Islanders

by Brandon Enns

  "What?"

  "Screw you."

  "Whoa, hang on. Erin, tell me what's going on. Why are you mad at me?"

  She wanted to turn around and clock him. "Not now."

  The trees were more abundant. Erin could hear a heavy wind swirling. Was it wind? It pushed at her from all directions simultaneously. Fist clenched and sweaty around the rope grip of the axe, she felt hot breath on her neck, sending a tingle that nestled somewhere in the center of her skull. She couldn't tell if she had stopped dead in her tracks or if she had burst into a full sprint. A thought came. It was like it was in song. Stay a while. It grabbed hold. The wind accelerated.

  When she turned around, Trevor was not there. They were almost out of sight up ahead, fading into the trees and the black. Before she could move her legs to run, a gunshot sounded off causing her to flinch and drop the axe to the ground. She bent over to pick it up. The gunfire was thunderous. Lifting her eyes from the ground, trapped in an awkward crouched position, she heard a scream like no other. It didn't even sound human. In med school, she had spent time shadowing doctors and nurses as they tended to some fairly damaged patients, injuries generating all kinds of agonized moans and screams. Once she had come across a man with scissors penetrated through his midsection, the tips of his intestines poking out in one spot, the putrid smell of exposed flesh mixing with ammonia. Before succumbing to his own consciousness, the man was snarling like a wild animal, followed by a high-pitched howl that would have best resembled the sound of someone begging for death to come.

  She sprinted up ahead and darted right into a small opening before coming to an abrupt stop. There they were, both lying on the ground, blood everywhere. She could hear wet-mouthed ragged breathing. Grabbing Stefan's flashlight, she lit it up to find that the blood belonged to him. He was even whiter than he was before, bordering on gray. "No," he growled.

  "Are you shot?"

  "Some animal trap," Trevor said.

  Erin moved the light to the left, showing bloodied steel teeth with chains throughout.

  Before she could tend to Stefan’s wound, Erin was brought to her knees with the fierce sting of those same familiar words. Stay a while. With all the leftover control she had, she lifted her head to look at the others, who were both experiencing similar agony.

  "Make it stop!" howled Stefan.

  The last thing she remembered was leaning over to hurl. The burning taste of bile erupted out as the words persisted with great force in her mind, forcing her face into her own vomit and sand.

  ***

  Erin woke up in a bed with a wet towel in her hand. She could hear grunting and wincing sounds next to her, and finally her vision returned with some form of clarity. Battling through a groan was Stefan's voice. "You okay?" She looked across the bed to see blood everywhere. She shot up and stared at his ghastly face. "I'm okay, really," he said.

  "You don't look okay. Let me check it."

  "You're too late, doc. Already numbed, stitched, and gauzed. Trevor went to get me more gauze and bandages though."

  "Shit, I should have checked it. It could get infected."

  "I'm pretty thorough. You might not know this, but I have some experience in the field. Grandfather on my mother's side. Military physician. Caught some action in World War II. Most old folks don’t like to talk about their time served. Too much trauma. My grandpa, he wouldn’t shut up about it."

  "Did you get a good look at the wound? Those spikes could have hit an artery."

  "It's all good there. I can't speak for the calf muscle though." His blinked hard and a tear pushed out.

  "You're in so much pain," she said.

  "Yeah, the cure is upstairs. If you're able to help me up, that is."

  She checked their surroundings. They were in Stefan's room in the basement. The towel in her hand seemed clean, and then she remembered the vomit.

  "Don't worry. You weren’t the only one who heard it," he said.

  "We need to get off this island."

  He looked down at his leg, then back up to her eyes. "Yes, we do."

  Chapter Eighteen - Trevor

  Stefan had sworn he was okay, but there was a lot of blood. If they weren't able to get away soon, that leg could get infected, and he could die, leaving the rest of them stranded. They could have taken the small fishing boat to safety and sent help back for Ashton and Skye, but he couldn't leave them. It wouldn’t have been right. Send Erin with Stefan to mainland? Can I trust him? No…No, of course I can’t.

