Survival Island

by Matt Drabble

  “They’re from the mainland,” he finally replied.

  “I could tell that much.”

  “Drug dealers.”

  “DRUG DEALERS?”

  “I... we had a deal set up with one of the Niners. He grows mushrooms. Morrison - the mainlander in charge - he’s our connection.”

  “And by ‘we’, I’m assuming you mean you and Anderson?”

  “Hey, I’m no rat!”

  “No, you’re just a moron.” Caleb sighed. “You’ve brought these men onto our land, Cooper, and I swear to you, if they hurt Quinn, then you’ll never be dead enough. You hear me?” he said, stepping in close with real menace. “Now move. MOVE!”

  ----------

  Haynes made his way quickly into the covered area by the docks. Anderson had lagged behind, but he didn’t bother waiting. If he didn’t need the man to pilot a boat, then he would have already ditched him.

  From here he could see that the angry ocean had done a real job on the harbour. Most of the flimsy outbuildings were lying in pieces scattered around the docks, and the water damage was extensive as the levels had risen high above the harbour walls before retreating.

  “A real mess,” Anderson said, reaching his shoulder.

  “Let’s hope that at least one boat survived.”

  “I can’t see anyone around. Bernard Hale wasn’t in the shelter, so I just assumed he’d be here.”

  “Well then, let’s take a closer look,” Haynes said, starting forwards again.

  The large canopy that stretched across the opening was torn in several places, but it was still standing at least. Haynes pulled several plastic sheets aside to step in.

  Once inside, he could see a rickety-looking office block and headed towards it. He took the stairs two at a time to the upper level as what was down below was clearly a workshop of some kind and was empty.

  From the second level, he could look out across the harbour and his heart sank at the trail of destruction left by the storm. There were indeed several boats here but none looked seaworthy, with one half-sunk already and two others that had been lifted up out of the water and sent crashing down onto the stone harbour ground.

  Haynes started to panic at his lack of options. He wanted off this island but he needed a boat to do it.

  There was a telephone on the desk behind him, but a quick check of the handset unsurprisingly gave him only a dead sound in his ear.

  He headed back down to the workshop below and rooted around for anything of use. He found a radio set but again there was no juice running through the equipment.

  “MR HAYNES!” Anderson called out from back outside.

  Haynes ran quickly, hoping for the first good news in some time.

  “What is it?” he asked, finding the islander standing on the edge of the harbour wall and staring back across the bay.

  “There, look,” he replied, pointing feverishly.

  Haynes followed the man’s finger and saw what had excited him. There was a boat anchored off the bay just outside the docks.

  “Whose boat is that? And why is it parked over there?”

  “Don’t recognise it, but it can’t have been here long, what with the storm and all doing a job on the ones here.”

  Haynes didn’t much care whose boat it was or why it was here; right now, it was his ticket off the island.

  “Okay..., okay,” he said, mainly to himself as he thought. “I need something.., a weapon, in case - you know - they don’t want to help.”

  “A weapon?” Anderson responded dubiously.

  “Look, Anderson,” Haynes started slowly. “There isn’t time now for pissing about, okay? People are dying here and I don’t want to be one of them. Now that boat is our way off this bloody place and I mean to take it, one way or another. You with me?”

  Anderson nodded slowly, and Haynes was pleased with his own assessment of the man. Anderson Jennings was a spineless man, a sheep who followed those of a dominant nature. He was a man to be used, for the time being at least.

  “Right then,” Haynes said, clapping his hands together. “A weapon it is. You check that way and I’ll go this. I’m guessing that a gun is out of the question, so look for something sharp or heavy and get a move on about it. We don’t know how long that boat is going to sit there.”

  “Split up?” Anderson asked nervously.

  “Grow a pair, for God’s sake, man!” Haynes snapped irritably before leaving.

  He headed back to the filthy workshop, figuring that there must be something in there he could use. He was already wondering just how difficult it could be to drive a boat; if he was just a little more confident, he’d ditch Anderson now - the man was a jellyfish.

  Moving around the workshop, he hefted a few tools but nothing felt substantial enough to use as an effective or intimidating weapon.

  There was a separate section of the workshop towards the back. Instead of a door, there were large plastic sheets stuck up to the ceiling to create the separation.

  The sheeting was opaque and he was unable to see fully through it. A quick finger test showed him that while the plastic was thick, he should be able to tear his way through it, and he set to work.

  Soon, the sheets were hanging in shreds as he tore his way through to another area. This was clearly some kind of storeroom with a bunch of machine and engine parts lying around.

  He’d pushed his way through and had started to root around for something of use when there was a loud cry of pain and a crashing sound from the other side of a door.

  Haynes moved his way quietly to the door and eased it open a crack. On the other side he could see the docks and a figure lying on the ground by the short harbour wall; it was Anderson.

  The man was lying face down and there was a splash of fresh blood seeping out from a head wound.

  Haynes eased the door shut again as carefully as he could and with as little sound as he could manage. He tiptoed away from the door, not knowing who was outside, but their intentions were clear.

