Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

He climbed out of the SUV and sucked in a deep breath of fresh morning air.

  “Go on home, folks,” he said as he brushed past them.

  “Is it true?” Pearl Christian demanded.

  Caleb knew she’d be there before he’d laid eyes on her. The cafe owner was a community leader but one who normally preferred to send others out in front and pull their strings from behind.

  “I don’t have time for questions this morning, Pearl” he answered her while making for the office door.

  “The hell you don’t!” Tommy O’Brien yelled out, and his voice stopped Caleb in his tracks.

  The general store owner was normally a placid fellow who Caleb had never heard raise his voice, but this morning his face was flushed with anger and more than a little fear.

  “Look, Tommy,” Caleb started, “I’m looking into this, okay? When I have all the facts, I can let you know more.”

  “I know what happened. We all know what happened,” Pearl shouted to the gathered crowd. “One of those psychos killed Haider Clayton!”

  The small crowd rippled with rage, and Caleb could feel the situation about to run away from him.

  “Why aren’t you up there arresting someone?” Sam Cartwright demanded. “Those bloody Niners have been a menace for years and now they’ve gone and killed one of us!”

  “Look, people,” Caleb said, holding out his arms in a call for peace. “I assure you that I will get to the bottom of this. Right now, all of these rumours are not going to help anybody.”

  “And who’s going to help us?” Sam retorted. “Who’s going to stop us from being murdered in our beds?”

  This drew a round of agreement from the crowd.

  “You know what we should do?” Cooper Fox asked, and Caleb’s heart sank at the man’s sudden appearance. “I say we go up there ourselves and find our own answers!”

  Caleb felt his control slip another notch and there was very little of it left.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” he roared, and thankfully, most of the crowd flinched at the booming sound of his voice. “Now, as long as I wear this uniform, I’m in charge here whether you like it or not.”

  “Well I say you’re doing a pretty shitty job,” Cooper spat back.

  Caleb stepped up to the man and loomed over him with his full frame. “And I say I don’t give a shit what you think,” he growled in Cooper’s face. “Whether you people like it or not, I’m the law, so why don’t you all go home and let me do my job.”

  The moment was frozen. Caleb never took his eyes off Cooper’s and held the man in his icy stare, not bothering to look around at the rest of the group. There was a moment when he thought that Cooper might actually challenge him, but the man was true to his coward’s nature and backed down.

  “You’d better do your job, Constable,” Cooper said as he slithered away, trying to hold onto to a sliver of his dignity.

  “Or else what, Cooper?”

  “Just..., just or else,” Cooper replied before he was gone.

  Caleb watched the others disperse before he headed into the office.

  “Knitting club meeting?” Dottie asked him as he entered.

  “Very funny. Thanks for your help, by the way! I’m guessing that you had a good seat?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you.” The dispatcher smiled back with good humour and a wink. “So what are you going to do?” she asked, her tone changing instantly.

  “My job, I guess.”

  “The doc been over there yet?”

  “Yes, she pronounced the death, not that there was much in the way of doubt. Bernard Hale used his van to take the body over to the doc’s place.”

  “You’re sure it was murder?”

  Caleb simply nodded rather than relay any of the gruesome details of the scene, details he would be unable to get out of his mind for the rest of his life.

  “You think it was a Niner?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know.”

  “But Dale Clayton said it was.”

  “Yes, yes he does.” Caleb sighed.

  “But you don’t believe him?” a new voice asked, and Caleb looked around to see Quinn walking into the office.

  “You can’t be here,” Caleb said to her.

  “Bullshit. Besides, I need to talk to you - it’s important.”

  “Well I’m kind of busy right now.”

  “I’ll bet,” she agreed. “Why don’t you believe Dale?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you don’t,” Dottie added. “Do you?”

  “Right now, I don’t know what I believe.”

  “Well I really hate to add fuel to your fire,” Quinn said, “but my boss is stirring up some shit to an epic degree. I think he paid off some locals to start some trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “Between the townies and the Niners. He wants the monastery land, and I think there’s very little that he wouldn’t do to get it.”

  “Brilliant!” Caleb sighed heavily.

  “So what do we do now?” Quinn asked.

  “We? I thought you worked for Haynes?”

  “I guess once an islander.” Quinn shrugged. “Besides, you could use a deputy.”

  ----------

  Bernard Hale drove back to the harbour in a daze. Doc Simmons had been kind enough to cover Haider Clayton’s remains, but the sheet over him had been soaked through and stained with blood.

  There were no ambulances on the island and Doc Simmons was the only physician. She’d called him for help in transporting the remains to her facility as his van doubled as a makeshift ambulance on the rare occasion that such a vehicle was required. It was the way with island life: everyone and everything seemed to double for a second purpose.

  The drive was a short one, and he found himself wishing for a longer journey to take his mind off the morning’s events. When he’d helped lift Haider into the van, a small patch of sticky red blood had rubbed his thumb, and no matter how many times, or how vigorously he cleaned it, it still felt sticky.

