by Del Stone
‘I’ll tell you what I think of this island,’ he raged back at me. ‘I think of it as the buffet at Barnhill’s. She’s the dessert,’ and he pointed at Heather. ‘I’m the prime rib and you’re the greasy, overfried chicken. And we’re ALL on the menu once the sun goes down!’
God, how I hated him. At that moment I hated him more than I hated my own jealousy and pettiness. No matter how badly I wanted him to stay. I could’ve wrapped my fingers around that scrawny throat and squeezed until his eyes bulged and his lips swelled, like the rotting fish drifting by. His youth, his good looks, his relationship with Heather – none of that seemed to matter anymore. He opposed me. He opposed my knowledge, my experience, my authority – everything I was. I understood that all young people undergo a process of revision and discovery that distances them from their elders. It’s all part of the separation of psyches that allows kids to become independent adults. But this was more than a stage in the process of becoming an individual. Scotty was trying to dominate me. If we were to live, I couldn’t let that happen. The battle with DeVries had changed me somehow.
So I did the forbidden thing. I asserted.
‘I won’t let you go,’ I told him. ‘I can’t stop you from being stupid, but I can stop you from doing harm to yourself, and to us too.’
His eyes narrowed and I could see a hardening there. It was the same brute anger I’d seen in him yesterday, just before we’d spotted the mist. I could feel my eyes starting to water, and I cursed my weakness.
‘You’re not in charge of me,’ he answered quietly. ‘If I decide to swim ashore, you can’t stop me.’
‘I’m in charge of this field study, and you’re a part of it.’
‘I’m a gate crasher, a party pooper. Remember?’ and he winked slyly.
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘Yeah,’ Heather chimed in. ‘What are you talking about?’
He snorted petulantly. ‘You think this was a damn expedition to study plankton?’ He stabbed a finger at me. ‘That’s bull. He wanted to have a secret weekend here alone with you, sweetheart.’
My stomach seemed to drop entirely from my body. I blustered, ‘Excuse me …’
‘You stupid old man. You’re so transparent.’ He paused for effect, and a look of pure malice crept into his expression. ‘As if any woman would give a paunchy old gasbag like you a second look. Hope you brought your stash of Viagra with all your test tubes and microscopes, buddy. Maybe you and Rosy will get lucky – Rosy Palm, that is.’
He started up the beach, toward the opposite side of the island. My face was scalding with rage, and I didn’t dare look at Heather. I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists, my breath coming in superheated, sawed-off gasps. Far away, I heard Heather mumble something to me, something about not overreacting, and I guess my expression must have revealed to her what I was thinking. I didn’t want to stop him from swimming across to the other side.
I wanted to kill him.
‘Fred. Take it easy,’ she said. All I heard was a dull ringing.
‘Fred.’
I scrambled after him, stumbling in the loose sand. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
He struck me across the nose. It was not a punch – more of a slap – but it stopped me cold. I felt the impact surge through my body, down to my stomach, where a knot of nausea quickly unravelled and threatened to drop me to my knees in a fit of vomiting. Tears sprang to my eyes and blinded me for a moment. I wiped my face with my forearm and saw a bright streak of blood, almost black against my tanned flesh. I caught my breath and without thinking, lunged at him again.
This time he gathered his hand into a fist and punched me hard in the stomach. The air gushed out of my lungs in a sickening exhalation and I fell to the sand, clutching my middle. Dimly I heard Heather let fly with a small gasp of horror. Then she screamed, ‘Stop it! You’re killing him!’ Again, I thought I’d throw up, but I couldn’t breathe and knew that if I began to retch I might suffocate on my own vomit. Spasms shook me, and the pain was indescribable – not the sharp, dazzling flare of a cut but a low, heavy, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from my stomach and spread to all corners of my body. It paralysed me momentarily, and only after I was able to take several deep breaths did it let up so that I could open my eyes.
