by Eric Walters
I walked along the line until I located my mother. She was moving from person to person, talking, encouraging, offering a calming voice. I would have liked to have seen Sam or even Garth, but I knew neither of them would be here. They had quickly become my mother’s lieutenants. Sam was watching the bridge and Garth was by the channel. Those were the two most likely places, along with the beach, where trouble could be brewing. But the fact that my mother was here meant that this was where things were happening.
I took a spot on the wall and peered out one of the slots. I didn’t see much of anything except darkness, and all I could hear was the sound of waves and the murmur of voices from along the wall.
“What is it?” I asked my mother.
“There are reports of boats. They were spotted as they came close to shore.”
“I don’t see them,” I said.
“I don’t see them either. It might be a false alarm.”
A false alarm would be nice. We’d had a few of those over the last two weeks. It was annoying to be woken out of a deep sleep for nothing, but nothing was better than something. At least the false alarms during the day didn’t wake anybody. It was often because of a boat that just came too close, or a sighting of a group of men in the bushes or trees on the other side of the channel, or somebody approaching too close to the bridge.
All at once lights shone out over the water. The big stage lights had been repurposed as searchlights. They swept back and forth across the water. I followed along as one of them made wide passes and—there it was! The light caught a boat with at least a dozen men on board, and it looked as though all of them had some sort of weapon. The men held up their hands to try to shield their eyes from the light, which must have been blinding.
A second light hit the boat from another angle, and the boat was caught between the beams. It felt as if it was held in place by the power of the two lights.
“Attention, boat! Attention, boat!” an amplified voice called out. I recognized the voice—it was “Stanley” from the play, whose real name was Joshua. “You are in our waters. You must leave immediately or we will take action!”
His voice was firm and clear and deep and sounded very confident. He was a good actor.
“This is your only warning!” Joshua called out. “If you do not leave we will be forced to take action and destroy you!”
I leaned close to my mother. “Destroy them?”
“Sometime an idle threat is better than no threat,” she said.
Suddenly I saw flashes of light from the boat and instantly gunfire rang out. Somebody from our line gave a little shriek!
“Everybody down!” my mother called out, and it was repeated down the line.
The gunfire from the boat stopped but the boat itself continued to dance around, trying unsuccessfully to get free of the lights. As it bobbed about, it came close to another boat, which was revealed in the light; there were armed men on it as well.
My mother pulled up the walkie-talkie. “Do you think you can put a shot toward them?”
“We can try to put a shot into them,” came the voice in reply.
It was Willow’s dad. He was in charge of the catapults. With his help they’d used old telephone poles, leather, and wire to construct three medieval catapults. They were certainly impressive-looking, and I’d seen them practicing. I knew they could fire that far, but could they actually hit something that was that small bobbing and moving on the water?
There was a whooshing sound and then a gigantic splash over the starboard side of the closer boat! Water shot into the air. They hadn’t missed by much at all.
I heard a second launch and almost felt it going over my head, followed by a big splash. This one missed by a mile, and the splash was caught by a few flickering rays from the searchlights.
I had to guess that the first one had just been lucky. There was a third whoosh, and the boat in the light exploded! Chunks of wood flew up in the air, and the whole deck seemed to collapse as the boat dipped and swayed, shoved off to the side by the impact.
There was a collective gasp as people along the wall saw what had happened, the boat still bathed in light. People were either thrown over the side or jumped into the water as the boat started to tilt and dip. The cinder block that had been thrown by the catapult must have gone through the deck and then right through the keel. It was sinking right before our eyes and everybody was abandoning ship, but where would they go? Would the other boat pick them up?
I looked around, finding the second boat well off to the side, still caught in one of the other searchlights. It zigged and zagged along, trying to get free. Did it even know that the other boat had been hit and that there were men in the water needing to be rescued?
I turned back to the damaged boat just in time to see the tip of the stern rise up into the air as the rest of the boat sliced into the water. And then it was gone! It had all happened in less than a minute.
Still visible were people in the water, struggling to swim in their wet clothes. Most of them were still holding onto their rifles. There were a few pieces of debris on the surface—chunks of wood—and some tried to hold onto or clamber up on them. There were bodies on the surface as well, unmoving, injured or unconscious or even dead. Others were starting to swim. They were coming toward the island. There was still time for them to be rescued.
What they didn’t know on that other boat was that there was no more ammunition loaded in the catapults. Three catapults and three cinder blocks was it. It would take at least four or five minutes to reload and then reposition them to aim in that direction. They had plenty of time to get those men out of the water and get away before they were in danger again.
The second boat was still in the light but it was moving away quickly, seemingly unconcerned about those in the water. They were just leaving them to drown or come ashore. Wait, what were we going to do when they did come ashore?
