Left on Paradise (57 page)

John tacked toward the beach.

It was as he neared the beach that John saw a woman come from the woods, observing through his binoculars it was a half-naked white woman who waved to him. Probably Lisa. She jogged toward the rendezvous point where the main trail came from the western village. Much further south, two men hurrying along the beach pointed toward his boat, but John didn’t care since they’d never close the distance in the little time that remained. As the woman approached, John noticed she had a child with her and prayed to reach shore fast.

Crack.

The muffled sound of gunfire came from the forest near the west village. A pause was followed by more shots.

Crack. Crack.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Crack.

The last shot seemed to echo several seconds. John shuddered for his friends and sailed straight toward shore while fingering his ax. If anything happened, he would need to chop large holes in the boat. Better he perish than the northsmen be given an easy chance to capture Kit and the children. Kit would require a day or two to prepare their escape on the other boat. Or maybe help would come before the northsmen could build a raft to cross the lagoon.

The water grew shallow and the boat pitched in the small waves. The woman on the beach waved frantically as John raced into shore at full sail, turning the rudder hard and dropping his sails at the last minute to prevent the craft from running aground. As Lisa dragged a young child into the lagoon, John jumped into the water and lifted the little girl into the boat before pushing Lisa aboard and telling her to leave if she saw anyone else approach. John then grabbed his ax and started inland just as Linh came running from the woods, followed by two men—one of them waving a pistol.

John raced back to the boat.

Linh ran hard until she reached the surf and high-stepped into the waves—where John hoisted her into the boat even as the enemy fighters closed their distance at a dead run. As Linh rolled into the boat, John shoved the sailboat seaward, jumped aboard, and turned the sails to catch wind.

Lisa pushed both Sally’s daughter and Linh to the floor even as the shouting from the beach was complemented with gunfire.

Crack.

Crack. Crack.

“Eeeeehhh,” Linh screamed as a bullet pierced the fiberglass hull and struck her in the side.

John shouted for the women and girl to cover their heads—though Lisa ignored him as she plugged a hole in the boat with one hand and the wound in Linh’s side with the other. They waited for more gunfire, but none came as Donovan fumbled to reload, then stooped to recover several bullets he dropped. By the time the priest was ready to fire, the sailboat had moved beyond pistol range.

John took the little girl under arm as he steered straight across the lagoon while Lisa nursed Linh. The stricken woman didn’t complain even when Lisa stuffed a strip of cloth ripped from John’s shirt into her gaping wound and pressed hard with her right hand to stem the flow of blood. Fortunately, winds were strong and it didn’t take long to reach the islet, though the journey was slowed by the sluggishness of the sinking craft as water filled the hull despite Lisa’s efforts to plug it with her left thumb.

With six inches of water sloshing in the hull, John ran the boat aground at the first suitable strip of sand—where he struck hidden coral and tore an unrepairable gash into the hull. With little concern for the sailboat, John jumped into ankle-deep water and lifted Linh from the craft, carrying her toward the shade of a tall palm tree as he shouted for Kit to bring a medical kit. But even though they packed gauze in the wound and wrapped it tight, the bandages soaked through as blood seeped from the bullet hole and color drained from Linh’s face.

Despite her pain, Linh refused morphine and asked that her daughters fetch a bit of food before telling John to come close. Through gasps and groans, she explained how the west villagers had met at the rendezvous point and then decided to burn their own village. Lisa stayed with the northern child while Viet led Tiffany and herself inland. Just after they set fires, the westerners were ambushed by northsmen; Tiffany was stabbed in the neck while Viet countered the enemy with gasoline bombs and a machete—burning one northsman and slashing another before he and Linh fled. When Donovan pursued them, screaming threats and firing shots, Viet ordered his wife to flee while he made a last stand. Linh heard the firing of shots and then the cries of her husband. A moment later, she heard the coup de grâce.

It was then that Linh had reached the beach.

Taking a moment to catch breath, Linh told John that she knew she’d die soon and made him promise to care for her daughters since neither she nor Viet had suitable family. She begged him to stay with the girls wherever they might go until he promised to do so.