Scotty was hovering over me, his fist poised to strike again. Heather was holding his arm back. I wondered how such a scrawny little fellow could hit so hard, and decided it was not that he was so strong, but that I was so weak. I hadn’t physically fought another person since junior high school, and my pain tolerance seemed to have diminished since. I didn’t think I could take another blow. The realisation settled in with a heaviness that amplified the agony in my gut.
He roughly shook himself from Heather’s grasp. He was breathing heavily, actually snorting, and his eyes were burning with an adrenalin-stoked fire. He muttered some guttural, incomprehensible epithet, then resumed his path across the island, kicking sand in his wake. This time, Heather didn’t go after him. She remained by my side.
‘I’m so sorry, Fred,’ she sobbed. She had a bandana, one of those cheap paisley print scarves you can buy at any convenience store, and she began wiping the blood from my face. My nose throbbed and I wondered if it might be broken. ‘I’m sorry I asked him to come. I’m sorry for all this,’ and she took in the island with a broad sweep of her arm.
‘I’m sorry for being such an ass,’ I told her. It seemed a noble confession for a middle-aged guy to make after having his ass kicked by a man half his age. ‘When we get back to Gainesville you can switch advisers – if you want.’
She shook her head, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she turned to watch Scotty tramp into the water, a mass of dead fish swirling behind him. I got to my knees and strained to see into the sun-spackled water. It was just after noon.
We watched.
Scotty was halfway across. At first he had swum hard, his arms taking in huge bites of the turgid water, his feet kicking a frothy wake the colour of root beer. But after a few minutes he’d tired and was simply propelling himself through the kill, holding his head as high above the water as was possible. I couldn’t imagine how awful the smell must be, or the sensation of the slick, bloated carcasses brushing against his skin. I had to admit to a certain admiration for him. Despite the fact he’d insulted me and defied me and then physically attacked me, he was showing an endearing courage. Maybe stupid. But admirable.
I was beginning to think he might make it when the unexpected happened. You could tell from his movements that something was wrong. He stopped in the water, his head whipping back and forth, and then he peered down into the water. What he saw there must have frightened him because he began to swim madly for the opposite shore. Around him we could see whorls and disturbances in the calm water.
Something was after him. We knew what it was.
Heather screamed, ‘Swim, Scotty! Swim!’ and I don’t think he needed to be told that because he was swimming with the frantic resolution of somebody who had glimpsed death’s stalking shadow. I could tell from the colour of the water he was nearing the shallows on the opposite side. If he could make it there the light might protect him. I wasn’t sure what degree of tolerance the creatures had for sunlight, but if a flashlight beam was enough to set them ablaze surely the noon sun, dimmed though it was by three feet of water, would produce similar results.
Scotty’s head had disappeared beneath the surface. A roiling tumult bubbled around the spot we had last seen him. I couldn’t see him but my mind’s eye filled in the horrible details of what must be happening – the things lurking in the dark, deep waters had grasped an ankle and were pulling him under to extract whatever it was they needed from his body. His body would pop to the surface and ignite, and then Heather and I would be here, the two of us, to stand against the night. I’d told him it was a dumb idea
, dammit. I had tried to keep him here. I’m ashamed to admit this but a secret part of me was satisfied I’d been proven right. The same stubborn certainty of youth I’d admired only a moment ago would probably lead to his death.
But then he did pop to the surface. He let out a great, sucking gasp of breath and began swimming again. Heather shouted, ‘Are you all right?’ and he answered with a distant, breathless ‘OK’ and continued swimming at a frantic pace. Within a minute he was in the shallows and stood, bending at the waist and taking in great draughts of air.
He shouted, ‘I’m OK; I’m OK,’ and unbent, breathing heavily. Heather sighed loudly and dropped to her knees next to me. She muttered, ‘Oh God, if he lives through this I’m gonna kill him.’ Her voice was touched with relief, and something else, something that sounded like … I don’t know. Love, maybe. I felt an involuntary chill of disappointment. Was there no bottom to my selfishness?
‘Told you,’ Scotty shouted back at us. He had waded into the extreme shallows, almost to the beach, and had turned to wave – and taunt. Heather giggled mirthlessly and shook her head.
