped a canteen from his belt. “You must all remember this day forever. Remember the manner in which this soldier faced his own death. Resolute acceptance, orphans . . . resolute acceptance of his own demise.” He raised the canteen overhead and gestured with the other hand toward Carl. “Behold Carl Freeman! A true warrior! I call him brother and ask that he drink from my own water.” He extended his canteen in Carl’s direction.

Carl shook himself free of the hands holding him, staggered to accept the canteen, and drank greedily.

“Hooah!” Stark bellowed.

The platoon’s thunderous response puzzled Octavia—only minutes ago, they’d clamored for Carl’s blood—but she didn’t care. She wanted very badly to join their cheer but could not. Tears overcame her. It was over. The nightmare was finally over. . . .

C
ARL OPENED HIS EYES
to see fan blades whirling overhead. He lay in a comfortable bed with low metal rails on each side. Next to the bed stood a metal pole, from which hung a bag of clear liquid. The liquid dripped slowly into a skinny tube that snaked from the bottom of the bag into an IV inserted in his arm.

A hospital room.

Smelling swampy decay, he tensed.

The Chop Shop . . .

He pictured the kid he’d seen while sitting on the cattle truck, the kid raising his hand, his mouth hanging open, and remembered Eric’s journal:
We saw them standing at the fence, guys we knew, guys who went to the Chop Shop and never came back. They just stared, moaning like zombies. . . .

Carl shuddered.

But he felt fine. Better than fine. He felt good. It didn’t seem possible.

He remembered Parker raising the machete in the air, sunlight flashing off the blade, and then the voice, deep and familiar, telling Parker to stop. . . .

The voice belonged to his shadow visitor, Captain Midnight.

Commander Stark
.

He’d stopped Parker and saved Carl’s life.

After the nightmarish ordeal in the sweatbox, his survival felt like nothing short of a miracle. He said a prayer of thanks and studied the room around him.

It was small and neat, with pale blue walls the color of a robin’s egg and a single window, through which Carl could see bright daylight.

Despite the bars on the window. . . .

That’s it,
Carl thought.
I’m out of here
. He’d had enough of cell bars. He needed to get out of here and find a way off this horrible island.

He tried to sit up, but broad canvas straps bound him to the bed. Restraints clutched his chest, arms, hips, legs, and ankles. He strained against them, but it was pointless. There was no escape.

A door opened.

“Already awake?”

Carl turned his head and saw the bearded man he’d seen from the cattle truck the first day, the doctor, the man with eyes of fire.

Without light flashing upon the glasses, the thick lenses made the doctor’s eyes look big and round and eager. A smile parted the beard, the teeth very white against the glossy black whiskers. “You supposed to sleep thirty minutes more . . . so soon.” His accent was heavy. Maybe Mexican, maybe South American. Carl didn’t know.

He crossed the room and leaned over Carl.

Carl pressed back into his pillow as the doctor held his index finger in front of Carl’s face. “How many fingers you see?”

“One.”

“Now?”

“Three.”

“Is good.
Tres.
Sí.
Is strong boy. Many boys come to me, never I see one so strong as this boy. As you. What I think I like most . . .” The doctor extended his index finger again and lowered it toward Carl’s face.

“Hey,” Carl said, “What are you doing?” He tried to make his voice strong, but it was raspy, the voice of an old man. “Don’t touch me.”

The nut was going to poke him in the eye.

Carl closed his eye just as the fingertip pressed softly into its inside corner. He could hear the doctor breathing through his nose, could smell garlic on the man’s breath. Then the doctor said, “What I think I like most is to see how you do with the
cheep
.”

“Get off,” Carl said and turned his head side to side. He was
trapped. The more he fought, the more the restraints seem to tighten, crushing him in his own fear.

The doctor chuckled and withdrew his finger. “So much fire this boy has. So, so much. So machismo. Could he be the one?”

“You let me go, or I’ll break your nose.”

The doctor laughed. “I like this very much. You American boys . . . sometimes, I think it is only you who are like this. You all tied up, but still you say these things to me.”

Carl gave him his hardest stare. “I’ll do it. I swear. You don’t let me up, I’ll break your nose. I don’t know when, but I will.”

The doctor stroked his beard. “A boy from my country, he tied up like you, is gentle like a little baby. He look around, say to himself, this is bad. And he is right.” He tapped his head. “He believe in his mind the bad thing, it can happen to him.”

“You don’t let me up, you know what’s going to happen to you.”

The doctor’s smile fell away, and Carl didn’t like the way bearded face changed, the man looking angry, thoughtful, and amused, all at once, like Carl was a fly and he was thinking about plucking his wings.

The doctor said, “Perhaps maybe you will be the one. Perhaps maybe you will not. We will see. But he makes me wait.” He crossed the room with his hands folded behind his back. He paused beneath the window, face upturned, and once again his lenses gleamed, looking this time not so much likes circles of flame but more like the headlights of an oncoming car. “I feel the pain to wait. I see a boy such as you, the good muscles, the good reactions to medicines, and I ask myself: Is this the boy? And I want to know. But he makes me wait.” He sighed.

“Let me up, and we’ll see about things right now.”

The headlights aimed directly at him. “Ah—no is problem, the waiting. What else do I have but to wait? There is no opera, no café, no jai alai. They even take the greyhounds from me. So I wait. But I think perhaps maybe when he say it is time, I bring my tools and make you sing first. I miss the music.”

Carl was trying to think of something to say when the door swung open again, and a loud voice Carl recognized said, “Awake already? Carl Freeman, you amaze me.”

“Commander Stark,” the doctor said, and bowed slightly.

Carl filled with relief.

Stark approached the bed, smiling widely, all six foot six of him reminding Carl of a gymnast, all speed and power and no extra bulk, every movement fluid. He stood with his combat boots spread wide, hands on hips, his broad shoulders squared with Carl. Above a neck corded with muscle, his square chin gave way to a warm smile, a crooked fighter’s nose, and piercing, dark eyes that flashed with intelligence and vigor. A black beret sat atop his close-shaven skull. “Dr. Vispera, has anyone else ever woken early from one of your timed comas?”

“No, Commander. He is first.”

“Indeed,” Stark said, and smiled. “Well, Carl, let’s get you unbuckled. Ready to get out of this place?”

T
HEY WALKED SIDE BY SIDE
down the road, talking easily, Stark refusing formalities and treating Carl like an old friend. It was surreal. Strangest of all was how natural it felt, the two of them matching strides and chatting like father and son.

For one reason or another, Stark liked him. Carl wanted to keep it that way. If he could stay close to Stark, he’d be safe from Parker until Campbell blew the whistle on Phoenix Island.

Carl asked how long he’d been unconscious.

“Two weeks, minus half an hour or so. Dr. Vispera induced the coma to maximize healing, then got busy fixing you. Rehydrated you, stitched your wounds, drove out infection.”