  He should be busying himself with making the marina secure. There were boats and shutters that needed securing before the storm hit. He could already see that the waters were rising with an angry swell, and there was a lot of gossip amongst the old-timers about how this one could be a real bitch.

  He pulled the van into the space outside of his entrance to the boatyard and sat for a few minutes to gather his scattered thoughts.

  Haider Clayton had been a real son of a bitch, but for a long time now, he’d been a sickly old man - feeble and frail and no threat to anyone. In his prime, he’d been a man who knew how to get things done, regardless of the cost.

  He’d served as town mayor for over 40 years, with only ill health forcing him to step aside. During his reign, the mill had been strong and stable and the town had been fed. Many on the island called him a saviour but just as many called him a monster. But even a man like Haider didn’t deserve what had happened to him.

  Bernard climbed out of the van and stretched his aching back. Some days, he wondered about the future of Clayton. The next generation seemed to be deserting the island at some rate of knots and soon there wouldn’t be enough to keep the place going.

  He had been harbour master for over 30 years now, but when he finally put his feet up, he didn’t know who was going to take over from him.

  The morning air was still some distance away from warming up, but the sun would come eventually - she always did. He walked his way around the relatively small harbour making mental notes as he went: the odd mooring post needed replacing, a few cleats here and there, along with the occasional rotted board.

  He stopped by Sam Cartwright’s door and was surprised to find it hanging open. Sam didn’t normally come in until after 10am these days, but looking at his watch, he could see it was barely after 8:30am.

  “SAM?” he called out as he entered the repair shop.

  Sam’s place was a large hangar, with a crumbling corrugated roof that had see
n better days, set over the top of a section of the harbour.

  He walked inside and took a look around. There appeared to be no sign of Sam and the man’s tools were all still nestled in their place along the back wall. Ieuan Clark’s small cruiser was moored and was swaying gently with the waves, apparently in for some minor repairs.

  Bernard looked at the boat and was hit by a small stab of pain. He hadn’t known Ieuan all that well but it was a small community and every loss was felt.

  He still found it hard to believe that the hunter had come to his end by some kind of natural accident, but he hadn’t been seen now for days and there wasn’t any real hope left that he would suddenly appear unharmed.

  Something moved behind him and Bernard turned to greet Sam.

  Their usual friendly bantering had turned decidedly tense of late. They seemed to find themselves on opposite sides of the growing Niner problem and Sam’s attitude was hardening. They had been friends for a long time and it pained him that they were growing apart.

  “Sam,” he said, turning around, “I thought we could talk.”

  The blow caught him off guard. Something heavy struck him as he was turning, the metallic object clanging off his skull and sending him spinning. He stumbled to one side and reached out for something to steady him, only there wasn’t anything there.

  Bernard pitched over the small harbour wall and fell head first into the water.

  The icy cold ocean rushed up to meet him, and despite the bang to the head, he fought to reach back to the surface. It was only as he was fighting that he realised something was wrapped around his neck and torso now. Whatever he had been hit with was on the end of a rope, and that rope was now curled around him like a boa constrictor.

  He kicked hard, ignoring the pain in his skull, but found that the more he struggled, the more the rope around him constricted his movement. Something heavy was on the other end of the rope and was dragging him downwards.

  Bernard was an ageing man but he wasn’t quite fit for the grave just yet. A lifetime of working outdoors with his hands had given him powerful arms and a strong back, and as much as the anchor wanted to drag him downwards, he wanted to live.

  With his lungs just about to give up, he suddenly gave it one last push and his head suddenly exploded out of the water and he gasped desperately for life-giving air.

  His arms clutched around Ieuan’s cruiser. He wrapped himself around the boat’s motor. The anchor was still dangling from his body, threatening to drag him down to the bottom, but he’d wrapped his arms tightly around the motor casing.

  It would take him a few moments of gasping and spluttering before he could think straight again; unfortunately, he didn’t have a few moments.

  Someone cranked the cruiser’s engine into life. It whined a couple of times as the starter turned over, but the engine didn’t fire.

  Bernard let go of the motor casing but now found that the rope around him had become entangled with the housing. The starter continued to turn over as someone tried to start the boat while Bernard tried to free himself. The motor’s fan arms were pressed tightly against his waist, and every time that the person tried to start the engine, the arms slipped around a notch and scraped painfully against his skin.

  With great effort, Bernard raised his feet and placed them against the motor housing. He strained desperately to push himself free, but in his effort, one foot slipped off just as the motor roared into life.

  His foot was caught against the now-spinning motor blades and the pain was monstrous as his flesh was shredded. The pain caused him to slip back into the water. The anchor rope wrapped around him was caught in the motor, and he was dragged closer until his face was thrust into the blades.

  The water turned red and frothy, but mercifully the pain was short-lived as he died quickly in a swirl of metal and water.

  Eventually the engine was shut off, and a happy contented soul wandered away whistling a merry tune.

  CHAPTER 11

  Choosing sides

  Gwendolyn was doing laundry when an unmissable hulking shadow suddenly blocked the light behind her.

