by Angela White
Caw! Caw!
Kendle’s eyes flew open. Trees, thick and green, waving over a vast, sandy beach, greeted her.
Birds called curiously above her head, flew into the thick palm trees with annoyed chirps, and she blinked, smelling fragrant flowers and earth. Her eyes went to steep, green and orange cliffs, and hills of waving trees. Land?
Kendle stood up in a quick, jerky movement and her stomach twisted again, knocking her off her feet and out of the boat. Her hands and legs flailed, tried to keep herself afloat, and she hit the sand with a hard thud that knocked out the instinctive breath she’d sucked in. She lay on the warm, dry beach, coughing and crying as she cradled her aching stomach. Land! She was on land!
Kendle forced her shaking knees together and stood on dirt for the first time in eight weeks, her muscles protesting as they struggled to hold her up. Her entire body felt weak, wrong, and she swiped distractedly at tears. She hadn’t thought she would ever feel safe again, and her eyes repeatedly returned to the bright green treetops. She was on land! She could survive here.
The model-turned-actress forced her new legs to carry her into the hated floating coffin for her meager supplies, swearing it would be a long time before she got back into one. She’d been afraid to fly before, but what was a quick, fiery plane crash compared to the hell she had lived through?
It took Kendle a while to gather her things and she cringed each time the rough surf caressed the battered boat, terrified the waves would pull her back out. She picked the middle of three paths into the dense jungle, and dragging the pillowcase behind her, began to walk, heart lighter than it had been since losing her sister. Her tender feet protested the cool, sharp, forest floor and the pain sent joy rushing through her. She knew how to survive in this world. She was safe!
2
Luke Johnson gently set his pole into the small holder he’d dug in the lush paddle grass, absently watching his line twitch as a fish toyed with his bait. He leaned back, clear eyes full of worry, as bees and other fat insects buzzed around the beach and moved on, drawn to the waves rushing ashore with more garbage.
The monthly supply plane hadn’t come since December, and they hadn’t been able to raise anyone on any of the CB’s or satellite phones. And now, Frank hadn’t shown up for their annual week together. The two men had forged a strong bond in the jungles of Vietnam and the retired pilots, who’d both been shot down and lived through 18 months in the same POW camp, never missed their week together. Not once in 30 years.
The retired soldier stood up to stretch, wishing he had one of those internet hookups all the tourists had been attached to last summer. It was just a little black case that opened up like a Battleship game. Sometimes technology was great, but out here, it was nearly nonexistent.
This island was about as cut off from civilization as anyone could get. The whole island had only one bay for ships, the rugged cliffs foreboding, and there wasn’t a single telephone line. The lack of communication to the outside world was frustrating sometimes, the island taking back as much as it gave, but for the most part, it was why people came here and stayed. “It makes us uneasy though.”
Luke thought of the silent Coast Guard, who they could normally hear even during storms, and then the ocean itself. Not one cruise liner in the distance and he’d know, he was on the ‘traffic’ side of the beach most of every day - fishing, reading, swimming…forgetting. There was nothing but static and debris. Pitcairn Island seemed to have been completely forgotten.
It wasn’t a crisis here. The 61 people calling this tropical paradise home had learned to pull their needs gently from the land around them, but it was causing unrest and lowly-spoken conversations in town. What had happened to their old lives? Blown away? Luke nodded, almost sure. He’d spent time in a war zone and knew the signs. No contact, strange sunsets, rough storms despite it not being the season, and of course, all the debris.
The water levels had risen, bringing in load after load of garbage until they’ had to expand the town dump. Even now, Bounty Bay was alive with crawling crabs, booby birds, and broad-winged albatrosses that were pillaging the trash. The explosions that had left behind this much wreckage had surely cost lives, he thought, packing up his gear. What the hell had happened? Had America gone to war and lost?
Sinking below a green and purple sky, the dim sun cast hues of blue and orange over the waves, the beauty almost hypnotic. Luke turned on his flashlight as he headed back to his one room cabin to brush his grill and hit the rack. He suspected the entire world was AFU and while there hadn't been any proof, he'd already begun to grieve for his country. He wanted to know for sure and planned to be on the north beach at daylight with the town’s strongest CB.
3
LJ found Kendle before he hit the beach and recognized her immediately in spite of her rough condition. He had noticed her tracks, followed them on a whim, and now stood quietly in front of the crude shelter, thinking it looked very sturdy for being handmade.
Shoe strings around thick branches formed a frame, a green tarp covered with Johnson grass for a roof, palm leaves as the walls. She’d even dug a drainage ditch to keep drier. It was clever. This 26-year-old female of mixed parentage was clearly no timid brunette, though right now she didn’t seem much like the outgoing, vivacious woman he’d watched on TV either.
The thin, infamous woman sleeping barefoot and restless inside her shelter, would probably come to the chin of his 6’1” frame and she looked sick. Her short black curls were sun-streaked, as were her long, dark lashes, and her skin was an unnatural shade of red that made him frown. Where had she come from? He knew everyone in this community and the Survival Challenge star wasn’t a resident.
