Phoenix Island (19 page)

He realized he’d been rambling and realized further that his mind was adrift in a sea of fever. None of this seemed real. The man’s presence, his immensity, his deep voice, his calm, the spill of words that had flown from Carl’s own lips . . . it was all the stuff of dreams, fever dreams, yet from his pain, Carl knew the moment as waking truth.

“I love it, too,” the man said, and Carl heard him take another deep breath. “The stillness, the mystery, the sharpening of auxiliary senses. Sounds carry in the darkness, and our fingertips can all but see in the blindness of night. Even taste is enhanced. Have you ever eaten an orange in complete darkness?”

Carl said he had not.

“Here, then,” the man said, and after a bit of rustling, an orange appeared in the darkness, as spherical and whole and bright as a miniature sun, and moved forward to the bars of the cage. “It’s not an experience to be missed.”

“Thank you,” Carl said. The orange was cool and damp, and he had to work to get it through the bars. He peeled it slowly with his left hand.

The man waited in silence, watching.

Carl pulled away a section. The first bite was an explosion of taste. It turned to juice on his tongue and filled his mouth, and the man was right; the taste was better in darkness,
more
in the darkness. “Amazing.”

“Indeed,” the man said. “You’re not afraid of me.”

Carl shook his head. “I’m from Philly. I don’t scare easy.”

The man’s laughter was deep and dark, a night sound. “You’ve conducted some primitive first aid on yourself.”

Carl looked down to where he’d wrapped his ribs. “I couldn’t do much. I washed with rainwater, tore off part of my shirt, and wrapped it around my ribs. The knife got me pretty bad. Mainly, I was just trying to keep the bugs out.”

“Before you woke, I was admiring your handiwork.” He pointed to the dead bugs littering the ground just outside the cage. “The samurai respected insects. To them, insects represented efficiency and victory.”

“I’m not a samurai.”

“No? And how do you know that?”

Carl shrugged.

“Miyamoto Musashi—the greatest samurai of all time—encouraged his young warriors to wander the countryside, fighting. He told them to carry no money and to sleep outside and to get thrown into prison on purpose. Do you know why?”

Carl ate his orange and said nothing.

“So they could extricate themselves through their own power and wisdom. Why are you in this cage?”

“They hit me from behind. I didn’t see them coming. It was my mistake.”

“Ah, yes . . . fair enough, but what I’m asking is why they wanted to put you in this cage in the first place. I’ve heard one report. Now I’d like to hear yours.”

Carl told him. He started with Decker and Medicaid and told it straight through Parker to when they hit him from behind and how he’d awakened here. The man didn’t interrupt. “Parker said he’s going to execute me.”

“Did he?” the man said, but his voice lilted, making his words sound less like a question than an expression of amusement. “From
what I understand, Drill Sergeant Parker already did his best to kill you in the barracks.”

“He came at me with a knife.”

“And how do you explain your survival? Drill Sergeant Parker is older than you, well trained, and combat experienced. He’s killed before. Many times.”

“Well,” Carl said, and paused. Normally, bad-mouthing a drill sergeant was a one-way ticket to trouble, but he was already in trouble, and something told him that this Captain Midnight guy had more respect for truth than he did for Parker. “He was stupid. He forced me into it. He wanted to hurt me since day one, and he kept pushing, and finally, when he hurt my friend, I let him have it.”

“I would say you did.”

“Honestly,” Carl said, “he can’t fight. He puts too much faith into muscle. He’s always flexing and everything. He lets anger get in the way, too. And he pretends things are what he wants them to be, not what they really are.”

“Interesting. Please elaborate.”

“When you fight, you have to know the situation. Like I understood he was really strong, so I wasn’t going to wrestle him. And I knew he was left-handed, so I moved mostly to my left, away from his power. I just worked speed and angles and broke him down, and that made him mad, so he kept getting sloppier and sloppier, and that made it so I could start landing heavier shots.”