  Washing was done by hand at the monastery. There was a stream that ran through one of the lower fields and the women would wash clothes there.

  She had heard that somewhere outside of their walls there were machines that did this sort of thing for you, but such decadence seemed wholly unnecessary. The outside world seemed obsessed with doing things quicker but never better. Here, the Order prioritised the right way above all others, and it was a sentiment that she bought into wholeheartedly.

  Her fingers were cold from the icy water, but her hands were strong and used to the work.

  Although there were normally several women here at any one time, this morning she was alone and now she was scared.

  Torvan blocked the sun as she turned and looked up the bank towards him. He had always been an intense man, but now he was on a whole new level and his intensity had shifted into dangerous territory.

  “Sister Gwendolyn,” he greeted her in his rumble of a voice.

  “Brother Torvan.” She nodded back, all the while working quicker in the hope she could leave.

  “I wanted..., I wanted to make sure that you were well.”

  “I am fine,” she replied curtly.

  “You shouldn’t be down here alone. It’s not safe.”

  Not with you, she immediately thought to herself, but kept her expression neutral.

  “These woods are perfectly safe,” she said as she started to gather her things.

  “The island is... different now,” he added cryptically.

  “Different?”

  “Can’t you feel it, Sister? There is an ill wind blowing through us now; a great storm is coming, a war for our very souls.”

  The man’s voice was disturbing enough for her to listen to, but there was a vacant look in his eyes that Gwendolyn really didn’t like. There was an odd smell emanating from the huge man as he towered over her, a rancid stale odour that made her gag.

  “I should get back,” she said as she snatched up her basket.

  She moved up the bank to pass him, but quick as a flash, one of his mighty arms shot out and he grabbed her arm in a bear’s paw. His strength was undeniable and she got the feeling that it wouldn’t take much for him to break her arm simply by squeezing a little harder.

  “You’re hurting me, Brother,” she said flinching

  “They are the ones who want to hurt you. I just want to keep you safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, Sister - can’t you see that?”

  “Please,” she whimpered as his grip became unbearable.

  “I only want to take care of you, Sister. Why won’t you let me? There are evil forces at work here, forces that will tear us all down, forces that will defile your fragile form. Is that what you want? Do you want to be torn asunder from gullet to groin? Are you tempted by the darkness, is that it?”

  Gwendolyn was on her knees now; clean wet clothing lay scattered from the spilled basket by her side. Tears ran down her cheeks as Torvan refused to let go and her arm was screaming in pain.

  “TORVAN!” a voice roared from behind, and Gwendolyn sagged with relief.

  Torvan let her arm drop immediately at the sound of Solomon’s anger and the look of flushed anger on his face now softened and almost became one of guilt - almost, but not quite.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Solomon demanded as he moved in closer to help Gwendolyn back to her feet.

  She struggled up, clutching her aching arm.

  “Are you okay, Sister?” the Father asked with concern on his face.

  “I’m fine,” she answered shakily.

  “Leave the basket and go on home,” he instructed her, but part of her didn’t want to leave him alone with Torvan.

  The Father was all seeing and knowing, but right now, she felt he didn’t know his own son.

  “I’m fine, Father,” she said, a little stronger. “Really.”

 
“I was trying to help her, to instruct her, Father. She has to know what’s coming; they all do,” Torvan ranted.

  “My son, you are not well,” Solomon said gently.

  “I have never felt better, stronger, more determined to see the gods’ will be done, Father.”

  “The gods?”

  “They speak to me now, Father. I can hear them,” Torvan said, tilting his head to one side and staring up at the heavens. “Their words flow into my essence now, Father. I can feel their love, their strength, their anger, Father. They are raging against the incursion of darkness. It is a creeping sickness that has to be stamped out before they infect us all.”

  Gwendolyn looked from Solomon to Torvan. The Father looked to be in great pain as his son raged on nonsensically. For sure, there had been those amongst the Order in the past who had sought to claim they heard the direct word of the gods, but they had all been affected by a mental illness. The Order was not a home for crazy people who heard voices; it was a religious order for those with faith.

  “Torvan...,” Solomon started but could not finish, his face creased with concern for his blood.

  “The question isn’t whether or not I can hear them, Father. The question is, why don’t you?”

  An uncomfortable silence took hold then as suspicion and unspoken accusations settled between them.

  “Why don’t we go home, Son,” Solomon said quietly. “Perhaps we can pray together for guidance.”

  “Guidance?” Torvan laughed. “You think I need guidance? Father, Father,” he said bitterly as he shook his head. “Are you really that blind? They are already here; the war is already at our gates, Father. The army of darkness has already struck the first blow.”

  “What do you mean?” Solomon asked.

  Gwendolyn noticed for the first time that there was a long cloth sack on the ground a little way behind Torvan. The big man now turned and pulled the sack into the space between the three of them.

  “What is that?” she couldn’t help but ask while trying to keep the fear from her voice.

  “They struck the first blow, but the gods warned me in advance. They told me that the enemy would seek to destroy us under cover of night but I was waiting and I struck them down.”