by Henry, Jane
I feel strong hands behind me. Adrianna, pulling me away from Daniel. She’s short but feisty, and she has a no-nonsense, maternal look about her.
“Go, now,” she says. “You have a ride waiting, don’t you?”
I do. It’s so weird. Surreal even. There’s a limo outside Daniel’s residence, ready to take me to the airport. We’ll fly from Boston to Miami, where I’ll board my ship this evening.
“Eat your dessert, and when I come back in, we’ll play a game,” Adrianna says.
Daniel shoots me a grin. I give him a half-smile back.
“Go, Harper,” Adrianna says. “I promise. While you’re gone, I’ll be here every single day to look out for him. And remember, this is our goal, right? That he not become too dependent on you and learn some self-advocacy?”
“It is,” I tell her. “I just—”
“I know, honey.” She puts her arm around my shoulders as she leads me firmly to the exit, and when we reach the door, she spins me around to look at her. “You deserve this. Okay? Remember that. You deserve this.”
I look outside the door to where the limo is waiting.
“It’s so crazy weird,” I tell her. “I mean, who the hell wins a cruise?”
She smiles at me. “It’s so crazy weird,” she says on a laugh. “And honey, you did.”
I give her a quick hug, then leave before I lose my resolve. I have to get some space, or I’ll change my mind and stay. I hold my head high and walk to the waiting limo. The driver, an older, clean-shaven man wearing a uniform and matching hat, stands beside the door, and he tips his hat to me when I draw close.
“Miss Lane,” he says. “Ready to go?”
I draw in a shaky breath. “I am.”
He opens the door and ushers me in. I manage to save my tears for when the door closes, and I’m alone in the interior of the luxurious car, then I cover my face with my hands and weep. I miss him already.
I know the driver can hear me, but thankfully, he doesn’t let on. I see him lift his cell phone and watch as he presses a button. “I have her,” he says. It seems a little odd, as if I’m specially acquired goods in a heist, and he’s just managed to find me. I dismiss the weird thought as soon as I have it, because with a job like mine, you learn to suspect literally everyone and everything. It gets wearying after a while.
So, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. I hope and pray the hardest part of this is over.
Vacation time.
Three
Cy
I wake before the sun, the aches and pains in every muscle of my body screaming for attention before I open my eyes. I roll over and groan, then stifle the sound. It takes me a minute to realize that I’m still in hiding. I have to remain noiseless, so they don’t find me.
I half open one eye, casting a curious glance to the opening of the cave where I took shelter last night, and shiver. Though it’s warm on the island during the day, occasionally night is a different story. Once the sun sets, we occasionally have colder temps. Fortunately, it remained warm for most of last night, but it seems a cold front trickled in while I was sleeping. The good news was, I didn’t have to build a fire. I didn’t want to. Smoke from any fire I build could identify my location.
I’ll have to eventually, though.
Christ. It was bad enough when all of us were here. Six of us, military, joining forces to survive on an island in the middle of fucking nowhere. The battle for food, water, and shelter, the three most fundamental necessities for survival, was difficult but made easier when we banded together to overcome the elements.
But that was a long, long time ago. When? I have no idea. When I try to ask myself how long I’ve been here, my mind grows hazy and uncertain. The man in our number who took record of the passing of time died months ago, and none of us took it up again. It unsettles me not to know the answer, so I force myself not to dwell on it.
The days, weeks, and months—hell, it could even be years—follow one another like the inevitable dripping of a faucet. Drip. Drip. Drop. Monotonous. Demoralizing. Fucking exhausting.
I asked all the questions. I got few answers. And that was when we first arrived here. Back when the other men were my allies. Back before the little we had was stripped from us and the men around me grew savage and wild.
There were six of us.
Now there are three.
I think there are three, anyway. Fuck it, who knows. While I’ve been holed up in this cave, we could’ve lost another. Maybe both of them even.