After John went to summon the two girls, Linh called Kit to her side for a few private words. Only when Kit swore to do everything asked of her (just as John had) did Linh close her eyes and fall silent, trying to endure without complaint what were increasingly sharp swells of pain as she waited for her children.

Upon their return, Linh’s daughters wept and apologized that they’d found so little food, but their mother thanked them for their efforts and explained their father was dead, begging forgiveness for the foolish decision to leave the United States. Both girls forgave their mother with tears and touches as the latter explained she’d provided for their future—then prayed God to forgive her sins and protect her daughters. Later that day, John buried Linh in a shallow grave marked with a rough-hewn cross and tropical wildflowers.

45

Coming Down from a Bad Trip

Tomas Morales cowered in a thicket of nearly impenetrable brush on the south slopes of Mount Zion. He was one of the few to escape after the northsmen fell on the camp and survived only because he was the southern lookout. Once the first shots were fired, Morales sounded the conch alarm and fled into the forest—taking with him nothing more than a machete—which he had used to cut through vines until he rested near a shallow stream in the south-central forests of Paradise. Exhaustion and anguish took their toll and the anthropologist didn’t awaken until late in the day: thirsty, hungry, and sore. He crawled from the bush and lapped water from the stream like a dog. His thirst satisfied, he looked for fruit or edible leaves, but found nothing and now reclined against a tree to ponder his predicament. He was friendless and foodless, abandoned to a tropical hell, and caught between cannibals and criminals. It wasn’t a situation he’d studied and he couldn’t recollect any guidance from his dissertation committee.

After an hour, Dr. Morales heard the rustling of grass and the slosh of someone walking upstream. As the noise moved closer, Morales raised his machete to defend himself—though he remained hidden in the brush in hope the danger would pass him by. Soon enough, a half-starved teenager approached wearing nothing more than waist-length hair and wielding a stone knife in one hand and a piece of food in the other. She gasped at seeing Morales, but relaxed when he lowered his weapon upon realizing it was the girl with whom he had shared a bed on Roanoke Island. They looked at each other for what seemed minutes before Morales stood tall and the young native bowed in submission as she offered herself for the anthropologist’s pleasure.

Morales refused her. Instead, he uttered the native word for food and rubbed his belly. The girl surrendered a half-eaten breadfruit which the scholar devoured in a bite, though the fruit served only to awaken hunger. He’d eaten half-rations for several days and the taste of starch stirred a ravenous appetite he’d never known before, so he requested another helping. When the girl said nothing, Morales repeated himself—this time with evident irritation. The native motioned for him to follow and he did so, watching for trouble and posed for self-defense. He stayed several paces behind the girl as he watched for traps and ambushes, careful to keep his eyes open and weapon ready.

After several minutes, they reached a small clearing south of Mount Zion where two other natives rested: a gaunt-faced woman shivering from fever and a bleary-eyed woman who appeared exhausted. The girl signaled her elders and they discussed some point of protocol among themselves before turning toward Morales and bowing to their new chief.

“When in Rome,” Morales said as he accepted their homage, “worship Mars.”

One of the women crawled close and rolled upon her back, pointing to her belly and motioning for the stranger to enter. The anthropologist didn’t do so. Instead, he told her he was hungry and requested more food. The woman crossed the makeshift camp and brought back roasted meat. Upon inspection, Morales determined the meat was human, probably broiled over the fires of the east village and clear proof the natives could cook. It also was evidence the tribesmen ate flesh that didn’t come from their own loins: a radical cultural shift that already threatened to compromise their customary rites of cannibalism. The anthropologist groaned at his role, albeit unwitting, in cultural desecration as he returned the meat to the woman—who ate without hesitation.

Cannibalism no longer shocked. Too much had taken place during the past few days for horror to stir and Morales rubbed his growling stomach as the sweet smell of the meat filled his senses. His belly gnawed and now his face contorted as he felt his stomach chewing through itself; the anthropologist grew hungrier with every bite the woman took.

