Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel

by Erik, Nicholas

  “This is bullshit, right,” Britt said, “like those stupid airline safety warnings?”

  “Sir,” Cooper replied, “I hope that it is, indeed, an overreaction. Nonetheless, it is prudent—”

  “See, I knew this guy was full of it.” Britt’s words said he was sure, but his tone suggested otherwise.

  “That may be the case,” Cooper said, leaning against the door, “but as I am the captain of this vessel, you will listen to my command. Is that understood?”

  No one said anything; they were shocked that this guy had the balls to make that announcement.

  “That’s why we hired you,” Maverick said, “I agree.”

  “Good. Enjoy your meal, ladies and gents.”

  With a quick bow, Cooper left the guests to grumble and retreat to their quarters. He paused on the deck, looking out at the horizon. There was very little blue now; it looked like an angry kind of night—a black hole darkness he hoped wouldn’t swallow them alive.

  2

  Run Ashore

  The thing about partying is that you don’t care about tomorrow; you only care about the moment.

  Even when you’ve just run ashore in somewhat rocky fashion.

  It was daybreak now, and despite some wicked hangovers and comedowns, the revelers were in good spirits. They’d made it to The Hideaway—and they were part of only a couple hundred people, ever, to set foot on this hallowed ground.

  Maverick only brought his inner circle here, or those he was thinking about including.

  Cole knelt down in the sand and ran it through his wrinkled fingers. He’d been here many times before; in fact, he’d come with Maverick when the CEO had wanted to buy an island. The sea here smelt fresher than it did on the mainland, even in the private oceanfront community Cole called home.

  “Never gets old,” he said, to no one in particular.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Ziggy said, who was the only one within earshot, “I knew he was rich, but not like this.”

  Through the trees, they couldn’t see the house, but they could hear the sound of rushing water. The group fell in line behind Maverick, who lead the way on a well maintained trail.

  “A monkey!” Penelope pointed at the trees.

  “There ain’t no monkeys here,” Britt said, like it was the stupidest thing in the world, “it’s not the right climate.”

  An argument ensued, one that no one could win. And there would be no internet searches to determine the truth; one thing the island lacked was a connection to the outside world. Penelope vowed she’d snap a pic, make him a fool in front of the group. He rolled his eyes; the rest of the group was too excited and enamored by the scenery to give a damn about their little tiff.

  A quarter mile later, and they saw the house.

  Maverick’s mansion stood perched atop a waterfall—the source of the rushing water—that overlooked a magnificent river. Water seemed to flow all the way through the deep jungle.

  Maverick turned around to address his companions with a well-rehearsed speech, the same one he gave all visitors.

  “This,” he said, with a dramatic pause, “is what money can buy. Ten thousand square feet in paradise, and a self-sufficient agricultural unit nearby.”

  The group looked to the right of the massive structure; indeed, there were wisps of smoke sprinkling the distant sky. The mansion was imposing enough that they hadn’t noticed the other signs of life on the island—including a group of wind turbines that spun far on the horizon, unencumbered by trees.

  Jackson had been here before, but he was still blown away by the opulence, by the technological prowess the undertaking had demanded. He thought of the homestead, where dozens of acres had been razed, the soil reconstituted based on whatever Maverick fancied growing. Cows and other livestock had been flown in via helicopter, carried in via small boat.

  It was magnificent, sure, but this place had cost a veritable fortune.

  “Shall we,” Maverick said, opening his hands in a gesture to explore the house. No one said much of anything—they just squealed and jumped, like kids in line for a rollercoaster.

  Maverick placed his hand upon Jackson’s shoulder, watching the eager guests stream into the house, jump into the pool, and make themselves at home. The staff labored up and down the trail, taking provisions to the house’s stockroom.

  “Some company retreat, eh,” Maverick said, another cigar lodged between his perfect teeth.

  “Always is.”

  They stood watching, in silence, somewhat in awe that this had become their life. They hadn’t grown up poor, and this wasn’t a rags to riches story. But going from well-off to billionaire—that was a hell of a thing.

  That was a whole different level.

  Behind them, Captain Cooper cleared his throat.

  Maverick turned around; Jackson didn’t. No one was addressing him; he wasn’t the head honcho, so no one kissed his ass.

  “Sir,” the Captain began, “we have a problem with the vessel.”

  The choppy waters and high winds had caused the boat to ram the wooden pier. No one had noticed, since it’d been in the dead of night; those awake figured that it was just part of the drill, standard rough seas stuff.

  Earlier that morning, everyone had focused forward, although a couple people commented on it, even asked Maverick if everything was all right. He brushed them off with a wave of the hand, his gentle blue eyes calming any nerves they had.

  Within, though, he’d been a little nervous. The boat was expensive, for one, and he had the FitTech launch in a couple weeks. He could get someone out here, but that’d be pricey.

  “What is it?” Maverick asked.

  Cooper explained things about the hull, its structural integrity and other such concerns that Maverick didn’t understand.

  “Tell me in English, Coop,” Maverick said after the deluge of terminology had ceased.