  As he neared the duplex, he could see a woman up ahead, and she let herself in stealthily, head swiveling to scan behind her as she entered.

  Wishing he had a weapon, he twisted the doorknob and inched his way into the entrance, avoiding the first set of lights as he crept forward. He couldn't hear anyone's breathing, nor could he hear any movement. He flipped on the light, bracing himself for a surprise. The place was empty.

  In the corner of his mind or maybe his ear, he could hear a familiar sound, the same one that had brought them to their knees and pounded inside his mind.

  Stay a while.

  He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, and he could sense there was someone behind him. He jerked to his side. Nothing. He walked cautiously over to the washroom and turned on the tap. Cold water to his face was refreshing. The presence came once more. Stay a while. Lifting his head, he saw a shadow move through the corner of the mirror, gone as fast as it was there.

  He stepped into the living room to find nothing again. "Come on," he called out angrily. Trevor moved back to the bathroom to grab an extra first aid kit from under the sink. He grabbed a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet and made his way back toward the entrance. He stopped. Their bedroom door at the end of the hall was closed. It wasn't closed before. He never closed the door during the day. Trevor set his supplies down on the kitchen table and made the dreaded walk down the hall. “You think you’re good, don’t you? You want me to look crazy, is that it? Want me to think I’m crazy? Good luck with that.” Trevor wiped his forehead on his sleeve. The room was too quiet.

  “You’re all going to need a few more IQ points to make me question myself. So keep working at it. It will take you quite a while!” He stopped in front of the door. “The second-rate theatrics are just pissing me off now. Kidnapping, emotional damages, the parade of liability concerns… Keep serving it up on a platter. I suppose the longer you feel like conducting your skit, the angrier I’ll get, and the more fucked you’ll be.”

  Trevor exhaled. Whatever he had felt earlier in the woods, it had its grips on him again. The walls were closing in, suffocating him. Reaching for the knob, he was powerless, giving into his unknown desires. The door cracked open and he paused, grimacing before revealing a darkened uncertainty.

  Trevor threw the door open, slamming into the wall, causing pages upon pages of newspapers to flutter up into the air, circulating back down toward the floor. On his bed laid hundreds of newspaper articles, each of which had something circled in red in the bottom right corners. Page three of the Times, business insider, although it wasn't so much business involved in the write-up. Instead, it was a follow up to Trevor's severe wrongdoings. Throw a pebble, there's a ripple effect. In this case, drop a bomb, destroy someone.

  Gary Valencia, hard-working second-generation American, originally from Mexico City, grew up poor; father took a chance and got out, that whole story. They were good people. Made the sacrifice for their children, children seized the opportunity given, and Gary built something solid upon nothing.

  After Mr. Valencia's shares had been diluted without his approval or understanding, Trevor had lost tabs on him. He supposed it was on purpose, given that he couldn't sleep many nights.

  And now, hovering over the bed, single newspaper in hand, Trevor stared down at the circled portion and read. Gary Valencia had shot himself in a hotel not two blocks from his home. The article mentioned the business mishap on Gary's end and labeled it more as a disagreement among t
he newly formed partnership with Angel Investors at Fairway Capital, whereby they were forced to oust him—buy him out, when in reality he hadn’t received as much as a dime. It read that financial compensation was omitted for the time being. To tie it up in a nice bow dipped in anthrax, the article went on to explain his intentions of getting a life insurance claim for his family to help keep them afloat. It had been more than two years since he had committed to a sizable insurance policy and from his understanding, suicide would still prohibit a payout if executed after the two years of owning the policy. But the crafty insurance company found a way around that of course. It was a fine-print screw job of sorts, leaving the family without a penny.

  Trevor backed himself up against the wall, reading the article over and over again, trying to smash the black print into his mind. Somewhere in the black smudgy words under his sweaty fingerprints, the same image of his father being shot in an alley crept in. Would Gary Valencia have hired a hit? Or maybe it was a disgruntled relative evening the playing field?