Kendle woke slowly, mind and body protesting. Her inner alarm had jolted her, telling her she wasn’t alone, something she had been for so long that there was no mistaking it. The man’s lean shadow (and it was a man, she felt that clearly) was blocking the sun from her eyes and she groaned as she sat up, stomach rolling. Had a boat found her? Was she rescued?
Her haunted, bluish-gray eyes locked on the tall, leafy greenness behind him, where a teal fruit dove sat on a low branch, watching them anxiously. Tears welled as she remembered. She was on land!
“You real?” she croaked, slowly climbing to her feet and he nodded, watching the pulse in her neck pound.
“As can be. Luke Johnson, LJ, at your service.”
Kendle stumbled forward on shaky legs and fell into his plaid-covered arms, sobbing, and Luke was unable to stop himself from being glad her smell wasn’t strong despite her faded, mismatched clothes.
“So glad...to see you! Been alone...soo...long!”
There was total horror in those last two words, the kind that drew him instantly. It said she, and she alone, might be able to understand him. He held her close, forced his mind to stay where it belonged - in the present.
“Sshh... It’s okay.”
Kendle trembled in his arms, tears falling hotly on his weathered skin. “I’m K-K-Kendle Roberts. Nice to meet you.”
Luke grinned as her arms tightened around his waist and he slowly turned them toward his cabin, her heat baking into him. “Likewise. You need a doctor, little girl. How’s about we go to town and...”
She sagged against him and Luke swung her into his arms, aware she was very sick and might be contagious. The thought didn’t scare him. He’d faced death before.
Luke headed home, frowning at not only her appearance and heat, but also at how light she was in his arms. His mind connected her to the tides and sunsets, already sure she was a survivor of whatever had happened…a survivor who might have answers.
A shudder wracked her thin body, and he increased his pace, not out of breath. She weighed almost nothing and he’d maintained a strict workout routine since exiling himself here.
“Ship's dead,” she croaked, “all dead.”
Her words gave him a chill. Her story would be no cakewalk and as much as he needed to know, he was dre
ading it.
“You okay, Sweetheart?” There was no response, and once he put her in his bunk and stoked up the fire, he took the dirt bike into town.
4
The next few days were a blur for Kendle as the pneumonia raged and she fought for her life again, her immune system weakened by her exposure to the radioactive flash. She had only brief periods of alertness, where she tried to tell him what happened, but wasn’t sure if he understood. It was a full week after washing up on the north beach, that she came to, feeling alert and aware of who and where she was.
Kendle knew instinctively she was alone with the gently snoring man in the recliner closest to her - the fat, loud female healer gone - and she stared at his face in wonder. He looked so healthy! The sickness hadn’t come here?
She closed her eyes as her head thumped. She was alone, but that death ship was still out there. Would they (she) spread it? Huge tears began to roll down her cheeks.
The quiet sobs woke LJ from his unsettling dreams. He couldn’t ignore her misery and went to her with his blanket. As he pulled it to her shoulders, her claw-like hand flew out and locked around his wrist with an iron grip.
“We’re on land?”
Her pain rushed over him, and he longed to erase the desperation in her panicked eyes. “In my cabin, on Pitcairn island.”
More tears slid out, and when the Island Outcast held his arms open, she went without hesitation, feeling the connection of survival with him.
“You’re safe here, Ms. Roberts. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
She nodded against his shoulder, and Luke eased them down, holding her close. He hurt for her, wanted to tell her it would fade in time, but he didn’t. it hadn’t for him and it had been half a century.
After a while, her tears eased, and her even breathing told him that she had cried herself back to sleep. Her feverish body pressed tightly against his, Luke knew he should get up, but only pulled the blankets over them and let her warm nearness lull him into a slumber that was, for once, without nightmares of being stalked by his mistakes.
Chapter Six
March 5th, 2013
Outside Versailles, Illinois
1
Angela flinched as Marc slammed the hatch on his Blazer, trying to get it to close over the full load of gear in the back.
“Can’t we do something else? What can you teach me that won’t land me on my back?”
Brady swallowed his first thought, and said, “How about a new weapon today, instead of hand-to hand? We could try a knife or even a crossbow. I have one.”
“Okay. Knives are quiet.”
Before she could blink, he drew the blade from his muddy boot and threw it where it landed deep in a nearby oak tree, the handle vibrating. “They’re also deadly.”
She watched him pull it out with a smooth motion.
“This is a K-BAR, Marine combat knife. You try.”
Unsure, Angela took it and threw too quickly. The knife’s hilt bounced off the tree’s rough bark and skidded across the ground, landing in the damp dirt. Bracing for a correction, she was relieved when he got it for her without comment, handed it back.
Angela slowed herself down and tried to aim, but was very nervous with his big body standing just behind her, and the blade sailed past the tree. It skidded into the dense undergrowth next to the bare squares where their tents had been set up along U.S. 51.
“Sorry. I’ll get it.”
She moved out of his reach fast, wading through the drifts of sticker bushes and he watched her, remembering a blizzard and their house of snow. That had really been the beginning of them, of stolen, stunning moments and he hadn’t forgotten any of it. Had she?
