Richard DuBois

LAST RESORT

To the Queen of the Gnomes, my sister, Denise DuBois. Her constant support and hawk-eyed editing helped make this book possible.

Chapter One

A surreal sensation washes over me, a feeling both numbing and disconcerting. I close my eyes and have the odd sense that I am no longer Phillip Crane, thirty-seven, self-effacing adjunct professor for the science department of a fourth tier university. Nor am I sitting behind the wheel of a parked car on a shadow-filled street in a sleepy residential neighborhood. No, I am someone else, living somewhere else and Phillip Crane is a character invented by my overactive imagination. I pick up my cell phone and call my wife.

“Hello,” she sounds out of breath.

“Hey, Gwen. Just calling to say hi. Did I interrupt you?”

“No, no.”

“What’re you doing?”

Pause. “Uh, nothing, watching TV.”

“Anything good?”

“No, not really. Just flipping channels. I’m surprised to hear from you. I thought your conference would be going all night.”

I listen closely for background noise. There is none. My tone is nonchalant. “We took a break to rest our brains so I figured I’d check in.”

She chuckles with either genuine amusement or nervousness. I cannot tell which. “You’ll be home around midnight?”

“Hopefully,” I reply.

“I’ll wait up for you.”

“No need to do that. You must be tired after a long day at the office. Listen, everyone is heading back into the conference room.”

“Okay, I won’t hold you up then.”

“Goodbye, baby.”

Before she hangs up I add, “Honey?”

She is back on the line. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Oh, I love you, too.”

She seems perplexed. We are not a couple that ends every phone call with sweet endearments.

“Goodbye, honey.”

“Bye.”

From the glove box, I remove a photo from our wedding. It is impossible to gaze upon this photo of Gwen, delicate and beautiful, luminous in white satin and pearls, honey brown hair cascading over her smooth shoulders, and not feel wistful. That is the effect she has on me. The moment she entered my life I became like a gurgling infant staring wide eyed at a spinning crib mobile. Three years of marriage and if anything her loveliness has only increased. At the time of the photo, someone must have said something funny—was it me? I cannot remember—for in the photo she is laughing, her eyes sparkling with joy. In the photo, we are a contrasting pair, Gwen so lovely, and me the proverbial runt of the litter in a boxy suit. I do not deserve her. Even on my wedding day—the happiest day of my life—I seem to know how mismatched we are. My confused, goofy grin is that of the dumbest kid in class mistakenly given another student’s A+ grade.

I put the photo away and step outside the car. It is mid-May. The night is unusually cool—the moon just a pale sliver. I walk towards a well-maintained ranch house. My wife’s car is in the driveway. I dither on the front lawn. Should I ring the doorbell? No. I must get closer to the house to see what is happening inside without anyone knowing I am there. I feel exposed and out of my depth. Up until now, my life has been one of comfortable routine, reliable as a clock. I am not someone you expect to find skulking around in the shadows. I hunker close to the trunk of a maple and envision myself disappearing into the darkness ninja-like, each move stealthy and precise. Would a ninja’s knees quiver as mine are? How badly I wish I could slink back to my car, drive away, and continue living my life as it was before.

A large picture window dominates the front of the house. From within that room soft light filters through gauzy curtains. No figures move within. Perhaps the house is empty. The light may be on only to give the appearance someone is home. A chain link fence encloses the backyard. I sneak across the open lawn towards the fence. A car cruises down the street. Headlights hit me. Instinctively, I freeze. This looks too suspicious. Comically, I fidget around, pretending to look for something in the grass. The car drives on. Scaling the fence is no easy task. Regardless of my scrawny build, it sways beneath me as though I weigh a ton and creates an ungodly rattle that advertises my intrusion to everyone within earshot.

I hit the ground on the other side; the thud seems to vibrate right through the walls of the house. Crouching low, hardly daring to breathe, I stare up at the dark side window of the house, expecting at any moment to see a face and have someone demand to know why I am trespassing. Nothing stirs. The space between the ranch house and the fence separating the adjoining backyard is small—no wider than the length of my body. The side window is open. A faint breeze moves the curtains. Soft music plays within the house. With held breath, I peer inside. There is a hallway leading to what must be the dimly lit living room. Against the far wall, a fire crackles in the fireplace. Half-empty wine glasses rest on a coffee table. Walls obscure the rest of my view. I back away from the window.