  Still without a weapon of any kind, he had never felt more vulnerable and crept across the storeroom floor back to the plastic sheeting wall.

  His hip caught a table as he moved and something metallic fell to the ground with a loud crash. Knowing that stealth was no longer an option, he bolted for the sheet wall and flung himself through, but in his haste, he ended up wrapping himself tightly in the plastic sheets.

  The door behind flew open, and someone burst into the room. Haynes struggled to free himself but someone was on him in a flash. Hands reached out and grabbed hold of the plastic, pulling it tighter still, and then wrapping a large piece around his face.

  Haynes started to panic now as his face was being squashed under the sheeting and it was getting hard to breathe. His feet kicked out helplessly, and he tried to rip the plastic open as it tightened further, but there were now multiple pieces layered and smothering him.

  The life faded from him as he wilted and sank to his knees, his breath failing as the plastic fogged up in front of his eyes.

  He died suspended in a crucifix pose, wrapped in torn plastic sheets, his eyes bulging wild and terrified.

  Unknown to the dead man and his killer, there was a third man to witness the murder.

  Isaac Baxter had already had a day from hell and the night wasn’t faring much better.

  He had been a fisherman for nigh on 30 years, and until yesterday, the most dangerous part of his life had been a skin cancer scare a couple of years ago. Now he’d been kidnapped, beaten, threatened with a gun and had now witnessed a horrific murder.

  The animals that had kidnapped him and forced him to sail to the island of Clayton had tied him up and left him to wait for their return, so he could take them back to the mainland.

  He was currently bound and gagged and standing upright in a metal locker in a workshop. He could just see through the vent in the door and what he’d seen made no sense whatsoever, which was why he wasn’t making a sound.

  --------
--

  Gwendolyn was woken by the men in the room. She didn’t let on that she was awake or listening; something told her to keep her mouth shut and her ears open.

  Torvan was on the brink of one of his rages again as the men whispered news to him that set him off.

  “BLASPHEMERS!” he screamed. “They would dare to sully this house? They would have us slaughtered in our beds? Not while the gods watch over me, my brothers. Not while their blood courses through my veins.”

  “They entered through the tunnel system below,” a voice whispered, one that she recognised as Brother Jacobs, the Order’s resident blacksmith. “We are watching them closely now but without being seen,” he finished.

  “How many of the devils are there?” Torvan asked.

  “4 of them now. Brother Hurley cleansed one of their number before he himself fell.”

  “Good,” Torvan mused. “Do not engage the enemy. We shall allow them access into our home before we offer up their sacrifice to the gods; our fathers will be pleased by the offering.”

  Gwendolyn heard the other men leave and Torvan start to dress. She remained motionless in the bed while he moved around the room, mumbling incomprehensively to himself with increasing anger. She even managed to remain still when he leaned down to kiss her forehead goodbye before he finally left the bedroom.

  Once he was gone, she climbed out of the bed and dressed quickly, eager to be fully clothed again.

  She found it hard to believe that the monastery was under some kind of attack, but the islanders might have cause to respond to Torvan’s deadly attack on them. Already, it felt like the two factions had passed a point of no return.

  There was an excellent library at the monastery and she had always been an avid reader. She remembered one quote from Confucius that read ‘before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves’; it seemed like an apt line right about now.

  Time felt like it was slipping away from her fast now, and Torvan would be the end of the Order - of that she was sure - unless she could stop him.

  She prayed to the gods that they would answer her now. She needed their strength and she needed her faith if she was to save her family. She had hoped to steer Torvan away from his madness but that was looking increasingly unlikely. His path was set firm now and she might need to make her own sacrifice before this night was through.

  There was a tankard on the bedside table. It seemed that Torvan was rarely without mead in his hand lately, the heady sweet brew intoxicating him and perhaps offering her a solution, if she was willing to pay the price.

  She stared at the tankard, wondering if she had the strength to do what was necessary. Their teachings were clear about taking the life of another; there was no way that she would ascend if she stopped Torvan the ultimate way.

  Was she willing to pay that price? Was she willing to give up on the afterlife to save her brothers and sisters?

  Brother Tunstall was the resident farmer and she was sure that there would be something in his shed at the bottom of the lower field, something that Torvan wouldn’t be able to taste through the mead, something that might put an end to his madness.

  She was sure that he would take a drink from her hands without question. That was the benefit to laying with him, there had to be one, otherwise she might go insane from having him touch her in such an intimate manner. She just had to find out if she had the strength to go through with it, so she prayed. She prayed harder than she ever had before.

  ----------

  There were times during the long hike through the woods that Dale wondered if he was going insane; there were other times when he was sure that he already had.

  His father spoke to him constantly as they walked, the old man seemingly unaffected by the hard walk and never out of breath.

  The others with him - those who were really there, although it was getting hard to tell what was real anymore - marched on in stony silence, but he felt their loyalty to their cause if not to him directly.

  He carried the dynamite and plunger in a fisherman’s backpack, the bundled sticks bouncing along merrily behind him. Part of him wondered if the explosives were dangerous, but another part of him didn’t seem to care. His was a holy pilgrimage now and he felt under God’s protection.