“It looks like liver,” Dr. Morales said, “and what’s really the difference between a pig and a man? We eat pig’s hearts and we implant them in men. We transplant men’s hearts and we ...”

Morales stepped toward the woman.

“I’ve got to be consistent,” the anthropologist explained to the cannibal women, though they didn’t understand a word of what he said, "with my profession of cultural relativism. This is the true test—the final examination. If I can do this, I’ll crush Western stereotypes for good. Shock scholarship fleshed out.”

When Morales opened his palm, the woman placed the half-eaten liver in it and the anthropologist took the meat, smelled it, licked it, and finally took a big bite that he swallowed almost without chewing. The second bite went easier and he chewed a bit without gagging. Then a third bite was eaten and a fourth. By the time the liver was gone, the new chief was licking his fingers and enjoying the aftertaste of his rare-cooked dinner.

Now the anthropologist told the woman to fetch more meat. As she ran to do as told, he examined the two women who remained. The older one—who had a runny nose and a cough—was in her mid-twenties: wide-jawed, emaciated, and short. She offered herself to the anthropologist, but he passed over the sick woman for a roll with the teenager who’d brought him to the clearing. Morales was strong from the taste of human flesh and the reception of homage, so he also took the other woman after she returned with more food. She accepted him willingly, begging Morales to bless the seed in her belly so it might grow strong as a tree and bear meat for their tribe—which he did.

Afterwards, they collected their weapons and retired into the dark of the forest. Though Dr. Tomas Morales was a chief and god, his subjects were no less savage for being ruled by a renowned scholar.

There no longer remained a reason for the refugees to hide since Donovan knew their position by the return of the sailboat. John strung fishing line tasseled with shells across strategic entry points, hoping invaders might trigger the line into sounding an alarm. While Kit wondered whether the shells worked more as wind chimes than an alert, even she agreed the alarm was necessary. In any case, the immediate advantage remained with John since attackers would both tire themselves and risk sharks by swimming across the lagoon while John could sail to any point of the main island at will. Assessing that it’d take the northsmen several days to fashion a boat, John decided to start the tasks of building a fort and manufacturing weapons only after a good night’s rest. In the meantime, he kept several of Viet’s firebombs and a butane lighter close at hand.

All seven children now rested in a tent, the older girls having cried themselves to sleep grieving for their dead parents. The twins slept noiselessly beside them, two little girls were paired in a bedroll, and the baby was swaddled in a blanket near Lisa—who was covered with a bit of canvas sail for the sake of decency and warmth.

John and Kit now sat on a blanket near a small fire. Both showed tear-stained and dirty faces from weeping over their loss: the death of Deidra and the disappearance of Ryan. They also mourned Brent and Tiffany—and many others. This was the first time since the outbreak of hostilities against the cannibals that they’d had sufficient time to reflect upon the catastrophe that had befallen Paradise and only now did they feel the depth of their sorrow. No longer consumed with food and fighting, they mourned and wept for those who had been lost until tears would no longer flow. Hours passed while they comforted each other without word.

Kit’s shorts were torn to the hip and her blouse also was ruined. It had no buttons and was tied with a knot at the waist, the left side of the shirt little more than a tattered rag. She wore no bra and her breasts hung loose. Her legs were bronzed from three months of sun and her hair bleached blonder than before—falling flat and unwashed down her back. She sat upright, legs together, and toes toward the fire as she wiped away tears.

“I’m cold.”

John—who wore a dirty, sleeveless tee shirt that mismatched his khaki shorts and dark boots—moved closer, rubbing his leg against Kit’s thigh as she nuzzled her shoulder to John’s chest and crossed her second leg over his, wrapping her ankle around his foot and laying a hand on his side. Only when John unintentionally brushed fingers against Kit’s breast did she pull back.

Kit said nothing for a long time.

“Linh made me,” Kit eventually said with a somber voice, “promise to raise her children.”

“She made me,” John looked surprised as he spoke, “swear the same thing: never to leave them. No matter what.”