  He staggered toward the door, and when it opened, Cassidy was there waiting for him in the living room, vindictive smile and all, the curves of her lips causing her sexy dimples to cave in.

  "Race you," she said. After a moment, she took off toward the beach. He followed at a half-jog and rounded along the north side of the sand to find her step onto the dock, and into the villa out on the water.

  By the time he arrived, she was already naked on the bed with two glasses of champagne and a rose stem in her mouth, mocking him in his moment of despair.

  "What the hell is going on?"

  She dropped the rose to the bed and licked her lips. "That's how you greet a girl?"

  "What do you know about Valencia?"

  Only another seductive smile followed.

  "Tell me you bitch."

  She looked dangerous despite her beauty. "Your pillow talk needs work." She proceeded to sip her champagne casually, but there was still flatness in her eyes.

  "You killed him. You or Bruce, you tracked him down, is that it? Made it look like a suicide?"

  "Is that what you want?"

  Trevor flinched. Before he could formulate another question she waved him off.

  "It's no matter, Trev. I haven't the faintest clue what you're rambling about."

  "Why would you--What is it, money? You're holding some piece of evidence. Waiting for the right moment to dangle it over me? Or you're helping Stefan with this?"

  "Trevor, are you hearing yourself? You sound awfully crazy. It's not making me feel sexy." She caressed her breast, then reached into an ice bucket and ran a cube down her neck to her nipple, circling it around, her eyes never leaving his. “I can handle some crazy. I like some crazy. Know the limit though, yeah?” She plucked a pedal off of the rose. “He loves me.” She plucked another. “He loves me not.” She winked, smiled, then closed both eyes and laughed softly, breathing the humor through her nose. "Calm yourself," she said, handing him a glass of champagne from the nightstand. He took it.

  "Explain to me what's going on." She spoke to him as if he was a third grader trying to spill the beans about him and Timmy's failed science experiment that made a mess.

  "Don't—Don't do that. What were you doing in our place?"

  "A girl can't play a little chase game? The foreplay is the best part."

  "How'd you find that article?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  She bit the tip of her finger and then slid it into her mouth, her lush lips sucking gently. She removed her finger as slowly as she had put it in. "Your shorts. Off, preferably."

  He wanted so badly to take the bait, but the thought of doing it after everything that had happened was beyond ridiculous, but still... Extremely agitated and confused, he downed his glass of champagne and cleared his throat. "What is it you really want?"

  She arched her back and cranked her head and neck backward, her sternum and rib cage showing below her perfect breasts. She exhaled and returned to form. "I want you."

  "And I want you to tell me what the hell is going on. What is Stefan actually up to?"

  "Stefan is a child. And you, you are the man, Trev. You are the man that is going to fuck me." Abruptly, she shattered her champagne glass on the bed frame and removed a large shard. "Wouldn't you like that?" She dragged the sharp side of the glass along her breast, cutting a small portion. Blood oozed out slowly, a single line running down and circling around her nipple. Her face twisted in confused contempt. "Why would you do that?"

  "What?"

  "Why would you do that to me?" She stared at her bloody chest.

  Trevor took a step back. "What is wrong with you?"

  She laughed hysterically and dropped the glass beside the bed. She ran her finger in the blood and licked it. "You want some?"

  "You're insane...Get out of here if you aren't going to answer my questions."

  "So you won't fuck me?"

  "You're not my type."

  "Oh, I see. I didn't think you had a type. Seemed you liked fucking anyone really."

  "What'd you do to Valencia?"

  Her smile shifted aggressively up her cheeks. "Are you playing hard to get? A little played out, but I still like it."

  "Get out!" he yelled.

  She recoiled for the first time, surprised by the force behind his words. "My goodness, just take me already. Use me up, Trev."