Suddenly the air behind me explodes with ferocious barking, the breath, and spittle of a beast hot on my neck. I lunge forward, hands protecting my face and whip around to find a snarling Great Dane, as big as a horse, on the other side of the chain link fence. The massive hound frantically paces back and forth, barking madly. The fence protects me from those snapping jaws, but I cannot remain hidden in this spot. I crawl to the back of the ranch house. My body does not obey me as it should; it is as though my muscles have atrophied. The owner of the dog in the neighboring house—a tall woman of middle age—opens her backdoor.

“Goldie!”

The woman does not see me crouched in the darkness. The Great Dane continues to growl at me.

“Goldie! Hush up! Get in here. I can’t believe you, making all that racket.”

The dog turns in her direction, but refuses to budge, trying with helpless frustration to get the woman to see me.

“Now, Goldie,” the woman insists. Reluctantly, the dog turns away from me and heads inside the house. I huddle in a ball, not daring to move. Did the commotion draw someone to the side window of the ranch house? It is too risky to chance turning my head to find out. I am as motionless as a rock. Only after several minutes of hearing nothing more than the usual night sounds do I venture from my hiding spot. At the back of the house, there is a wooden deck, which has the usual assortment of outdoor furniture. Large sliding glass doors lead from the house to the deck. Curtains hang in the front of the glass doors; they are partly open allowing me to peer into the living room.

A man sits on a sofa, facing me but looking elsewhere. His name is Patrick Farber. He works with my wife. Granite jawed with neatly trimmed rust colored hair he has the beefy but muscled physique of an ex-college jock. Wearing a white athletic shirt, plaid boxers and nothing else, he reclines with arms outstretched on the back of the sofa like a sultan inspecting his harem. I half expect to see two slave women fanning him with palm fronds while a concubine feeds him grapes.

Staying low, I creep to the steps leading to the deck. I need to see more of the room. The closer I get the greater my vantage, and I finally see what Patrick is looking at. Gwen. Her back is to me. She wears one of Patrick’s sweatshirts, the oversized sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her lower half is naked, the sweatshirt barely covering her backside, the firelight playing on her silky legs. A cocky grin plays on his smug face, beckoning Gwen to him, and she responds. Gwen’s approach is languorous, as though moving through honey. Without seeing her face I know she is enjoying this moment, savoring the anticipation. I have never seen her move in such a seductively feline way. It would not shock me if she curled up on his crotch and purred. She straddles his lap, cupping his grinning face in her hands. His large hands roam over her thighs, over her bare ass towards the small of her back. Those hands take possession of her, claim her and she eagerly yields to him.

Time slows down. Without realizing it, I’ve stopped breathing. This cannot be Gwen. I must be looking at someone else—an impostor— someone who only resembles my wife. Please, let it be someone else. Let this be an awful dream.

I am standing in full view now, walking in a daze up the deck stairs, not bothering to hide myself. Images flood my eyes faster than my brain can process them.

“Holy shit!” Patrick shouts. He is looking right at me as I stand outside the living room. Gwen turns around and the disbelief on her face strikes me like a punch. As though by their own volition, my legs begin walking backwards, carrying me from this awful scene. Even as every muscle in my body seeks to propel me away, I cannot take my eyes from Gwen. She leaps off Patrick and runs to the back door. I stumble down the steps.

“Please, Phillip, wait,” she grabs my arm. I shirk her off as I head back to the fence.

“I can’t. I can’t,” I gasp as I struggle to climb the fence. It was not supposed to go down like this. I was supposed to be calm, in control. Now all I want to do is get away and this fucking wobbly fence will not let me.

Gwen is pulling on my arm, sobbing. “My God, I am so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. Please believe me.”

I face Gwen, my expression twisted into a mask of grief and fury. “Hurt me! You never wanted to hurt me! How did you expect me to feel when I see my wife screwing somebody else? Happy?”