“She must have been delirious from pain.”

“She was dying and she knew it,” John replied, “but she wasn’t irrational and she even refused morphine to keep her mind clear.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Did she make you promise to raise them here?”

“Not here,” Kit said, “but in America. She wanted me to get them back home.”

“The same with me.”

“We’ve both promised to raise them.”

“I can see how we’d raise them together here,” John said, “but if we get back, your home is Hollywood. I think I’m going to Nebraska to work for my brother.”

“My place,” Kit said as she looked at John, “is with these children.”

“So is mine.”

“And,” Kit said, “I’m keeping the baby boy, if I can ... and any others who need a home.”

“How can you raise all those children by yourself? And from Hollywood at that?”

“I can’t,” Kit whispered. “The only role I’ll ever play again is mother.”

“You may earn an Oscar.”

“You really think so?”

“You’ll have my vote.”

Kit leaned on John’s shoulder as he pushed a log into the fire with his food. They watched the flames rise and felt the heat.

“How shrewd,” Kit said after a time. “She wanted us together.”

“I think so.”

“I mean, she wanted to fix us up.”

“I just lost Deidra and you Ryan. I hope he’s not hurt.”

“I’m not saying,” Kit said, “she was right, because it’s too early for both of us. But it is what she wanted.”

“I suppose.”

“And we promised.”

“People,” John said, “would think it perverse.”

“We’ve done nothing wrong—unless we betray a dying friend.”

“These children will need two parents: both mom and dad.”

“So what do we do?”

“We could raise them together, I guess.”

“Not from the same house. I promised my grandmother.”

“I guess we could marry.”

“Is that,” Kit asked, “a proposition or a proposal?”

John looked straight at the middle-aged blonde, who nodded once to make her intention clear.

“Will you be my wife?” John asked.

“Now?”

“Do you see any reason to delay?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.”

Now John looked into Kit’s eyes and took her hands into his own. “Will you marry me?” he asked.

Kit nodded.

“Do you,” John whispered, “take me as your husband before God?”

“I do.”

“Then with God as our witness, I pronounce us husband and wife. Till death do us part.”

John kissed his bride and gently squeezed her hands.

“Not here,” Kit whispered, “not so near the children.”

“You’re right,” John said, “but at least you can come closer and let me sleep beside my bride.”

Kit nestled herself to her groom, their legs intertwined and bodies held fast. They talked a few minutes before contenting themselves with the quiet of touch. As the fire flamed and flickered into coals and ash, Kit looked toward the heavens and silently prayed—asking whether anything good could come from such a sin-stained world. Her prayers finished, Kit clasped the hand of her now slumbering husband.

On her honeymoon night, Kit twice rose to feed the baby.

The dark remained deep as Ryan heard voices. He lay on his stomach, perhaps thirty feet from the trail to the immediate north of New Plymouth, in a shallow ditch he had dug with his hands and where he now was hidden beneath a dark blanket and piled foliage. Mud was smeared on his face and he didn’t move at all—overwhelmed with regret that he’d failed to find Maria at the north camp during a day-long wait outside the camp in hope she might escape. By dusk, he had returned to New Plymouth and salvaged stale crackers from a discarded MRE, then found a wool blanket and looked for a safe bed down site. He chose a spot overlooking the main trail from behind thick brush—from which he could watch for his wife without exposing himself to northsmen or natives. After all, it’d do Maria no good if he were shot. Or eaten.

Earlier, Ryan thought he saw native children running through the forest, but he couldn’t be sure and they didn’t return. Now he fell asleep, cheek pressed to the grass and arms tucked beneath the warmth of a wool blanket. He was careful not to snore and occasionally startled himself awake from fear of too much noise. But no one heard him. The birds had quieted for the evening and only tropical insects made their presence known. A few bats circled above.

It was whispering from the trail that awoke Ryan. When he raised his head ever so slightly and squinted toward two shadows, he saw that the taller one resembled Father Donovan. When he cocked his ear toward the men, he decided that the man also sounded like the renegade priest.