‘I’ll be back in a few … with a boat,’ he yelled. ‘Get your shit packed, Professor. You’re going home.’ Despite my anger with him, the thought of going home sounded awfully good. I got to my feet slowly, afraid the sudden change in position would set my nose to bleeding again. Heather helped me. Her grip was a lot stronger than I’d expected.
We watched him wade to shore. There were no spots along the beach that were free of trees and underbrush, but he seemed oblivious. Heather tugged at my arm and whispered, ‘C’mon, Fred, let’s get our stuff ready to go.’ But I wanted to stay and see what happened. I wouldn’t really believe he’d made it until I saw him atop the crest of dunes that topped Okaloosa Island.
He plunged into the fringe of trees. Heather tugged again. ‘Come on, Fred! What are you waiting for? He’s there.’
‘Not yet,’ I answered, my voice betraying my uncertainty. My tone must have frightened her, because she merely grabbed my arm and held on and stood next to me, watching.
We never really saw what happened. But we heard it.
Scotty vanished within the trees. A preternatural silence descended over the island, coupled with a smothering tension that defied rational explanation. I kept scanning the dune horizon, hoping to see Scotty waving from atop the horizon. But that did not happen.
We saw a cloud of smoke waft from the trees. We heard the sound of underbrush being crushed.
And then we heard screaming.
It was the sound of a man who was dying. We heard, ‘Stop it! Stop, dammit …’ and then more crashing. Then, an animal shriek of pain. More wispy tendrils of smoke slipped from the canopy. And the screaming began in earnest. It didn’t stop. I couldn’t imagine human lungs capable of holding the air necessary to produce such an unending cry of pain. Heather dropped my arm and ran madly for the water. I got to my feet and nearly fell over with dizziness, but managed to keep my balance and run after her. She splashed into the water and I thought she meant to swim the breach between our island and the shore. I caught her and held on. She was shouting, ‘Scotty! Scotty! Come back!’ and the screaming assumed a new, more urgent pitch. The underbrush began to gyrate madly, and then Scotty burst into view. Three of the creatures had fastened to him, one with its mouth at his throat, another biting his arm, and the third trying to reach the other side of his throat. Scotty was dragging them with him, and when the sunlight touched their skin all three began to smoke furiously and then burst into flame. They instantly let go and hurled themselves into the water. You could see the turbulence on the surface as they slithered, eel-like, toward the darker, deeper reaches of the sound.
Heather was sobbing, her chest heaving against my encircling arms. Her breath made a short, asthmatic whistling sound as she sucked air. Her gaze was locked on Scotty.
He stood there on the shore staring at us, his arms hanging at his side beseechingly. He was covered in blood. I didn’t know what to think – that he was pleading for help, that he was finally admitting I’d been right about something, that he was damning me for bringing us to this place. At once I felt an awful cascade of emotions – shame for all my evil thoughts about him, my less than honourable motivation for arranging this trip to begin with, possibly my ineptitude in dealing with the situation. Maybe he wanted me to see there was a kind of tragic honour in trying to beat death. I don’t know. My fevered imagination was treading equally through shock and guilt.
Scotty stood that way a moment longer. And then gravity took hold. He simply fell over, into the water, and vanished.
Heather moaned, ‘Nooo,’ and went weak in my arms. I nearly dropped her. She collapsed against my chest and began to sob, and it was a pitiful sound, full of defeat and misery, the kind that tears your heart apart. If I could have reached into her and taken that pain and brought it into myself, I would have done so because at that moment I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a human being who was so utterly, completely sad in all my life. And it had all been my doing. I couldn’t have foreseen these events, but it was because of me that we were here, and it was because of me that Scotty and I had fought. My shame gave way to a freezing sense of terror. Now it was only the two of us. And as old-fashioned as it sounds, I knew it was my responsibility to get us off this island alive. My feelings of infatuation for Heather had given over to a kind of paternal protectiveness. Yet the doubt remained.