She tries to put her arms around me, my beautiful Gwen, tears running down her cheeks; I push her back. Patrick stands behind her in his underwear, embarrassed and unsure what to do. The woman next door is at her kitchen window enjoying a front row seat to the spectacle. One thing about Patrick is certain: He is not ashamed. Someone like him never is. I bet he bragged about it to his buddies, describing in vivid detail every filthy act Gwen performed with him.

He steps in front of my wife as though to shield her. My God, this idiot thinks I am actually going to harm my wife and now he gets to play her knight and protector.

“Fuck you,” I rasp. I want to smash his jaw, feel his nose splinter and break beneath my fist. A fury unlike anything I have known erupts within me.

I leap at him. He must outweigh me by sixty pounds. With ease, he grabs me and hoists me off my feet.

“Calm down.” His voice is stern and authoritative. In comparison, I sound hysterical. What am I doing? The sudden rage that flared within me is gone, the inferno snuffed out as easily as a candle. I am no fighter. Life taught me early on—in the bluntly effective way that children size each other up and dominate the weakest—that I am not equipped for physical confrontations. All my adulthood I avoided conflict. Now a sickening fear swells in my gut—a feeling I hoped I would never feel again—the dread of a child picked on by a schoolyard bully.

Patrick releases me and I do not know whom I hate more—Patrick for having an affair with my wife or myself for being too weak to do anything about it. To complete my humiliation I begin to cry. Trying to stifle my tears only opens the floodgates wider. Patrick regards me with a mixture of pity and scorn. I cannot bear for anyone to see me. I want to burrow into the ground like a mole, safe and unseen in the dark earth.

“Let’s talk about this inside,” Patrick says, nodding mindfully to his neighbor.

I sniffle and wipe the tears from my face, trying to salvage what little dignity remains to me. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“If you’ll just let me explain,” Gwen pleads. “Please, just hear me out.”

I cannot listen to her. I try once again to scale the fence but my arms feel like rubber bands.

Patrick scratches his head. “Come to the other side of the house,” he says, almost sympathetic now. “I’ll unlock the gate so you can leave.”

How thoughtful of him. I follow him around the back of his house, shuffling the way I imagine a zombie would, blank-eyed, staring at my feet. My brain is shutting down. A thick, protective fog fills my skull. As I shamble along Gwen weeps behind me, begging me to realize she did not intend to hurt me. Her voice sounds impossibly far, like the cries of onlookers on a beach to a man drowning under the waves. Patrick unlocks the gate and courteously holds it open for me.

I walk past him and dazedly mumble thanks for unlocking the gate, then immediately want to stab myself in the gut. I cannot believe I just thanked the asshole who screwed my wife. Gwen no longer follows me. I hear Patrick speaking to her, leading her back inside, probably to finish what I interrupted. With tunnel vision, I get behind the wheel of my car, gun the engine, and speed away.

Chapter Two

It is dawn—mid-September—and the airport terminal is crowded with bored, sleepy eyed travelers.

“I think our flight is ready to board,” Gwen says. We sit together near the window that allows us to see the planes landing and taking off. Over the intercom, the flight crew begins to call passengers. People rise to their feet, drag their on-flight luggage, and jostle to be the first to wait in a long line. I prefer to remain slouched in my seat, but Gwen is as eager as a puppy pulling at the leash. She folds my jacket and gives me a sweet, hopeful smile that would tug at the coldest heart. When a woman as stunning as Gwen smiles you cannot help but smile back. Ah, Gwen. My beautiful Gwen. You are really trying. I know you are.

My cell phone rings.

“It’s my mother.”

Gwen’s smile slips away, replaced by a small wrinkle of worry around her brows.

“But we’re just about to board our plane,” she says.

I gesture to the non-moving line of passengers. “This won’t take long.”

I walk away from my wife for some privacy—something I would not have done months ago—but a lot has changed since then.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, Phillip, I’m glad I caught you before your flight left. Last night I slept so poorly. I can’t stop thinking that you are making a big mistake.”

Here it comes. The Speech. I am only surprised it has not come sooner.

