Forbidden Island

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Can you walk?” she asked Mahdi.

  He grunted and pushed himself up in a hopping stand, the toes of one foot pressed into the sand to keep him from toppling over. Blood coursed down the wounded leg, clumping in the sand. He was in pain, but he looked ready to get the hell off the island.

  That was, until he turned toward the approaching boat.

  “Ya Ibn el Sharmouta!” Mahdi said, hop-walking back toward the jungle.

  Talia had no idea what Mahdi was doing, but she understood, ‘Son of a bitch,’ in a dozen languages, and the look on his face didn’t require any language skills. Mahdi was more afraid of the people on the boat than he was of the Sentinelese.

  She caught him by the arm. “What are you doing?”

  “They are Hamas,” he whispered.

  Talia focused on the boat anew. The four men standing behind Ambani had the look of killers and the AK-47s over their shoulders to match. As an Israeli woman on Ambani’s hit list, she didn’t think her odds of surviving their rescue was any better than Mahdi’s.

  “They’re here to kill you?” she asked.

  “They will torture me first. Find out who I told about them. Punish my indiscretions. Then they will kill me.”

  “No,” Talia said. “They won’t.”

  Mahdi looked her in the eyes, desperate but interested. “Why not?”

  “Because we’ll fight.” She looked down at the spear in her hands, and then pointed to Mahdi’s shorts pocket where the automatic knife’s shape could be seen. He dug into the pocket, snapped open the blade, and gave a nod that was more forced than confident.

  But then he spoke the truth they both knew. “It won’t be enough.”

  Four AK-47s would make short work of them, even if Talia managed to impale one of the men from a distance. Then there were Chugy and Ambani, who might both be armed. And Winston. His loyalties would shift to whomever would help him get off the island. And since Ambani wanted them all dead…

  “I could kill you right now,” she said to Winston, who was unarmed.

  He looked back over his shoulder, arms still raised, but no longer waving as the boat approached. “I’m aware. But then they’ll gun you down for sure. Or we could see what happens when I tell Ambani the island, and his resort plans, are a bust.”

  “Those four men are Hamas,” she said. “They’re here to kill Mahdi.”

  “Sucks for you, Mahd-man.”

  “And I’m Israeli.”

  “Right,” he said. “Sooo…”

  “Help us kill the men,” Talia said. “When they let you on the boat.”

  Winston lowered his hands, furrowed his brow, and then said. “Nah.” A smile. “Neither of you are worth risking a bullet.”

  Talia tensed, raising the spear.

  “Throw that and both of you die. Keep your mouth shut and maybe I won’t tell them where you’re from.” Winston chuckled. “Toss in a beej later and maybe I’ll convince Ambani to let you walk.”

  Talia looked back at the quiet jungle.

  Where are you?

  If the Sentinelese attacked, the chaos might give them a chance. At the same time, they would probably be two of the first targets. They had both frustrated the Sentinelese’s efforts to kill them, and had acted violently toward the tribe. Whether or not they had actually killed anyone was up for debate, but they were still well established enemies.

  And yet, they were still alive, and a known threat. The Sentinelese acted most violently toward unknown threats.

  That’s why they stopped, she realized. They heard the boat, too. They must be reassessing the situation, deciding who to attack first. Or waiting for the small boat’s crew to fall under the smoke’s hallucinogenic spell.

  We need to make ourselves less of a threat.

  Talia dropped the spear.

  “What are you doing?” Mahdi asked.

  “The knife,” Talia said, motioning to the ground with her head while unbuttoning her shorts. “Drop it. And your clothes.”

  42

  Shame.

  In a strange kind of way, shame had no place on North Sentinel Island. The natives felt none, and the mind-bending haze billowing from the many fire pits reduced inhibitions and feelings of guilt, humiliation, and remorse. Evidence of that was clear at every stage of the expedition’s journey, but for Mahdi, it was only now reaching a pinnacle.