  “She ain’t seaworthy.”

  Maverick scratched his stubble and stared off into space.

  “Well,” he said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, “tell Jackson over here what you need, and he’ll deal with the specifics. Okay?”

  Maverick turned around and headed toward the house, giving Jackson a wink as he walked by. It was playful, but the subtext was clear: fix it. Cooper walked up to Jackson, not even looking over.

  “How bad is it?” Jackson asked.

  “Bad.”

  “That’s what I figured. What do you need?”

  “Patch the hull. Some engine realignments. New battery.” He kept going—it was a long list. Jackson’s expression shifted from stoic to anxious. He met Cooper’s eye.

  “Tell it to me straight, Captain. We’re pretty screwed for the time being, right?”

  “We need a delivery from the mainland. Better get on the sat phone.”

  “We got a spare boat. The Emergency Kit, I think John calls it. Maybe that could help. She’s small, though.”

  “In these seas,” the Captain said, “nothing’s sailing. Not for a couple days.” He started walking towards the house. “Might as well wait to fix up the big girl. We’ll hash it out after you get on the phone with California.”

  “All right.”

  They’d escaped the storm, but it still held them captive; patches of grey littered the shoreline. But here, in the middle of a jungle paradise, all that you noticed was the cool blue, the color of endless possibility.

  Jackson sat down against a palm tree and closed his eyes. The others would think him an oddball for not sleeping in one of the ridiculous beds, but he found peace out here, on the cusp between nature and modernity. It felt right, comforting.

  He slept as the sun spread warmth across his face.

  “This is kind of bullshit,” Sam said, looking around at the bunk beds, “they could at least give us our own rooms.” He
’d grown irritable since his encounter with Britt the day before.

  “It’s clean,” Melina replied, “be thankful for that.”

  “But over there,” Sam said, like it was another world, “that place is ridiculous. It’s like they’re rubbing it in our faces. Like we’re worth less.”

  “We are, Sam,” Melina said, lying back and shutting her eyes, “that’s why we work for them.”

  Sam said something else, but she was already fast asleep. Dinner was in a couple hours, and they’d trekked pounds of champagne, exotic foods and luggage over the quarter mile trail. It’d taken a couple hours, and everyone was shot. The four of them snuggled into their bunk beds.

  No one worried about oversleeping; there was a dinner bell that the patrons would no doubt ring when the time came to eat.

  “So,” Ziggy said, balancing a glass of expensive wine in one hand, caressing Penelope’s slender shoulder with the other, “what is it you do for old Maverick, anyway? Besides, you know…” Every good jungle critter needs its camouflage. And the wine allowed Ziggy to blend in with all the other fools.

  She slapped at his hand, but it was playful. “You asshole.”

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’d do it too, if he’d have me.” Ziggy made a sad face. “But I’m not pretty enough.”

  Penelope blushed, and drank to regain her composure. She kind of knew she was pretty, but it always felt good to hear it, have it confirmed by a third party.

  “Well,” she said, biting the edge of the glass in what she hoped was a sexy manner, “I do reports, analysis.”

  “I bet you do,” Ziggy said, moving his face closer to hers.

  “And, I well, I—” The words were halted by their lips meeting. None of the other guests noticed, engaged as they were in their own lusty business.

  The dinner bell rang; it was Britt, and he was hungry.

  No one was pleased about this, least of all Ziggy and Penelope, who had half an idea to skip eating altogether. But that would be insulting to Maverick. Plus, the food looked fantastic—the assortment of fresh fruits, vegetables and various creatures to be served up for the ensuing courses looked mouth-watering. Penelope had stolen a few peeks at what was being brought in during her tour of the premises.

  A few members of the group shot cursory glares at Britt, who was sitting next to the bell, arms folded.

  “What,” he said underneath his breath, low enough so that no one would kick his ass this time, “I’m hungry.”

  “What was that,” Davey said as he walked by, “I thought I heard something.”

  “Nice abs.”

  “You got a front row seat.”

  “And I enjoyed every minute of it,” Britt said, trying his best to not sound sarcastic. Davey said nothing, just flashed a megawatt grin as he traipsed off with the others. “I’ll get that smug son of a bitch,” Britt murmured to himself, leaning up against the wall, “I’ll get him.”

  “The guy grabbed your damn ass, Melina,” Sam said as they hurried back to the kitchen, “boundaries.”

  “I was paid a lot less to have other things near my ass,” she said, as if these were the facts of life, “be quiet and just do your work, okay?” Melina had been in a few adult videos. This gig, by her standards, was way better than having weird objects put where they didn’t belong.

  “I’m just saying, they won’t respect us—”

  “Sam,” she said, stopping to meet his furtive, nervous eyes, “you’re a good kid. We all like you. But no one signed up for this job for respect. That’s why they’re paying us so much. It’s to be their servants. And that’s what we’re going to do, all right? Serve.”

  Sam grumbled something in response, but went back to the kitchen.

  At least the kitchen was magnificent; industrial burners, enameled lava countertops, and just about everything a professional chef would have—and more.