  He was dizzy. It was like he was fifteen drinks deep. She crawled across the bed, her bare ass sticking out toward him. "You fell for that old trick? I'm honestly a little disappointed." She sprung off the bed and put her hands on his face, then the back of his neck. They were so cold and dry. He started to lose balance, but she helped keep him up. She squeezed his cheeks. "I was hoping I could use a different strategy. One that was more fun."

  She kissed his scrunched lips softly. "You're so pretty. A pretty boy you are."

  Trevor collapsed down through her hands.

  Chapter Nineteen - Erin

  As Stefan rustled around to find coffee beans, she closed her eyes in an attempt to control her miserable state of being. The clink of a glass landed in front of her, but it was not a cup of coffee, it was red wine.

  "You don't need coffee," he said.

  She downed it in two gulps and grimaced. "Gross. Got any tequila?"

  He hobbled over to grab a bottle from the top shelf.

  "I'm sorry, I should be the one walking around and you should be sitting."

  "No, no. It's fine. I need to get used to walking like this if we—" He stopped himself.

  "If we what?"

  "To help us get home in one piece," he said with feeble reassurance. “If it locks up on me, I’ll be useless and you’ll have to carry me.”

  He brought over two short glasses and poured her two ounces of tequila. The sip didn't burn at all; it was smooth and flavorful. Perhaps it triggered a moment of brave bluntness. "Stefan. Cut the shit. Just you and me. Are you on track with everything?"

  He lowered his head to his chest with a smile and shook his head. Then he stared at his leg. "No. We aren't on track. The track cracked. And we're derailed. You have my word." His hands lay flat on the table, his face tense, eyes piercing through hers. "Erin. This isn't me. This truth is all we got left. I don’t know what’s going on."

  Stefan pulled out a bag of weed, set it on the table, and began prepping a joint. She couldn't stop herself from revealing her judgmental stare.

  "For the leg, remember?"

  "Sorry. That's fair, you need something. Although a more powerful painkiller would be ideal."

  "Hey, this shit is potent."

  "Sure."

  "It calms me."

  "How long has he been gone?"

  Stefan was focused on the joint. "Not sure."

  "He should be back by now."

  "He'll be back any minute...We're going to figure this out, Erin, you do know that, right?"

  Tequila wasn't helping her stomach. "I should go back
out there."

  "Sit." The way he said it was a bit too snappy. "Sorry. We are safe here and this was the plan. I can't be losing you out there too. I can't be alone."

  He lit the joint and took in a big drag, then extended it toward Erin. Her response was automatic without consideration. "No."

  "Come on. One hit. This will help you. Trust me." She hesitated. "I know you're not a drug user, Erin, but consider the circumstances. It'll help." She hesitated and he continued, "You're a medical professional for God's sake. You know the benefits."

  "I'm okay. Really."

  "Are you?"

  She was somewhere between a mess and complete disaster.

  For years she had just wished she'd get caught and head off to prison in shackles. The combination of guilt and not knowing when the case would be solved was eating her alive. Every day she waited for a forceful knock on her door; or for it to come flying off its hinges. How had they not been able to track them down? If one officer knew they were the culprits, how did no one else? What were her children doing today? Were they okay?

  Erin snagged the joint from his hand and forced a large pull of smoke down deep into her lungs. Her lungs rejected it and she coughed, trying to expel the toxic smoke from her body. The more she coughed, the harder she coughed. Once she calmed, she could see that Stefan was laughing at her.

  "The coughing helps," he said.

  She passed it back to him and downed the rest of her tequila. They sat in silence for a minute or two.

  "Can I ask you something?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  "Are you worried about someone dying on your table? You know, once you're a full-fledged doc."

  The question was so morose and direct. "Sure. That's the job though. Plus, I'm a ways away from that." A ways away. A ways away? What did I just say? A ways away I go.

  "Yeah—Yeah, for sure. It would be a helpless feeling though. Working on a lost cause…Knowing death is inevitable."

  The weight of his comment was heavier than the high that was melting her into the chair and filling her legs with liquid lead. Is he threatening me? No, you're stoned, Erin. You smoked the ganja. She laughed in her head.