  He stood, awkwardly balanced on his injured leg and stark naked, discarded clothing still around his ankles. He was in full view of two women, neither of whom were his wife—the only woman to see him in such a state since he had been a child. And then there were the six men, one on the beach, five in the boat. He glanced back at the jungle, and when no spear punched through his chest, he wondered how many men, women, and children were seeing his nakedness.

  He knew the act of public nudity was shameful. He, like everyone else on the planet—aside from tribes like the Sentinelese—had been taught that basic truth from an early age. But now, standing in clear sight of men who would mock his nakedness, and others who would behead him for it, he felt…nothing. The stigma of nudity had abandoned him.

  Mahdi laughed, and a similarly naked Talia shot him a questioning look.

  “I feel no shame,” he explained.

  She eyed him up and down. Gave a wry smile. “Have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  He marveled at her casual humor. He might not be ashamed, and the smoke’s effect had allowed him a laugh, but he was still terrified: of what lurked in the jungle behind him, and of the men accompanying Ambani.

  The scrape of boat on sand pulled his attention forward. The dinghy had arrived. Chugy leaped out first, machete in hand. She stormed toward Winston while the four Middle Eastern men slipped into the knee deep waters, assault rifles aimed toward the jungle.

  They’re here for me, Mahdi thought, but they’ve been warned about the Sentinelese. He wondered how they had found him. He hadn’t given Ambani a reason to summon them. He couldn’t have known how things played out on the island. And why risk getting involved with Hamas?

  Mahdi closed his eyes. Shook his head.

  The phone call.

  Hamas was a terrorist organization, but they were well connected. It wouldn’t be impossible for them to trace a call, and they had likely been monitoring his family’s home, perhaps tracking every call, waiting for his moment of weakness. And when it came, it led them to Ambani, who would gladly trade Mahdi’s life to avoid conflict with terrorists.

  They are here because of me, he thought, but they don’t know where ‘here’ is. If they knew the true extent of this island’s horrors, they would have never left the yacht. He tried not to grin.

  “Where is he?” Chugy asked. “Where is my uncle?”

  “Ask him.” Winston tilted his head toward Mahdi, redirecting Chugy’s fury.

  She charged up the beach, oblivious to the jungle’s dangers. Full of rage, it wasn’t until she closed to within ten feet that she noticed Mahdi and Talia were naked. Her curiosity was short-lived, replaced once more by fury. “Where is Emmei?”

  “Dead,” Mahdi said, and he flinched at the bluntness of his answer. A lack of inhibitions didn’t just affect the way people dressed, it also loosened the tongue. “The Sentinelese. They—”

  “Lies,” she said.

  “They burned him,” Mahdi said, and despite the mind-altering smoke, he regretted revealing the detail, in part because it was harsh, but also because it stoked Chugy’s anger into madness.

  “Lies!” she screamed, tears in her eyes. She raised the machete, the blade poised to strike Mahdi between the neck and shoulder.

  Three gunshots sounded, freezing everyone in place.

  “Leave him.” The voice was heavily accented with Arabic, and familiar to Mahdi. It was Baseer, the man who had recruited Aziz. Most of his face was covered by a thick beard, sunglasses, and head wrap, but the scar on his cheek, which carved a line through his beard, was distinct.

  Chugy snarled, but backed off a f
ew steps, lowering the machete.

  While the Hamas men maintained a watch, Winston approached the dinghy, whispering with Ambani. Mahdi tried to hear the conversation, but over the rumbles of thunder behind him, and the hammering of his heart, it was impossible.

  “You bring shame to your family. To your wife and your child.” Baseer said, looking Mahdi up and down. He turned toward Talia and spat. “And with a Jew no less.”

  Ambani must have told them about who else was on the island, which could also explain the AK-47s. They weren’t just for the Sentinelese, they were for Rowan. But the former U.S. Army Ranger was nowhere to be found, and even if he showed up, he had no weapons.

  “You are the murderer of innocents,” Mahdi replied. “Your actions bring death and destruction to our people, and to my family. My conscience is clear. The only shame to be found here, is with you. Hamas believes it is fighting for the people of Palestine, or even worse, the will of Allah, but most of Palestine does not want you, and the true followers of Islam do not support you. I am an atheist, and yet, I am a better Muslim than you.”