  The cook, who went by Pierre, but was named Jack, or Joe, or Smith, or something, was in heaven directing everyone about. The others didn’t like this, but Pierre made good food, and good food got them paid.

  “Non! Non,” Pierre said, waltzing back and forth between two pots, affecting a fake French accent, “this is no good, no good. I told you, less salt. Sacre bleu! Ruined, ruined, ruined! We cannot give this to our guests. They’ll think we’re amateurs!”

  “Not Melina,” Bebe said under her breath.

  Pierre slapped the tray she was carrying straight to the floor, covering the kitchen in shrimp diablo. Despite his arrogance, Pierre was fair, and wanted no tomfoolery.

  “We are professionals here, oui?”

  “Whatever.” Bebe looked away and popped her gum.

  “Tell me you understand,” he said, grabbing her with his two thick arms, dropping the whole Frenchman thing for a moment, “or I’m going to shove your scrawny ass into the pot and cook you myself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, sir.” She sounded defeated, but there was still a hint of defiance in her tone.

  Pierre let go of her cuff and went back to his pots; in a few seconds, the kitchen had resumed its frantic activity. With only four staff members, they were working in overdrive.

  “Thanks,” Melina said, when she came by to pick up the fresh cooked shrimp diablo, “for having my back.”

  Pierre said nothing, just waved his hand. You had to run a strict ship when you were the boss—otherwise things got out of control. But this Melina, she was one of the good ones, and he’d do whatever was necessary to protect her.

  There was a knock at the side door. Sam went to answer. A woman stood on the steps, her sinewy, bronzed muscles evident even underneath her loose fitting shirt.

  “Hey,” she said, like they were meeting in the bar, “what’s up?”

  “Uh, nothing, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am.” She almost shot a wad of tobacco from her mouth. Despite her rough appearance, she was pretty. The elements hadn’t worn her down, though it was evident she spent most of her time outdoors. She looked natural, and at complete ease. “Call me Amanda. None of this ma’am stuff—what am I, your mother?”

  “No…Amanda.”

  “Good. Figured I’d introduce myself to everyone, when they have a free moment.” She stepped inside and winked. “I know what a slave driver Maverick can be, so I’ll just sit in the corner.”

  “What do you do? Do you live here?”

  “Christ kid, you got a lot of questions.”

  “Sorry.” Sam looked at the ground.

  “I’m a stowaway. I hid in the luggage.”

  “You are?” Sam’s eyes grew wide. “And you’re coming out in the open?”

  “No, dumbass,” she said with an easy laugh, “I live over there and feed everyone here.”

  “Just you?”

  “Just me and another guy, yeah.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Oh, don’t go feeling sorry for me. Maverick pays better than anyone else.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Sure,” Amanda said, her chill blue eyes meeting Sam’s, “it sucks to see all these rich bastards treating you like crap, but that’s why I mingle with you fellas and avoid them, right?” Her eyes were like Maverick’s—they could pierce your soul. But they were more like cool, pure lake water, unhardened by years of corporate nonsense and the lies that went with that grind.

  “I should be a hermit, too.” Sam was wistful about it, like he wanted to go on some sort of Zen journey.

  “Yeah, well, it’s tough living. Don’t know if you’re cracked up for it.”

  “I don’t think I am.” He walked over to take a tray from Pierre.

  “Sweet kid,” she said to herself, as she settled into the corner to survey the proceedings.

  No one paid her much mind.

  And that wa
s how she liked it.

  3

  Sea Change

  Amanda addressed the group when they finished. She’d waited an hour, perhaps two, until the revelers had tired of food and drink.

  But this wasn’t some normal introduction.

  “You heard about the boat, right,” Amanda said.

  The four staff members buzzed, despite their fatigue.

  She told them about Captain Cooper and his findings.

  “How do you know?” Sam asked.

  “My friend tells me things,” she said, with an easy smile.

  “So we’re stuck here,” Pierre said, pawing at his wispy beard.

  “It looks that way.”

  The group chattered, the noise rising to somewhat of a din. Amanda held up her hands.

  “Now, I don’t want any of you to mention this.” That didn’t sit well with the group. They wanted hard answers—it was their asses on the line as much as anyone else’s. “But I just thought you should be prepared and in the know.” She paused. “Maverick doesn’t always get his information out through the chain of command.”

  And, like that, she was gone—after being a fixture in the corner, near the sacks of potatoes, she vanished, back to her mysterious homestead.

  A nervous silence spread amongst the group. What else were they not being told? The boat could be fixed, but if things went wrong, each person in the room had a feeling that they would be the first line of defense.

  “Look, Maverick, I’ve done this for a couple years, and I feel that you should tell them. It’s just good PR.” Cole was wringing his hands together, the wrinkles rippling in between thick veins.

  “Nonsense.” Maverick waved him off, champagne trickling down the edge of his glass. “The damage is just a setback, an inconvenience for Coop. He’ll get it squared away and no one will know the difference.” He placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “It’ll be fine, and we spare ourselves the anguish.”