Maybe I’m all alone.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Does a man alone on an island eventually go mad? He would have to, wouldn’t he? Humans aren’t meant to live in stark isolation. I guess I’d make the most of it if I were alone, though. At least I wouldn’t have to fight them for the last goddamn crab or whatever the fuck.
I sit up when the gnawing hunger in my belly propels me forward. I haven’t eaten in days—I think, I mean who the fuck knows—but I’ve adamantly insisted on staying hydrated. Still, the hunger comes in waves. When I ignore the pangs, they eventually go away again, and I feel almost empowered, because I’m still here. I’m still breathing. I didn’t succumb to death.
Or did I? Have I died and this is some form of hell?
No. No.
I close my eyes and breathe in and out. I’m still very much fucking alive.
But at the back of my mind, I do wonder.
We found the rotting skeleton of the first man we lost shortly after we landed here. He was the most selfish bastard in the group, refusing to do the hard work of banding together and finding resources that would keep us alive. He insisted he would find a way off this island. Insisted he wouldn’t stop until he did.
We don’t know how he died. But it doesn’t matter. In the end, the human body is far more fragile than one might think.
I would know.
I look around the cave and see something flapping around to my left. Bats. If they provided any sustenance at all, I’d catch the fuckers. Hell, I still might.
I push myself to my feet and find my legs a bit wobbly. I curse under my breath. Though the man I was before I landed here fades a bit more with each passing day, I know one thing’s unchanged: I despise any show of weakness and always will.
So, one more time, I push myself forward. I’ll find something to eat if it kills me. I just wish the motherfuckers I’m on this island with weren’t lying in wait to kill me in the meantime.
We started out strong, all of us. But bit by motherfucking bit, as everything we needed was stripped away, the men began to turn on one another, like Lord of the Fucking Flies.
I blink at the early morning light at the entrance to the cave and take in a deep, cleansing breath. No matter where I am or how long I’ve been here, one thing remains the same: the island is beautiful in the morning.
Fingertips of golden sunlight paint the miles of blue-green ocean surrounded by white sand as far as the eye can see. The faintest wisps of clouds dotting the sky like dandelions, breathe to scatter the seeds, and you can make a wish.
Like a sentimental fool, I gather in a breath and blow it out, pretending I’m earning a wish.
Get me off this island.
Find me food.
The clouds vanish as if the universe mocks me. I stretch my arms up over my head, feeling the ache in my muscles and back. I ran for miles yesterday, the only thing fueling me the adrenaline that coursed through my body.
Since I landed on this island, I’ve been working my body to the bone, strengthening my muscles and core and not allowing a single part of me to atrophy. That grew more difficult when food sources diminished. Yesterday’s run wasn’t about training, though, but survival.
I’ll find both of the men today. The two remaining people on this island, if they haven’t died or killed each other. After I fortify myself and fashion some weapons, I will find them. I’m not going to cower and hide anymore. The more I’m bereft of the bare necessitie
s, the more animalistic instinct takes over. I’m doing everything I can to mentally prevent the degeneration of my mind and body.
Stay strong.
Stay sane.
Stay fucking human.
So today I’ll prepare for an ambush. But first, I have to prepare myself.
After I’m sure there’s no one in the near vicinity, I walk to the back of the cave and relieve myself, grateful this one most basic duty is a good indicator I haven’t let myself grow dehydrated. The human body can withstand much in the way of starving, but dehydration is another story. I’ve been dehydrated before on this island. My mental capacities quickly downshifted to hallucinations, fever taking over. That was back when there were six of us. One of them—who knows which one, it all blurs now—saved me.
That was back when we cared for each other, when our training as soldiers made us band together as one.
If I let myself get dehydrated at this point, I’m sunk. They’d rejoice in my demise.
One less mouth to feed.
So, every day I get up, the first mission is to ensure I have enough water for the day. The second is to make sure no one’s going to attack me. The third is to find food.