Our wall was up from the lake at the edge of the beach. Below was a strip of sand that was anywhere between five and twenty-five yards wide. All logs and large rocks had been removed by our work crews. It was open, and there was no cover to hide behind. Those men could make the shallows and then the shore, but they’d be on an open beach, exposed, with no place to hide. If they came ashore they’d have no choice but to surrender. If they tried to fire at us we would fire back. We had guns and crossbows. I could easily hit a target from this distance. But they weren’t targets. They were living, breathing people. If I hit one of them, it would cause a terrible wound. It could kill them. Could I really do that? Could any of our people do that?
All three of the searchlights were scanning the surface, trying to keep the bobbing, swimming men in view. I could only see two in one light, another in the second, and two more in the third. Were they the only ones left?
“Hold your fire!” my mother called out.
I heard the message being passed down the line.
She got back on the walkie-talkie. “How much power do we have left for the lights?”
The searchlights were powered by batteries that were charged by the solar panels. It had been a sunny day, but the supply was limited, and those lights drew tremendous amounts of power.
“We’re good,” came the reply. “We have at least twenty more minutes. Do you want us to go to two lights?”
“Negative. I want two lights to follow the men in the water and the third to scan the lake for other boats.”
Almost instantly one of the beams started to make sweeping search patterns across the lake. If there was anything more out there it wasn’t being found. The second boat had turned tail and chugged away.
My attention went back to the other lights on the men in the water. They were trapped in the beams, their struggles caught for everybody to see. We were watching a life-and-death event happening before our eyes. There in the water were five men fighting for their lives…I did a quick count. I could only see four now. One man was either moving faster or slower or had simply slipped u
nder the water and was gone.
I heard a murmur of conversation from around me. Somebody said something like “Shouldn’t we save them?” I couldn’t help feeling the same way. After all, we were just standing there doing nothing. But I thought about how these were people with guns, people who had been coming here to shoot at us, and then I felt like telling them to feel free to jump the wall and swim out if they wanted to save them. There was really nothing we could do but watch.
The first two men sloshed through the shallows and then dragged themselves up onto the beach, collapsing onto the sand. One had a rifle strapped to his back and the other had something in his hand, maybe a pistol. Two more joined them. I waited for the fifth. He didn’t appear. He probably never would. They were caught in the brilliant, blinding lights, sprawled on the sand. They were so close that I could see their expressions as they tried to shield their eyes from the light.
“Get to your feet, and hands above your head!” Joshua thundered over the bullhorn.
They didn’t respond. Were they too stunned, or too scared, or just in shock from what had just happened?
“I repeat! Get to your feet and put your hands in the air immediately or we will open fire!”
Still they didn’t respond. Were they too exhausted to stand?
“Okay, everybody!” my mother yelled out. “Stand up and aim your weapons.”
All at once, all along the line, everybody, including me, stood straight up so that our heads and helmets and weapons, real and pretend, were visible. At the same time the mannequins were activated. A dozen mannequins in four sets of three, wearing uniforms and holding assault rifles that were as fake as they were, were shifted upward so that we had what looked like another dozen Marines ready to fight and fire. They were the work of an island woman who was a puppeteer.
I could only imagine how terrifying it would have been to be standing out there, completely exposed, with sixty or so Marines training weapons on me.
“This is your last warning before we fire!” Joshua thundered. “Do as you are told or die!”
The four men struggled to their feet and put their hands into the air. One of them had to be helped by another to get up.
“Drop your weapons!” Joshua ordered.
One man dropped a pistol. A second took the rifle off his back and dropped it to the sand. A third pulled a pistol out of a holster and did the same. The fourth man, the injured man, did nothing. They all put their hands back up into the air without being asked.
“Everybody hold your fire,” Joshua called out.
My mother looked over at me. “Time for the next part of the performance,” she said. She was gone before I could even ask her what she meant.
Down the way, a hidden panel in the wall opened and five people emerged, with my mother taking the lead. The four men with her were all dressed as Marines, with helmets and replica weapons in their hands. I recognized them as members of our acting troupe. I figured the only real weapon they had was my mother’s pistol, which she was holding. Our real weapons weren’t nearly as fierce-looking as the fake assault rifles.
I pulled up my crossbow and placed it against the support at the lower edge of the arrow slot, aiming at the chest of one of the men on the beach. I was ready to fire if necessary.
My mom and the others came up to the men. Their arms were still in the air and they didn’t look like a threat. One of our men bent down and picked up the pistols and the rifle from the sand and moved them safely away. All four men were frisked for other weapons.
I felt that I could relax and I removed the crossbow, putting the safety back in place and lowering it. Now I was just curious. I moved down the wall to the place closest to where the action was taking place. I got there to the opening just as a small rowboat appeared, carried by four men.
“What’s the boat for?” I asked.
“I’m not really sure but we were told by your mother to go and get a rowboat,” one of the men replied.