“Phillip, listen to me. I know you are a grown man—and I know you are capable of making your own decisions, but you are the only child I have. Don’t you know that wherever you go you’ll always be my baby boy? You don’t have to go away with her,” she refers to my wife like spitting out rotten fruit. “It is not too late to change your mind. Forget the plane tickets, the hotel reservations. You are not alone in this. Come home.”

“Mom, I have to give this a chance—give my marriage a chance.”

“Or you could give the separation more of a chance. It’s no secret you suffered all summer. Believe me, Phillip, I was crying right there with you, but it will get better. Eventually it won’t hurt anymore. Someone new will come along—someone better—someone you can trust, who won’t take your love and throw it in the gutter. Taking the woman back who did this to you is not the answer.”

My mother cannot hide her exasperation. She is disappointed in me, but her motherly devotion trumps all else. I glance at Gwen, her worry line growing deeper. She does not need superhuman hearing to know what my mother is saying.

My mother sighs. “Well, one thing is certain—regardless of whether you stay with her or not it will be a long, long time before that woman is welcome in my house again.”

I have to chuckle, probably the first real humor I have felt in ages. My mother may be pint sized but within her beats the heart of a roaring grizzly protecting her cub.

“Phillip, you still there, honey?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“You have to go?”

Gwen is on line with our luggage, not facing me, her head down. What is going through her mind? Will I stand next to her and board the plane or will I tell her this trip is a mistake.

“I have a few more minutes, Mom.”

“Hold on, your father wants to talk to you,” she hands the phone off to my father. As he begins to speak she snatches the phone back. “One more thing, Phillip.”

“Yes, Ma?”

“I am so sorry this happened to you. I raised you to be a good man—someone gentle, someone kind, but the world is not a kind place. Maybe I failed you when you were growing up. I should have prepared you for the cruel, selfish people you were bound to come across.”

My throat chokes up. “You did just fine by me, Mom. A son could not ask for better.”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

“I know.”

“I love you, Phillip.”

“I love you, too, Mom.”

“Take care,” her voice cracks and I hear what sounds like my father holding my mother and gently patting her back.

“Hey, Phillip.”

“Hey, Dad.”

Here it comes—the one, two punch. My parents have used this effective technique on me since infancy. First, my mother softens me up with her anguished emotionalism, and then my father wears me down with the blunt force of his irrefutable logic. My father is an accountant, spending his days crunching numbers, boiling down complex scenarios to quantifiable truths. For him two plus two will always equal four. Someone hits you, you hit back. If your wife sleeps with another man, you leave her. Sometimes I wish I were more like him. Life would be so much simpler.

“It would have been nice if you’d talked to me about this trip you are going on. I have to learn about it from your mother only after you’ve gone. Thanks, Son”

“If I mentioned it you would talk me out of it. You would use your accountant’s brain, add up all the facts, subtract the negatives from the positives and I would not be able to argue with you.”

“That’s your answer, right there. Your subconscious is letting you know this is not a wise decision. Why go on this trip? You never even sat down with a marital counselor. It seems to me that would be the logical thing to do.”

“You know we don’t have the money for counseling.”

“But you have the money to go on this trip. Your mother tells me this is a very ritzy resort.”

I exhale slowly. “We never had a real honeymoon. I had to go right to work after the wedding and it’s something we kept promising we would do someday, but we kept putting it off.”

“Son, the time for a honeymoon is not right after your wife cheats on you. You’re not making any sense.”

“I know, I know,” I reply with a sad nod of my head. “Nothing I do makes much sense nowadays.”

“Phillip, if you really think a vacation with Gwen could be just the thing your marriage needs why not some place closer to home? You don’t need to fly all the way to this Isla Terrafin or whatever the hell it’s called-”

“Isla Fin de la Tierra.”

“Well, la-dee-da,” he gripes. “You don’t need a trip to the middle of nowhere to see if you and Gwen have a future. Why not Myrtle Beach? It’s a hell of a lot cheaper, for one thing. Please tell me Gwen hasn’t twisted your arm into going to this fancy, shmantzy luxury resort.”

