The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  “Two or three hundred of them!” he muttered. “This island is only three miles long and a mile wide. If it was inhabited we’d know it by now.” Ernest, his military authority, quite agreed. Three or four others who were bringing up some radio equipment from the boat likewise murmured their ja’s to whatever Adolf Kuntz said. A confident, cocky little devil he was; quick and sure and cruel. I was to see plenty of that soon.

  He must have dealt a clever and daring stroke at the time of the Allied victory over the Axis to have succeeded in slipping away from battleships and scouting planes in time to avoid showing the white flag.

  Now “Die Welt” was flying without a flag—a law unto itself, with an impudent name that cried their defiance to all organized government. Free on the high seas, they still thought the world was theirs.

  How long could they get away with such defiance? That, I reflected, would depend upon how clever they were at pirating, and how skillful at covering their guilt if and when the international marines accosted them.

  Scouts returned during the next two hours. “Whoever this Sutter was,” one of them declared, “he’s gone.”

  “Lucky for him,” said Kuntz. “I can’t think of anything more pleasant than to drop our net over a few Englishmen or Americans and make them squirm. Eh, Ernest?”

  So went the talk and at times it caused a lot of tightening in my mantled throat to listen to them.

  Ernest’s comments, which I could not catch in full, seemed to imply that there might be a giant kidnaping and blackmail scheme in the hearts of these stowaway plunderers. If they could skirt the coasts and take a few important prisoners, then work through a fence into fat and respectable pocket-books without stirring any scare headlines, they might succeed in establishing a much more profitable game than straight pirating.

  Adolf Kuntz was not moved by this talk today. And besides, his overgrown mate, Blagg, was returning, his immense gray boots crunching over the pebbles.

  “Go back and make a careful check of those three Jap houses,” said Kuntz. “Don’t hurry.”

  “I looked, in them already,” said Blagg. “There’s nothing—”

  Swat! Adolph Kuntz struck the big man an open blow across the face. The big fellow’s thick face sagged and his eyes glared with as much cruelty as Kuntz’s.

  I had to duck and swim away at that moment. My sensitive tentacles had involuntarily recoiled, and the result was too much churning of the water for safety. Ernest and some others, at work on the radio equipment, gave me a look, and I saw the lips of one form the word “devil fish.”

  This was a lesson to me. It was all right to take a chance, especially if I had a good shadowed bank for hiding. But however engrossing the conversations, I must not let my tentacles unfreeze unexpectedly and make a target out of me.

  Well, when I got my next look at Blagg a few minutes later, he was trudging back toward the Jap houses.

  Kuntz was pacing. “I can’t think when that damned ox is bellowing around . . . Sutter . . . Sutter . . . that name . . .”

  Later that night some fond idea must have struck him. It was too dark to see his expression, but there was that sinister tone in his voice that presaged cruel pleasures.

  “We’re going to have company,” he said, as he approached the radio transmitter. “An American ship, Ernest. Where’s Blagg? I’ll have to get it through his thick skull that there’ll be guests to treat with courtesy. That is, at first. Later on there may be work for Blagg.”

  “An American ship, Captain?” said Ernest.

  Kuntz lighted a cigarette and for a moment I could see the nervous twitch of the lines around his eyes as he smiled at his confident. “I’ve been listening to the radio every day, you know. I don’t miss much. This small American ship is visiting some Pacific battle-zones.”

  “So?”

  “So I thought I recognized the name of one of the passengers who was making inquiries about a lost soldier.”

  “An old friend of yours?” asked Ernest, catching the drift.

  “An American girl who attended school in Germany. The name was the same. Still, I wasn’t sure—until this name Sutter soaked in.”

  “What does Sutter have to do with it?”

  “The radiocast mentioned that she was searching for one Walter Sutter, missing since sometime in the middle of the war. But wait. What’s the hour? Ten? I should be able to bring them in right now.”

  In high and eager spirits Captain

  Kuntz went to work at the two-way radio. Several minutes later he succeeded in establishing communication.