Were they going to search the water for the fifth man? No, that couldn’t be it. None of these guys had weapons—even fake weapons—and there was no way they’d send people out into the dark and the unknown. That other boat may have driven away, but it could still come back.
There was only one way to find out what this was about. I leaned my crossbow against the wall and then took up a place at the back of the boat. I was going out. Nobody seemed to object. I ducked down as I headed through the opening. We marched down the sand toward where our men, my mother, and the prisoners stood.
My mother’s hand went up to stop us well short. We set the boat down on the sand. Standing there, bathed in the searchlight’s glare I felt even more exposed. Was there somebody out there on the water, hidden from view, aiming a rifle at us right now? That thought made me want to take cover behind the boat itself, but we all stood stock-still and straight. My mother gave me a look—direct eye contact—that made me want to take cover behind the boat even more. It was obvious in that quick glance that she wasn’t pleased I was out here. She turned back toward the men.
“Put your hands down,” she ordered, and they did.
“I need to know about your group. Number of men, weapons, and where you’re stationed.”
“And then you’ll kill us?” one of them asked.
“And then we’ll release you. That’s why I had the rowboat brought down.”
“You’re just going to let us go?” another asked. He sounded as though he didn’t believe her.
“We don’t want prisoners, and we don’t want to simply shoot you,” she said. “That isn’t the way the Marines trained us.”
“You’re Marines?” one questioned.
“Do you think these are costumes?” my mother asked.
That question shocked me, then I realized it was a good ploy—making it sound silly that we would be wearing costumes.
“Look at the wall,” she continued.
They all gazed up at the people peeking over the wall, and I did the same. We were standing in front of what looked like a couple of companies of heavily armed Marines. It was an impressive sight and I found myself intimidated, even though I knew the truth.
“So how many men do you have?” my mother demanded.
Nobody answered.
“I told you we don’t want to shoot you,” she said. “But believe me, we will if you don’t cooperate.” She pointed her pistol directly at the head of the closest man. “I’ll kill you first.”
He reacted instantly. He told us there were twelve in his boat and fifteen in the other. I had to assume that the eight others in his group had been killed. They were from the city. They had a place they stayed in by the lake, an old warehouse. There were another seventy-five people living there, a dozen more armed people and the rest were wives and kids. They’d created their own little armed camp, the same way we had. In fact, as she asked questions and they answered, it was obvious that they really weren’t that much better armed than we were.
“Our boat,” one of them said. “What did you hit us with? It just exploded.”
“We’re not out here to answer your questions,” my mother snapped. “We could have sunk the other boat just as easily but we left it alone because we wanted to give them the opportunity to pluck you out of the water.”
The men looked at each other. They obviously weren’t pleased that they’d been left to drown or be captured. The injured man just looked dazed, as if he was about to fall down. It was then that I noticed he had a large bump on the far side of his head. He’d probably been struck by something when the boat shattered into pieces.
My mother asked them more questions about what it was like in the city. They told stories about the city emptying out, about fires being set, people being attacked, and how everybody was just scrambling to survive. Groups had formed for protection and survival, and now these groups were preying on each other and on anybody unfortunate enough to be alone.
“Look, we didn’t mean any harm,” one of the men said.
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“Sure you did, and that’s why you came back,” my mother said.
“We’ve never been here before,” he answered.
“Never?” she asked.
“We’ve been on the island, the middle part, scavenging for food, but never here,” he said. He looked as though he was telling the truth, but people could be pretty good liars.
“Is there any police or military presence in the city?” my mother asked.
“There are some cops who have come together, the way the rest of us have, to try to survive.”
“And I heard some talk about a military group,” another said. “They call themselves The Division.”
“They’re a division?” my mother asked.
I knew that a division was made up of ten thousand or more men. We could only hope that this was wrong.
“That’s what they call themselves. I think there’s five or six hundred of them.”
“And have you seen them?” she asked.
“We’ve seen enough of what they do to know we don’t want to see them,” he said. “They’re big, with lots of weapons, and they’re ruthless, and they just kill whoever gets in their way.”
“We kill people too if we have to,” my mother said. “But we’re not ruthless. We’re letting you go, but you have to know, you have to tell your people, that if you come back we will not hesitate to end your lives. We will sink your boats on sight and shoot any survivors who manage to make the shore. This is our warning. You are our messengers.”
“Look, we’re not bad people,” one of them said.
“Anybody who comes here looking to take what we have is bad. And will become dead. Nobody should think they can mess with this many Marines and end up anything but a corpse floating in the water.”
I knew this was all just part of the act, but I knew that if we really had this many Marines we’d be a force nobody would want to mess with.
“We understand. It’s just, if we did come back with our families…would you think about maybe letting us in? We could help defend the place,” he said.