I outfit myself with round rocks and the makeshift slingshot I made in case I encounter one of the others by the water. I have a knife, but I don’t want it to come to that. Not today.
Fortunately, there are multiple sources of fresh water on the island. I hope they’ve left this one for me. But I’m mentally prepared for an ambush.
I walk quietly down the bank to where the water churns, keeping an eye out for any source of wildlife I can capture to put some food in my belly. A flutter of wings overhead gives me momentary hope, but by the time I locate the bird, it’s flown too far away for my dismal excuse of a weapon to reach.
Christ. I don’t know the name of it, but the large, duck-like bird makes for good damn eating on this island. The first time we found a flock it was like Thanksgiving dinner.
But that seems so long ago now.
Once I’m down to the water’s edge and certain I’m alone, I splash water on my face and rub it briskly up and down my arms. I frown at my body. I’ve grown leaner though fought to remain muscular these past few months. My arms and upper body are still covered in the ink I earned as a fighter, before I enlisted. Navy SEAL regulations allow for tattoos that don’t cover the face, neck, or hands, as long as the uniform covers every inch.
I pause, my cupped hand raised to my mouth. Droplets of cool water trickle between my fingers.
I was a fighter.
I was in the Navy.
There were rules governing the way I dressed and behaved.
I blink hard.
The memory of who I was fades in and out, and when I remember facts, I hold onto them with vicious determination.
I go through the mental gymnastics I force myself through when the memories surface.
My name is Cy Kaufman. Raised an orphan in the foster care system in America, I have no family, my own family is the Navy. But now I have only myself to depend on, and no matter how dire the circumstances, I will not fail.
This island has stripped many things from me. It won’t strip my faculties.
I ignore the little voice in my head that mocks me.
It already has.
It already robbed the other men of theirs. Most of them, anyway.
I drop down again and cup more water in my hands, guzzling as much as my empty stomach can muster, when I hear a scattering through the underbrush. I turn slowly, so slowly it feels as if I’m in slow motion and see an injured duck. It’s struggling in the brush. Injured somehow. And I go into autopilot survival mode.
I was born a fighter and I’ll die one.
I pull back a rock in the slingshot, take aim, and let the ammo fly. It’s clumsy compared to the weapons I’m used to wielding, but with hours upon hours to fill my time, I’ve done nothing but practice my aim. I hit the duck with the first shot, and watch it slump to the ground.
I look around me once more before I go to fetch it, but I’m all alone.
I take the bird back to the cave and clean it quickly and efficiently with my knife, then wash my hands. I have to risk a damn fire if I’m going to eat this bird, so I decide I’ll do it at a good distance away from the cave. Far enough that whoever tracks it here won’t notice the shelter I’ve made.
My stomach aches and gnaws, my mouth watering at the mental image of roasted meat.
By the time I’m roasting the meat, the sun’s high and bright overhead, beating down with relentless heat. My mouth feels papery and dry. Damn it, I need to get more water.
I turn the roasting meat over the flame, then freeze when I hear the sound of snapping twigs. I look quickly behind me, my slingshot in hand, when Will steps into my line of vision, hands raised in surrender. Fucking Will, the most selfish of the bunch, the last to agree to band with us. He’s tall and lanky, with ragged black hair and a beard that would make our former drill sergeant lose his fucking mind. We were made to be clean shaven in the Navy. Here it’s impossible.
I don’t trust him. I put a rock in the sling and hold it in front of me, prepared to shoot. I will fucking kill him if he’s here to attack me.
It didn’t used to be like this. It didn’t fucking used to be like this. When food was plentiful and we all got along, we were like brothers in arms with one another.
But now…
“What do you want?” I demand. I’m ready to kill this man if he steps one toe out of line.
“Easy,” Will says. His eyes shoot to the meat roasting by the fire and he swallows hard. “I’m not here to fight,” he says, taking a step toward me.
“Don’t fucking move or I’ll shoot you with this.”