  I was listening from the water’s edge almost directly beneath this twenty-five foot ledge of rock, from which I had sometimes tossed biscuits to the alligator. It was all I could do to be motionless. My tentacles were trembling.

  “Hello, hello, hello, Marcia Gregory,” Captain Kuntz barked. “Don’t you recognize the voice? No, you’d never guess. I haven’t talked with you for years—not since before the war; but that’s all over. We can let bygones be bygones, can’t we? . . . Your old friend Adolf Kuntz . . . Ah, I thought you’d remember . . . You don’t sound too happy, Marcia. Troubles, eh? Well, I have some news of interest for you. I’m with a little touring party, Marcia, and we’ve bumped into a tiny island called Sutter’s Island . . . yes, Sutter . . . I thought that would mean something to you. Well, we’re on his trail. I think we’ll find him here somewhere . . . Listen, Marcia, the thing for you to do is to bring your party and come right on over this way. I’ll give you the exact location . . . You will? Good. I’ll try to wait right here till you arrive.”

  CHAPTER IX

  Rumor Out of the Crater

  The island, my little world of peace and quiet, was quickly converted into an outdoor madhouse from the hour the crew of Die Welt got the casks of whiskey unloaded. I didn’t have to be too careful for the next three days, because half of the sailors were seeing pink elephants and purple serpents, and the other half were too busy fighting or sleeping to see anything. So one octopus more or less didn’t make any difference, even if it peeked over a rock and cocked its head to get in on the conversation.

  But by the afternoon that the good ship Silver Belle arrived, the captain of Die Welt had everything on the island in passable order.

  The stage, in fact, was set for a particular effect.

  Captain Kuntz himself was at the radio softening his earlier note of enthusiasm by warning his approaching visitor that she mustn’t be too disappointed.

  “No, we haven’t found him yet, Marcia. I’m expecting another scouting party to return any minute. But the signs are so encouraging . . . Yes, you must come ashore . . . your whole party should come. It’s a very interesting spot. Certainly, accommodations.”

  I was in a mental whirl trying to think of some way to head off this move. All the roofs of huts and caves on the island wouldn’t provide enough shelter for this American party of fifty. But the idea that must have dominated the American ship was that there was an island to be searched; and fifty additional searchers could be used to advantage.

  The Silver Belle rode in proudly and dropped anchor about a hundred yards to the south of Die Welt so that both ships stood in full view a quarter of a mile east of the lake end of the island.

  The German motorboat went out to help bring some passengers ashore. Captain Kuntz himself went out with it, to invite the Americans to come ashore and share a feast and enjoy such accommodations as the Japanese buildings offered. He was going to have to do some tall exaggerating, and his pirate workmen were primed to help put the welcome across.

  Those who were lucky enough not to be burdened with kitchen duties around the camp-fires had been sent out to the island’s west end so that they could come back as if from another search for the lost Sutter.

  Later I was to learn that the Germans “borrowed” just enough radio parts during this landing to leave the transmitter of the American ship totally useless.

  Now I clung to the shadowy south edge of my
lake, and picked up what sounds floated across to me from the camp along the north side over the quiet waters.

  There were too many alert eyes taking in the scene now for me to take any chances.

  It was torture waiting, wondering if Marcia Gregory would actually appear before my eyes.

  Then soon among the very cheery welcomes I heard her voice. Across the distance I saw her, like something very vivid within a dream. She was accepting Captain Kuntz’s welcome without sharing his enthusiastic mood. My first thought was, how serious-minded she’s become since I last saw her. If he’d have wisecracked a little or tossed in a reference to the daily comics, she’d have responded with plenty of ringing laughter.

  Or would she? On second thought I realized that she had come here on a mission that was not exactly a lark. She was here with a heavy heart. To know that I had not been found, that only traces of me had been found, had filled her with sorrow.