“What about his weapons?”

“He tried the stun gun, but I knocked that out of his hand. That messed with his head.”

“The knife?”

“I wasn’t happy to see it. Blades are scary. But part of me . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe part of me
was
happy to see it. I mean I was scared, but I also knew I had his heart in my back pocket then. If he was confident, he wouldn’t have brought it out. But he must have thought he needed it.”

“What should he have done instead?”

“Readjusted. He should have let go of what he wanted to happen
and taken a good look at what was really happening and done something about it.”

“Could he have beaten you if he had?”

Carl was silent for a second. Then he said, “No. Probably not.”

“And what about your current situation? What’s really happening? And what are you going to do about it?”

“Right now, I’m finishing this orange and having a conversation. Then I guess I’ll just wait and see. I figure they’ll probably kill me.”

“This doesn’t frighten you?”

Carl shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I don’t want to die, but if I’m going to die, I’m going to die. You know what I mean? Parker’s hoping I’ll beg for mercy or kiss his boots or whatever, but I’ll tell you right now that’s not going to happen.”

“Musashi said, ‘The way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death.’ ”

Carl nodded. “Maybe I should have been a samurai, then.”

The man showed his teeth again. “Perhaps. And perhaps it is not too late. But speaking of lateness . . . ‘the glow-worm shows the matin to be near, and ’gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu!’ Carl Freeman, remember me.”

He turned and, silent as nightfall, disappeared into the darkness.

T
HEY WERE OUT ON THE
pavement. It had rained in the night, and now, beneath the rising sun, fog spun and lifted from the blacktop in pale, little rags, like so many ghosts drifting away. Normally, the smell of rain was comforting to Octavia—a reminder of home, Washington State, where it always rained—but this morning, the heavy smell of decay drifted out of the jungle, and the smell of wet earth filled her nostrils, and she breathed the smell of worms until it seemed they filled her, wriggling in her stomach, as if she were already dead and buried. . . .

She was very tired.

“Form it up!”

Octavia pushed close to the front and all the way to the left. She needed to be close.

“Attention!”

She came to attention, wobbling only slightly. Not bad, considering how, after weeks of sleep deprivation, she’d stayed up all night.

The shank was in her pocket. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it. She also prayed that if she did have to use it, it would be good enough to finish the job. And that she would be good enough, too. Strong enough.

“Good morning, orphans,” First Sergeant Oteka said.

“Hooah!”

“Motivated,” Oteka said. “Today, orphans, is a special day. A very special day. Today, at seventeen hundred hours, you are meeting a great man, the man who created Phoenix Island, Commander Stark.”

Everyone hooah-ed again.

Octavia swayed with fatigue. She took a deep breath and forced her eyes wide open.
Wake up,
she told herself.
You have to be on point . . . for Carl
.

“We will spend this day in preparation,” Oteka said. “Training Base One will be completely squared away. Spit and polish, orphans, spit and polish. Everything dress-right-dress: the barracks, your footlockers, your gear, yourselves. Everything must shine. But first, we must see to cleaning of a different kind. As you know, I will soon be leaving Phoenix Island for my next assignment. It has been my pleasure to oversee your initial training, and it is with complete confidence that I pass you to Drill Sergeant Parker, who will oversee Blue Phase and prepare those lucky individuals who will one day train full-time under Commander Stark.”

Oteka nodded toward Parker, then stepped aside, flanking the formation.

“Thank you, First Sergeant,” Parker said, and swaggered to the front, whooping like a motivational speaker entering a school auditorium. A sling cradled one arm, and bruises covered his face. “Woo-ee, orphans! You’re in for a treat today. Yup, you’re finally going to see how things really work around here.” A long machete hung in a sheath at his side. From what everyone had been whispering, he was going to use it to kill Carl.

From the machete, her eyes went to Parker’s thick neck, made cartoonishly thick now by the foam brace he’d been wearing since the fight.