No, but she didn’t say so and her confused heart distracted her. Angela threw the knife harder than she meant to, wrist twisting. It bounced off the edge of a different tree and flew back, the sharp edge hitting Marc’s arm. Deflected to the ground, it slid back into the stickers as blood welled.
Angela gasped, taking a fast step back. “I...I’m so sorry! I’ll get my bag.”
She didn’t seem to hear him say it was only a scratch, and when she came back out, he saw her hesitate and knew she expected him to punish her.
“Can you slide your arm out?” She knelt at his feet to dig in her bag, tense body waiting for the blows to begin.
Marc did it quickly, not really in pain despite the increased bleeding from the movement. The air was thick with tension and he watched her closely, sure he was about to learn something important.
Not seeing him get mad calmed her a bit, and Angie let the doctor take charge, instinctively hoping if she did a good enough job, he wouldn’t hurt her for it. “Bend down here, please, and keep your arm up.”
He did what she said, eyes watching her face as she tied an elastic band around his upper arm. Blood dripped from his elbow in scarlet splatters as she opened sterile packages with an ease that told him she’d done it many times. She was a nurse?
Angela dumped water over the wound, and then spent a moment examining the cut. She placed a large gauze pad over it, pressing hard. “Hold this while I thread a needle.”
She made seven small, neat overlapping stitches, and as she finished, Angela became aware of how close they were standing - of the thick tension around them.
She didn’t look up and her hands shook as she put on the medicated bandage. “I’m sorry, Brady. I guess knives aren’t such a good idea.”
Marc smiled, tossing his torn coat into the Blazer's open window. “We’ll keep working on it. I’ve gotten worse from new recruits.”
She nodded. Kenny would have been using his fists on her right now, for drawing his blood, intentional or not..
“I’m not him.”
Her eyes flew up and he shrugged. “Sometimes, I can see it in your eyes and know what you’re expecting, but that’s not me, not ever, for any reason.”
She sighed, eyes haunted as she allowed herself to open up a bit to him. “I used to know that but I….I can’t help it that I’m afraid.”
“I’m gonna keep proving it to you.” His words were almost a promise, and he grinned. “In the meantime, where’d my knife go, and what in the hell were you aiming at? A rain drop?”
He moved to look for it and her laughter was good, genuine. “So how much medical training do you have?” he asked casually and frowned when her tone immediately became defensive.
“I’m a certified M.D.”
“A real Doctor. I never would have guessed. Didn’t you want to be a writer?”
“Yeah, but I needed something dependable, and I found I could help people who couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”
Brady was still frowning, and when she carefully handed him a pain pill, he surprised her by dry swallowing it without asking what it was. Clearly, he trusted her.
“How can you be something like a Doctor and a battered woman at the same time?” The question was out of Marc’s mouth before he could stop it.
She flushed, but didn’t drop her eyes. “We often become masters of disguise - to do anything else, means bringing the wrath down on your head.” She looked at him with her head held high. “And I had good reasons to keep my head down and do what he said. My innocent son.”
“What about him? Wasn’t it a challenge to his… authority, to have you be a doctor?”
“He would say it’s because of our deal, that I had no choice but to go back to work because he said so. That’s partly true, but mostly, it was the money. He hated my name on the check, but he didn’t hate spending it on war games or a new gun. He insisted I finish my medical training. He said ‘Any woman of his had to contribute’.”
Marc heard no real bitterness and was offended for her.
“So keeping your career was part of the deal, but not marriage?” he asked, finally seeking confirmation of his suspicion, one he’d been working hard on. He'd never once heard her say husband. He was unprepared for the wall of guilt her quiet answer caused.
&n
bsp; “He wanted it to be, but even then I understood if I said yes, he really would own me.” She turned to look at their surroundings. Corn. “You gonna workout before we leave?”
“Yes.”
He said nothing when she joined him, help him set it up, but his eyes were full of questions that made her shrug and look away.
She didn't want to tell him (or anyone!) about her baby, but was sure he’d soon know. She wasn’t sure how well she could hold up under the routine he did every day, but she was about to find out. “I wasn’t ready before.”
He didn’t ask and she was glad, but knew by the look in his eyes that he already had his own suspicions.
“Should you be doing this yet?” Marc knew by her wince he was right, respected her for the quick, honest answer.
“No, probably not.”
“Then why are you? You don’t think I can handle things without your help?”
She frowned, shaking her head. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have called. To be free, I have to learn, and I can’t do that while I’m resting. Time is a luxury I can’t afford.”
Marc studied her with cool eyes, but inside she continued to impress him. “Quit when you know you should. I do a hard run and you’ll need to build up to it.” He was already sure she wouldn’t stop until he did, and when she agreed absently, clearly not listening, he waved a hand at the steady drizzle that had begun to fall. “After you, my Lady.”
2
“You should go back.”
The rain was hard now, the slick ground throwing up nasty brown sprays with every step.
Angela shook her head, winded. “Not... maxed out yet.”
“Fine.” Marc picked up the tempo like he always did for the last ten minutes, and was surprised when she managed to keep pace. The sit-ups and pushups had been hard on her, as were the meditation positions, but she hadn’t complained once, and he’d enjoyed her quiet company.