  The Captain tried to brighten her mood by talking louder, blustering excitedly about old times in Berlin and bygones that should be bygones. It was too much for her. She asked to be excused and came away from the debarking crowds as if to be alone. A few steps behind her, her father and a tall and not-too-handsome friend by the name of Dan followed.

  Captain Kuntz shrugged his shoulders and turned to the duties of keeping his hospitality show in motion. Dinner would be served around the camp-fires soon. And what was this—news from another searching party?

  Blagg came in to report, but the effect of his cut-and-dried speech was largely lost, which was just as well. He got mixed up and made the very misleading statement that they had found my ashes. He was supposed to say “camp-fires”—but he made it sound as if either the volcano or the cannibals had got me.

  Marcia walked along the lake edge until she came to Camel Point. There she found my sign, Sutter’s Lake.

  If ever an octopus looked upon a sight that softened him to his cartilaginous core, it was seeing what I saw there.

  I had forgotten that Marcia was so beautiful. Poets who like to dwell on sunset scenes should have had that picture. Or would they have seen only the beauty of the face and the form, the auburn hair highlighted in the shafts of sunlight, the luscious lashes and the deep, soulful eyes? Perhaps no poet would have seen, as clearly as this octopus saw, the faithful heart of this beautiful girl.

  All the way across the Pacific she had come to kneel beside this wooden sign with the red lacquered letters. That, I said to myself, had taken some strength of character. She, too, had undergone some changes with the war. There was less of the dizzy youth about her that I had remembered so well from the days of tennis and bowling and the reading of the Sunday comics.

  Her father came to her. In deference to her mood he spoke softly. Strange transformations can occur on this side of the Pacific. To think how he used to growl! Especially when we forgot to pay attention to his travel movies. Well, he was a pretty good old scout, and I wished just then that I could have walked right up and shaken hands with him.

  And don’t think my eight arms weren’t aching to embrace my gorgeous swee-sweetie. But I was all wet and slimy, and it would have been a shame to spoil her pretty green gabardine sports suit.

  The tall young lad named Dan would have been at her side constantly, I judged, if her father hadn’t always elbowed in between them. I was naturally a bit jealous of this young fellow, and of his white flannels and blue dinner coat. At the same time I knew how I’d have felt if I’d been in his well polished shoes and old man Gregory had kept me from giving Marcia a comforting pat at a time like this.

  As a matter of fact, I would gladly have traded places with young Danny Boy, if I could have fitted myself into his white flannel trousers and poured him into this octopus mold.

  That gave me something to think about after they’d gone off for dinner and night came on. Wouldn’t it be a blessing if there’d be another volcanic upheaval? Maybe Danny Boy and I could manage to get caught under the same avalanche and by some freak of nature we would change places. M-m-m—I wondered. Not that I wished Dan Wanzer any bad luck.

  After about an hour of sleep that night I awoke with the volcano idea pounding in my brain. Like a sleepwalker, I took a sudden notion that it was high time for me to do a little midnight climbing. The compelling idea drove me to load up with all the time-bombs I could tie together and carry, and make the slow, painful march up the mountainside.

  It was a wild thing to try. I remembered that two time-bombs had simply gone off when tossed down the crater.

  But would not these ten, going off simultaneously, have a much better chance of blowing the lid off the lava?

  A mad scheme, indeed; but I had seen Marcia.

  I had seen Marcia, and I had been thrilled to every tip of every arm. But I had been made to know, by her simple, silent gestures and expressions, how much she wanted to see me.

  And so I was all for trying to uncork that dreadful mystery that had gnawed at my mind ever since the night of the second volcano.

  For on that night, according to all the evidence, I had temporarily returned to my human form.

  I reached the lip of the crater. The red-hot wall across from my perilous foothold cast a baleful light across, by which I checked the gauges on the bundle of explosives. By a rope I let them down to a shelf where they would lie in silence for thirty minutes. That would give me time to creep and bounce and cartwheel down the slope to the shoreline.

  But the best-laid plans of octopuses and men go astray on Sutter’s Island.