She pictured the shank passing through that foam, pushing through the thick muscle, and sinking into the veins. Severing them. Pictured it pulling free, plunging in again. Pictured an indistinct spray of blood and a struggle that ended badly for her. How many holes would she be able to put in him before they took her down? Would she even have the strength to do it? Fatigue and anxiety played tag in her empty stomach, making her feel like she might hurl again.

Her hand gripped the shank.

“Bring him out,” Parker said to the trio of muscular soldiers beside the sweatbox. “Careful. He’s scrappy as a Chihuahua.”

Her muscles tensed. Parker was just ahead of her, with his back turned.
Not yet,
she told herself, staying in the ranks, keeping the
weapon concealed. She had to be certain Parker was going to go through with it, had to be sure it wasn’t another bluff.

But then, seeing Carl for the first time, she forgot all about Parker.

Oh, Carl . . .

Her heart broke at the sight of his limp body as the soldiers lifted him from the sweatbox. His head lolled loosely in semiconsciousness, and his face, always so handsome and intense, was a purple balloon of bruised swelling.

Carl, Carl, Carl . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back tears, and breathed through her nose.
Hold it together,
she told herself.
You have to hold it together
.

She heard thumping and laughter and opened her eyes only to wish she hadn’t. They had spilled Carl onto the ground. Parker laughed as they kicked him, hard, over and over.

Nausea filled her shaking body. Why didn’t Carl cry out? Was he unconscious? How else could he keep from crying out?

No . . . he wasn’t unconscious. As they bent to lift him, he punched one soldier hard enough that the muscle-head wobbled and fell on his butt. So they started kicking Carl again.

She hated the intensity of the other kids, the excitement shining in their eyes. Many smiled. She saw them nudge, saw them crane their necks for a clearer view. They sickened her.

“Leave some for me,” Parker said. “Jenson, stand up. I told you he was scrappy.”

Just do it,
she told herself.
Just do it now, while he’s distracted. Walk calmly out of the ranks. Be quiet and act natural and then run the last couple of steps and bury the point in his neck again and again and again until it’s over for both of you
.

She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands on her pants, drying the palms. She would need a good grip.

They dragged Carl across the pavement. Seeing his battered face broke her heart all over again. He sagged between them, his head bobbing as if he were fighting unconsciousness. They dumped him on the pavement at Parker’s feet.

Parker smiled. His hand went to the handle of the machete, but he didn’t unsheathe it.

Octavia’s hand went to her own weapon.

“Well, well, well,” Parker said, “what do we have here?” He turned to the platoon, smiling so hard the scabs on his lips split open, sending blood running down his teeth. “Our old friend Hollywood, the individual.” To Carl, he said, “I told you what would happen, didn’t I? Scripture and verse. And lo and behold . . . so it has come to pass. Like a miracle, Hollywood . . . our own little miracle.”

Carl stirred and pushed himself off the pavement with shaking arms.

Parker took a step back. The other soldiers hovered, ready to start kicking again.

But Carl simply fought his way onto all fours, then rocked back, kneeling before Parker.

Parker laughed. “That’s it. Just as I said. It’s a pity you spent all that time in the box. Probably don’t even have the voice to beg.”

Carl lifted his head and stared through swollen eyes at the drill sergeant.

“Leave him alone!”

Everyone shifted.

Ross broke the ranks, his bruised face twisted with indignation. “Leave him alone, you animal!”

“Ross—
again
? What are you, brain damaged?” Parker snapped his fingers. Decker and his friends tackled Ross and dragged him off toward the barracks.

Parker chuckled. “We’ll deal with him later. But right now the spotlight’s on this individual. You know what time it is, Hollywood. You know what you have to do. You remember.” He shoved one muddy combat boot toward Carl. “You don’t have to say a word. Just bend down there and kiss my boots. Lick ’em clean in front of your audience, and I’ll let you rejoin the ranks.”