  Mahdi had never spoken such words. It felt simultaneously wrong, and liberating. While many in Palestine shared his point of view, fear of reprisal from the violent vast majority kept them quiet. Whether it was the smoke, or the knowledge that he was going to die no matter what he said, Mahdi could no longer hold back the truth. And this way, Baseer was sure to forgo the torture and simply put a bullet in his head—a notion confirmed a moment later when the Hamas leader raised the barrel of his rifle toward Mahdi’s temple and shouted in high-pitched Arabic, “Allah, drape this infidel in your fiery wrath for all eternity and steep the criminal Jew in boiling—”

  The prayer was cut short by a confused, gurgling choke.

  Baseer had an arrow in his neck, angled in such a way that it had missed his arteries and spine. His breathing became ragged and panicked, but he was not dying, nor would he, as long as the arrow remained lodged in place. He dropped the AK-47, which was still strapped over his head and shoulder, and he raised his hands to the arrow, feeling both ends, his eyes widening as he began to comprehend what had happened.

  “Mahdi!” Talia said. “We need to mimic the Sentinelese threat display!” She was already thrusting her hips toward the newcomers, but would it really fool the Sentinelese? Would they see them as less of a threat? Or would that require something more?

  Before Baseer could stumble back, Mahdi grasped the end of the three-foot-long, featherless arrow and yanked it back. Blood sprayed from the hole in the front when the man screamed. Rather than counter the attack, Baseer held his hands over the twin wounds, front and back. He could do nothing to stop Mahdi from kicking his chest.

  Pain lanced up Mahdi’s injured leg when he kicked, but it was Baseer who fell back into the sand, gasping and choking.

  “I will not back down again!” Mahdi shouted at him, hopping in the sand, trying to stay upright while venting. “I will not run away anymore!”

  A spear arced past and struck Baseer’s chest, pinning him to the sand. The man’s panic came to an abrupt stop, his dead eyes staring up at the storm.

  The remaining Hamas men opened fire, peppering the jungle with rapid-fire bullets. When the fusillade came to an abrupt stop and the three men ejected their spent magazines to reload, arrows fluttered through the air.

  One man took an arrow in the eye and dropped like a tree. Mahdi watched the man splash back into the ocean, but his attention shifted quickly toward the dinghy, sliding backward. Winston was pushing the boat out of the sand while Ambani ducked behind the shield Rowan had left on the dinghy.

  An arrow slipped through the muscle of another Hamas man’s thigh, but he stayed upright and resumed his barrage, this time sweeping across the jungle.

  “Down!” Mahdi shouted, tackling Talia to the sand as bullets buzzed past, shredding leaves and branches.

  While the men emptied their magazines again, Chugy dove into the water, slid up behind the now waist deep Winston and climbed over his body to leap back into the boat.

  This time, when the two Hamas men reloaded, they crouched, making themselves smaller targets, and they kept their eyes on the jungle. When the arrows flew once more, they sprang into action, battle tested and unafraid. Yet only one of them was fortunate enough to avoid being impaled. The other took three arrows, the first two in his gut, and the second in his open mouth as he prepared to scream. None of the shots were instantly fatal, and as his last remaining compatriot finished swapping magazines, he twitched on the sand.

  The final Hamas man opened fire once more, but reduced his firing rate to three round bursts. He wasn’t firing at any one target. He was simply covering his retreat toward the boat…that he had yet to realize was abandoning him. He turned to where the boat had been, saw where it was, and then quickly adjusted his aim.

  Ambani screamed in surprise, as bullets punched holes in the shield. Chugy dove lower into the boat before she could lower the engine. Winston, still not in the boat, ducked beneath the water’s surface.