Would I be able to do it?
Heather pulled herself from me and staggered away a few short steps. She began to vomit.
I should have gone to her. I should have helped her. I should have spoken the magic words that would have eased her pain.
Instead, I simply knelt there staring blankly at the spot where Scotty had vanished. The torrid afternoon seemed to weigh as much as the world.
In the evening
We sat atop the dune, numb.
I had worked all afternoon collecting lumber from the beach. Fortunately a great deal of wood had washed ashore, practically all of it dock timbers. This reinforced my suspicion that a barge had ploughed along the mainland side of the sound, tearing out a number of docks. Too bad none of the boats tied up to those docks had come our way. I’d worked almost to dusk, collecting the boards into a huge pile. Then I’d begun spelling out the world ‘HELP’ in 20-foot tall characters on the sandy tailing of the island, careful to avoid DeVries’ carbonised body which was still standing upright where he had burnt. The spot was slightly elevated with a shallow slope, so there was a chance somebody from shore would see it. But I was counting on an airplane or a helicopter pilot. That seemed the logical approach to reconnoitring the coast. If the authorities had begun to probe this far south, they’d do so by air first. Then by surface.
I had worked with a great deal of energy, partly to banish my thoughts, which kept returning to the sight of Scotty standing on the far shore, and partly to satisfy the newly found sense of urgency I felt in getting us off this island. Heather had remained on the beach for most of the afternoon, and I didn’t bother her. I expected she needed the time alone. I didn’t want to add to her misery. Later, she’d joined me, working silently yet with determination, and I’d said nothing.
As the sun slipped below the horizon and the air cooled, we gathered a few things – most importantly the flashlights and waterproof matches – and set up camp at the top of the dune. Neither one of us spoke of what we would face during the night. The day had already surpassed our quota of horror.
I checked the flashlight that Scotty had used the night before. The beam was jaundiced and barely illuminated the foot of the dune, much less the beach. I turned it off again. I wanted to get as much use from it as possible before the batteries died. No telling how much juice was in the other two flashlights.
We sat quietly in the gathering dark until the sun dropped completely below the horizon. And then Heath
er began to talk.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she began, her voice jagged. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to make it through this.’
‘You’re doing fine,’ I told her.
‘I’m trying …’ and it seemed she would start crying, as if the sound of grief alone would open the dam holding back her emotions. ‘I’m trying not to be one of those hysterical females you see in the movies, the ones who scream and faint and fall into the arms of a man. But I’m not sure …’
‘You’re not hysterical.’
‘I can’t believe what’s happened. I can’t believe what’s happened to Scotty. Two days ago we were a happy couple and now …’
‘I know. It’s horrible,’ I tried to console her. ‘Everything that’s happened since we came to this island is horrible – the mind can’t take it all in.’
‘But Scotty …’ and then she did begin to cry, very softly. She laid her head on my shoulder and just as quickly jerked it away. ‘Scotty was real. The rest of it …’ she waved her hand as if to take in the entire world, ‘just doesn’t seem that way.’ She looked up and in a warbling voice said, ‘What am I going to tell his mom?’ and began crying again.
‘Tell her he died trying to help us get off this island,’ I said.
‘He was attacked …’
‘Don’t tell her that,’ I said, waving the flashlight around. ‘Tell her what I told you.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t bother turning that thing on,’ she said. I wasn’t sure if she were speaking to me or merely thinking aloud. But I said, ‘Of course you’re not serious.’
She stared into the approaching dark. Finally, she shook her head. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘I guess not. I don’t think that’s how I want to die. But maybe I deserve it.’
I put my arm around her, more firmly than what would have been implied by a seductive gesture. ‘Look, Heather, don’t start, OK? You couldn’t have known and nobody expected this …’ I swept my arm across the dim vista of the sound. ‘This … insanity. Nobody could have foreseen any of this. I could be punishing myself about asking you to come, but I’m not. To question my motives based on hindsight – it’s pointless. I’m not going to do it, and you shouldn’t either.’