He scoffs. “As if you could really use that thing to hurt me anyway.”
“Sure as fuck could. David used it to slay Goliath. And I just used it to catch my dinner, which you’re totally welcome to go do on your own.” He doesn’t know the slingshot would only bring him down, but the knife would slit his throat.
“Jesus, man,” he says, shaking his head at me. “I’ll help you catch more, but give a brother a little to hold him over?”
I growl, the snarling sound coming from my own throat startling in its intensity. Who the fuck am I becoming?
Son of a bitch.
“Listen, Cy,” he says, his hands palm-up, his eyes wide and pleading. He’s almost convincing, the son of a bitch.
“What,” I bite out.
“Eugene’s gone batshit crazy, man. I swear to fucking God he doesn’t even know how to talk like a human anymore. He’s a rabid animal.” He shakes his head. “The only way we can survive at this point is to join together, me and you.”
“Join together?” I scoff. “Right. Just like we did with the others, right? Before we lost everything and turned on each other? Before I had to sleep with one eye open, afraid that someone would slit my throat in the middle of the night, so we had one less mouth to feed? Hell no.”
His eyes grow narrow on me and he swallows hard, eyeing the food by the fire. “I’ll fight you for it.”
What the fuck.
“Fight me for it? Are you a fucking moron?”
Though he’s smaller than I am, he’s ruthless and lethal, like a crazed rodent, and I swear it might be my hunger that’s making me imagine this, but right then, he actually looks like a rat, his eyes beady and his nose twitching at the scent of the food before us.
“Get your own food.” I’m standing my ground.
With a low, feral growl, he lunges, not for me, but for the fire. I leap after him and grab his leg just before he reaches the flames. Howling, he kicks his leg out and catches my jaw, pain radiating along my skin.
“You fucking bastard,” I growl, my own voice vicious and snarling, and my instincts take over. I’ve got the son of a bitch. I drag him toward me and deck him, enjoying the satisfying feel of my fist connecting with his jaw. I hit him a second
time, then a third, and actually give myself mental permission to beat him to death, until his pulse stops beating and he lies dead.
One less person on this island, one less person fighting me for survival, makes it that much easier to live.
I hit him again and again, until his lip splits open, crimson blood staining his cheeks and my fists.
“Okay! I’m sorry!” he screams, and this time he’s crying, real tears falling down his cheeks like a goddamn baby. I’m kneeling above him, his wrists pinned in my fists, and his eyes come to mine. A flicker of humanity gives me pause.
“I’m sorry, Cy. Jesus, man, I’m sorry. I’m just fucking starving.” Then he blinks as I stare at him. “Did you hear that?”
Oh no he does not. “You’re not going to fucking distract me,” I tell him. “I should kill you right now. I should fucking kill you.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “And listen.”
Still pinning him beneath me, I do. But I don’t hear the crash through the underbrush or sound of human life I expect, but something very, very different. The sound’s so foreign to my ears, it takes me a moment to realize what’s happening.
It’s… people. Chattering.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask him in a whisper.
“If you let me up, I can help you look,” he says, glaring. “Christ, I’m sorry, okay? I won’t take your food.”
I hold his gaze with mine and give him a warning I mean to my core. “If you step one goddamn toe out of line again, I will end you. You will do exactly what I say, or I’ll slice your goddamn throat. You get me?”
I fucking mean it, and he knows it. I’ve schooled this son of a bitch with more than one beating, and it’s clear he remembers. This time is different, though. This time my warning holds more weight.
He swallows, his eyes wide and a thank fuck, fearful. “Yes,” he says, nodding. “I get it. I made a mistake. Now get off me.”
With a reluctant growl, I do. And just to keep things quiet while we figure out where the voices are coming from, I take the scorching meat out from the flames with a stick and toss it on some clean leaves. “You get half, but not yet. Let it cool, and you don’t touch it until I give you permission.” I let him live but he’s under my command now and he’ll listen.