  The man continued firing as he waded toward the boat, shouting, “Tawaqquf!” He stopped in knee deep water when a spear struck his back. He wavered for a moment, and then bumbled around, confused by what he was feeling. It was explained to him a moment later when a second spear pierced his chest. He looked down at it, eyebrows rising in understanding. Then he collapsed to the water.

  Arrows and spears flew from the jungle, splashing down around the boat and ricocheting off the still functional shield, which Ambani now held in the middle of the dinghy. “Start the motor!” he shouted at Chugy, who was already yanking the starter cord.

  Chugy yanked on the cord, but rather than finishing the pull, she toppled back and nearly fell overboard when Winston heaved himself up. But the small craft was no match for his girth and it nearly capsized.

  “Get off!” Chugy shouted, kicking Winston in the face.

  While she took hold of the starter cord once more, Ambani drew a sidearm and pointed it at Winston, who ducked under the water once more. He fired three shots. Winston slid beneath the boat.

  An arrow struck Ambani’s extended arm, forcing him to release the weapon, and duck back behind the cover of his shield.

  The motor growled to life and spat smoke.

  It was drowned out by a roar.

  43

  Bright light beckoned Rowan onward, so he ran toward it despite his unwavering belief that his life would soon come to an end. Whether or not he made it to the beach, or into the ocean, escape was no longer in the cards for him.

  And he was okay with that.

  Better than okay.

  If the others survived because of his sacrifice, he would be pleased with his death. Maybe even his life. Mistakes had been made, but they couldn’t define him any longer.

  Since being found by Sashi, he had overcome the bottle’s temptations, and had fought to protect people once more. It felt good. It felt right. It had been a long time since his life had reflected either quality.

  His only regret was that he wouldn’t live long enough to do more, to make his life really matter. But perhaps Talia and Mahdi would? He would never know, but he could give them a chance.

  He weaved through the jungle, following a chaotic course, hoping to drag out the chase, knowing it would end in the light. At least I’ll see the sun one last time, he thought, as an arrow thumped into a tree behind his head.

  The Sentinelese were closing the distance, following a straight path despite Rowan’s zigzag. They knew the island, its terrain, and where it would direct him. Rather than chasing Rowan, they were simply heading toward the pursuit’s end.

  Clutching the stolen bow and two arrows, he adjusted course again, this time heading straight ahead. If he was going to fight to the end, he wanted to see the men, women…and children, who would do him in.

  The light ahead grew into a wall of brilliant white. The sunlit smoke was nearly blinding from inside the shaded jungle depths. B
ut then he crashed through the brush and spilled out onto the sand. The sun-bathed blue sky lay just beyond the island’s reefs. But above, the storm still raged, pouring rain and lightning down on the island. A stationary hurricane.

  It’s not possible, he thought, watching the storm. But neither is hallucinating an entire storm.

  Smoke snaked from the jungle all around him, flowing over the beach and out to sea like the gaseous tentacles of some giant monster.

  Rain pelted his shirtless body, whipped by the wind. This is real. The sand. The storm. The Sentinelese.

  Focus on what is real, he told himself. Focus on it, and fight it.

  He pushed himself up, nocked one of the two arrows and drew the bowstring back.

  A moment later, a warrior leapt out of the jungle, clearing the brush and holding a spear, ready to throw.

  Rowan adjusted his aim and let the arrow fly.

  The airborne man was struck in the chest. The impact unfurled his body and flipped him backward. He landed in the sand with a wet slap.

  The second Sentinelese to leave the jungle was a baby. Like the man, it sailed through the air. Unlike the man, there was no way it had leaped so high. It had been thrown.

  Rowan aimed his second, and last, arrow at the infant-turned-projectile and he couldn’t bring himself to fire.

  It’s not real, he told himself, knowing it was a half-truth. Something had been thrown at him, but it wasn’t a human child.

  He shouted in frustration, unable to fire, and he swung the bow instead. The wood struck the small body, deflecting its course into the shallows, where it thrashed about. A woman followed the child, likely the one who’d thrown it. Rather than leaping, she quickly found herself lying on her belly beside her stricken comrade, Rowan’s arrow in her chest.