  On the way down I heard the voices of Captain Kuntz, Marcia’s father, Ernest, Dan and three or four others, coming in my direction. They were lighting their way with flashlights, hiking up the slope. As a party of sightseers, they were coming up to look into the crater by night.

  “Marcia should have come along,” said Captain Kuntz. “This will be a rare sight. The effect should be much better by night.”

  “Her maid,” said Mr. Gregory, “wouldn’t have it. She sees that Marcia gets her sleep if she had to guard the doors with a baseball bat. She knows how to take care of things, even if she is white-haired and funny-faced and seventy.”

  I didn’t stay to hear any more about the virtues of Marcia’s lady-in-waiting. My thoughts were on the bounce as much as my body. If there had been any way to do it I’d have outraced this party back to the mountain top and drawn the time-bombs up to postpone the fireworks.

  But I was a slow walker on dry land, especially uphill.

  My first impulse was to hurry on down to the shore and start a commotion of some sort that would bring them back. Then if the cap of that volcano should blow up, at least they wouldn’t go up with the blast.

  Start a commotion? Yes, I might light a fire. Or throw some time-bombs into the sea. But there wouldn’t be time. What then? If only I could shout!

  I whirled on three tentacles and reversed my direction. Up the hill I galloped, as fast as I was able. My progress was noiseless. The men went on with their talking. Two Germans in the lead were carrying electric lanterns. The dark silhouette of this large figure trudging along lazily a few yards behind the others was familiar.

  It was Blagg, bringing up the rear.

  I caught up with him and took him to my bosom before he could say Jack Robinson.

  My first reach slapped his mouth closed with a tentacle that coiled three times around his face.

  Almost instantly two more of my arms jerked his two wrists behind him; another arm roped his ankles together.

  He fell, kerbiff, and I fell on top of him. him.

  “Coming Blagg?” someone called back.

  Blagg didn’t answer. There were too many dozens of little suction pumps acting on him at once. He was fresh out of words.

  He put up a decent struggle that made me think for a minute that I’d be smashed to jelly. But he didn’t utter a sound until I was ready for him to do so. Then he gave out with a bellow that any movie Tarzan would have envied.

  “Waa-o
oooh! Haaallpp!”

  If they had had any faith in Blagg they’d have swung the lights right around and I’d have had to duck for a hiding place.

  Instead Captain Kuntz shouted back something in a very disgusted tone about stopping the funny stuff. “Come on, you lazy bum!”

  “Snakes!” Blagg cried. “A hundred snakes. They’re all around me!”

  “Drunk again—at this hour!” I heard Captain Kuntz snarl.

  And that was that. The party went right on up the mountainside undeterred by Blagg’s roars of terror.

  I had a double hammerlock on him now. Before I let him go I made sure he had no weapons to seize and turn on me. Then I went down the hill as fast as I could go. This trick had failed utterly. Was there time to try something else?

  Several minutes later I was in my black cave throwing back a clay-covered flap of burlap to reach for more time-bombs. But I knew I was already too late to call the party back with any further distraction.

  From the crater a series of explosions echoed down to me with repercussions that resembled the popping of penny candy sacks.

  I climbed back to my Camel Point and gazed up through the darkness. The flashlights had reached the summit of the cone. The party was up there, all right, but there were no signs of any excitement.

  And so my effort to start some volcanic action had proved a complete dud. I turned in for some sleep, for I was tired, and all eight of my arms were aching.

  However, the following day I learned, much to my surprise, that the little pop-off of bombs had had one effect, and a very weird one. They had started a rumor.

  The rumor must have been invented by the two Germans who reached the crater ahead of the others. They claimed that they saw the “gunfire” which others only heard.

  Those successive “shots”—according to their report—were nothing less than an act of suicide. Yes, they had seen it happen. Their glimpse had convinced them the man was an American, doubtless crazy from loneliness, who had chosen this night to end it all. He had shot himself with his revolver and fallen from a crater shelf into the lava.