  Occasionally, they all stopped for a rest. Hiking was hard work, and most of them weren’t particularly young or fit anymore.

  Sam Cartwright and Tommy O’Brien took out water canteens brought from the shelter. They drank deeply before handing them over to the rest of the group.

  “How much further?” Tim Duke asked irritably.

  “Not far now; at least, I think so,” Sam Cartwright answered as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “It’s... hard to tell,” he said tiredly.

  Dale swallowed the rising tide of anger hard. It wasn’t his companions’ fault that they were all as useless as each other; he didn’t have an army to take into battle, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t lead them to victory all the same.

  In truth, where he led them was right into the path of a patrolling Niner.

  The large man stared at them as they all walked into the clearing. He wore the Niner robes but held a long lethal-looking sword that glinted in the moonlight.

  Dale’s group all stared at the man as he stared back, no one moving or quite daring to speak. Time stood still in that moment until Dale was suddenly struck by inspiration.

  “GET HIM!” he screamed, startling the others into action.

  Monty Carmichael was the youngest of the group by some distance and reached the Niner first. He was a logger by trade and decades of hard physical labour had left him toned although the years lately had softened his bulk somewhat.

  He charged without thought or reason, feeling only rage in his gut, one that demanded to be serviced in some dark way.

  Monty ran directly into the monk, driving his shoulder deep into the man’s midriff.

  The Niner grunted as he was sent backwards until his back hit a sturdy tree behind.

  Someone in Dale’s group gasped aloud as he noticed that the monk had moved quicker than they’d expected and had managed to raise his sword up just before Monty had charged into him. The blade’s tip was now sticking out of the back of the islander and dripping a steady stream of blood onto the woodland floor.

  “GET HIM! NOW!” Dale yelled again.

  This time, Tim Duke ran forwards, stopping only briefly to snatch up a sizeable rock in his meaty fist.

  He reached the Niner who was now pinned against the tree by Monty’s dying body. Swinging the rock hard, it smashed into the monk’s face with a sickening crack.

  Tim Duke swung the rock again and again, smashing the Niner’s face over and over until it split apart at the seams. He continued to smash it as the others screamed their encouragement until it was nothing but bloody pulp.

  Finally, panting and soaked through with sweat, Tim dropped the bloody rock to the ground and sank to his knees in exhaustion.

  “At least we know we’re on the right path.” Sam Cartwright nodded as he stared at the two fresh corpses.

  “First blood drawn,” Dale announced proudly. “First blood, my brothers. First blood, but far from the last. They started this war, they butchered our family members, and now they’ll pay the price. ONWARDS TO GLORY!”

  “That was a bit much, wasn’t it?” his father asked as they started off again.

  I know my audience, Dale thought to himself as a wide smile broke out across his face. He honestly couldn’t believe the last time he’d had this much fun.

  ----------

  Quinn made sure that the men she was with all kept in front of her, ready to face the danger first; they were her kidnappers, after all.

  Morrison didn’t seem to be that bothered with her anymore which was good, but he still didn’t believe her story, which was bad. He put the Niner in the basement down to one man protecting his home rather than being an insane lunatic.

  “I want the boss man,” Morrison
hissed back at her over his shoulder. “Where do I find him?”

  “Solomon?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s his name.”

  “Well, it’s going to be tough to find him now.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Because his son went crazy and split him in two with an axe,” she replied.

  Morrison stopped and turned to face her. “Excuse me?” he asked, watching her carefully.

  She thought about her reply for a moment before answering. “You know what? I really don’t have another way of putting it. Solomon’s son Torvan took an axe and killed his father.”

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Deadly.”

  He watched her face for what seemed like an age before he finally spoke again. “You are serious, aren’t you,” he stated rather than asked.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you this. These guys are nuts, and you’ve just led us right into their backyard.”

  “Well..., no matter,” he said firmly. “This really doesn’t alter my plans.”

  “Boss?” Walker said nervously.

  “Yeah, Boss. If what she says is right, then let’s get the hell out of here,” Shane added hopefully.

  “You mean run?” Morrison smiled without any trace of humour.

  “No..., not exactly...,” Shane continued. “What if we... retreat..., and come back... with more men?” he finished with trouble, as though his brain wasn’t used to complicated thoughts, which of course it wasn’t.

  “So we just turn tail and scamper away.” Morrison nodded thoughtfully. “This is what you’ve learned from me? See problem… run from problem? That’s how you think I built my business?”

  “Be fair, Boss,” Walker joined in. “This isn’t exactly what we’re used to, is it? I mean, you want us to break a few legs or crack some skulls, then fine, but this shit’s crazy. I mean, just batshit loony tunes!”

  “Well you both make fair points.” Morrison nodded happily, and for some reason that made Quinn take a step away from the men. “But how about I make a counter-argument?”

  With that, he made one small, smooth movement and shot Shane in the head at point-blank range. The back of the man’s head exploded at the short distance, and only the steps back that Quinn had taken on instinct stopped her from getting blood and brains showered into her face.