“No, Dad. This trip is my idea. When I was a kid, I read about this island in one of your National Geographics. Isla Fin de la Tierra. Island at the end of the earth. I’ve always dreamed about going; now seems as good a time as any. Believe me, if it was up to Gwen, we would stay local, like you suggest. Besides—think about it—no casinos, hardly any nightlife to speak of, nothing but sand, sea and one of the best reefs on the planet—you know this is way too sedate for Gwen. She only agreed to this trip to please me.”

“And you really think this week alone with Gwen will save your marriage?”

“It could. If my marriage has any chance I just may have to journey to the end of the earth to find it.”

“You don’t sound very hopeful.”

Pause. “I’m not.”

“Then why are you going?”

Long pause. “I don’t know.”

Gwen is near the check in counter. “Dad, it’s time for me to board. I have to get going.”

“Okay, son,” my father’s tone his heavy. “I hope you don’t think your mother and I are lecturing you.”

A poignant smile crosses my lips. “No, Dad. I don’t think that at all. I know you only want to protect me, and I love you for it, but this is one hole I’m going to have to climb out of on my own.”

“You got it, son. Well, no matter what happens with Gwen you make sure you catch a big fish on that world class reef you mentioned.”

“It’s at the top of my agenda.”

“And I want photographic proof when you do it. Don’t think I’m accepting your word.”

I laugh. “No problem, Dad.”

I join Gwen and hand the flight attendant my documentation. The phone call from my parents has me even more pensive than before—something Gwen clearly sees. She leans close to me and rubs my arm; her touch lacks the affectionate familiarity she once had. There is hesitancy when she touches me now, as if I am a wild creature who could bolt from her if she makes any sudden moves. I do not want to be this way, but how can I be otherwise? Maybe this trip will help me figure how.

We take our seats on the plane. “Phillip, thank you for coming with me,” she whispers, looking me square in the eye. God, she looks so sincere. “This means more to me than you can know. I am going to make you so happy.”

She cups my hand to her lips, kissing each fingertip, her eyes glossy with tears. I should reach forth, tilt her pretty chin upward, and kiss her. I know I should, but I do not move. The moment passes. With a melancholy nod, Gwen puts my hand down and settles into her seat.

A passenger from the previous flight left a newspaper behind. I pick it up and glance over the headlines. This country invaded that country. Emergency session of the United Nations. Ambassador recalled. Now here’s something you don’t see every day—Arab protesters burn an American flag in the streets. So much anger and tension in the world. I put the newspaper down. I have enough turmoil in my life—no need to borrow more.

There is something else on my mind—something I did not tell my parents. Gwen has one more secret, only it is not a secret anymore—at least not to me. The knowledge that I hide—discussing it with no one—prevents me from moving in any direction, away from Gwen or back to her.

Our plane taxis to the runway, the engine growing to a dull roar. The pilot informs us we are clear for take off. Within moments, we are racing down the runway.

Gwen gulps hard and grips the arm rail. “I’m scared, Phillip.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Her eyes are wide. “Can you hold my hand?”

It was not so long ago she would not have had to ask. Mechanically, I take her hand in my own and look out the window as the jet lifts off from the ground. I continue to look out the window even after we pass into the white nothingness of the clouds, and the land and life I know recede behind us.

Chapter Three

In Barbados, we transfer to a small propeller plane that will transport us for the rest of the journey to Isla Fin de la Tierra. Standing beside the plane on the tarmac are four other passengers: two pampered suburban princesses sporting belly shirts, limited edition handbags and tramp stamps, and a man and a woman approximately the same age as Gwen and myself. The man and woman appear to have stepped right off the cover of a magazine devoted to fine living and leisure. Broad shouldered and bronzed, with sunglasses perched atop his head to hold back his golden curls, the man is nearly a foot taller than I am. The woman with him—equally suntanned, with a lithe, dancer’s body, is nearly as tall as he is. She wears a loose linen dress, both simple and stylish, and different pieces of semi-precious stone jewelry. A turquoise clip holds her long, sleek chestnut hair in place. An enormous pair of Jackie O. style sunglasses completes her look.

As we approach the woman is speaking to him, but he focuses on us, instead—barely glancing at me but lingering on Gwen.

“Greetings, fellow travelers,” he says with warm familiarity. “You two ready for paradise?”

Although the question includes both of us, he only looks at Gwen as he asks it. Before I can stammer a reply Gwen responds, “More than ready. I’ve been looking forward to this for so long.”

“Conner Gilroy,” he thrusts his hand towards Gwen, flashing a smile as white as sun bleached bones.

“Gwen Crane,” my wife smiles. “And this is my husband, Phillip.”

Almost as an afterthought, Conner shakes my hand with a grip that feels as though my fingers will splinter like a bundle of matchsticks.

The tall woman next to Conner takes it upon herself to extend her hand to mine. “And hello, I am Alexandra. It appears my husband has forgotten me again.”

With a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, Conner wraps an arm around his wife. “How could I forget you, my love? I was merely saving the best for last.”

Alexandra rolls her eyes with a laugh. “Nice save.”

The pilot, a gruff man with weathered skin, emerges from the plane. “Okay, folks, we are ready to go. I have to assign your seating to ensure proper weight distribution.”

We enter the cramped interior of the plane—Alexandra sitting up front next to the pilot, Gwen sandwiched between Conner and me, the two young women seated at the back—and taxi to the runway. The whirling propellers are so loud that quiet conversation is impossible. Gwen takes short, anxious breaths, and this time I do not wait for her to ask me to hold her hand. In moments, we soar into the sky. Barbados vanishes behind us, replaced by an endless expanse of sapphire blue sea. Gwen relaxes her death grip on my hand.

Alexandra turns in her seat. “How long are you two staying at the resort?”

“A week,” Gwen shouts over the humming propellers.

“You’re going to love it,” Conner chimes in.

“You’ve been to Isla Fin de la Tierra before?” Gwen asks.

“This is my third time; Alexandra’s first.”

“Lucky me,” Alexandra adds.

“We’ll only be there for three days,” Conner continues. “Then it’s off to Tobago, Aruba, Cozumel.”

“You forgot Costa Rica,” his wife reminds.

He slaps his forehead. “Ha, yeah, we’ve scheduled a week hiking in the Costa Rican rainforest.”

“You’ll be hiking,” Alexandra quips. “I’ll be back at the hotel spa getting a massage.”

“You’re job gives you that much time off?” I ask Conner.

“My job?” he chuckles. “I own a venture capitalist company. Not by myself, I have two partners. I don’t want to take all the credit.”

I feel like a fool for asking the question. The resort Gwen and I are going to is incredibly expensive—hell, if we remain together we will be paying off the credit card debt from this trip for years to come, but for some reason I assumed many of the people we would encounter at the resort would be in a similar income tax bracket to ours.

Winds buffet the plane, causing it to dip and rise. Gwen grabs my hand again, and for a moment the back and forth banter inside the plane ceases.

“Just some mild turbulence,” the nonplussed pilot assures us as the plane steadies.

“I could use a good month or more off,” Conner continues when the tension in the plane subsides. “After dealing with the sharks of Wall Street when I encounter a real one out on the reefs I won’t feel a bit of fear.”

“Oh, don’t say that” Alexandra gasps. “If there are sharks out there I won’t go near the water.”

“Aw, baby, the sharks around the island are small. They won’t bite you—but they have been known to take a nibble,” he takes her hand and playfully nibbles her fingers.

Alexandra giggles and swats him away. The breezy affection Conner displays, masculine and completely at ease, has me feeling like a stonehearted eunuch in comparison.

Conner leans over Gwen’s lap and says, “So, Phil, it is Phil, right? What do you do?”

My answer that I am an adjunct professor elicits the type of polite pause people sometimes gives when there is nothing positive to say. I glance at Gwen who has a distant expression I cannot read. Is she thinking of something else—perhaps imagining what it will be like once we reach the resort—or is she wondering what it would be like if she was not married to a poorly paid adjunct professor who is completely dependent on her for health benefits?

“Do any diving, Gwen?” Conner asks.

She snaps out of her reverie. “No, but I can snorkel.”

“You are going to the best place for it,” he replies. “Isla Fin de la Tierra consistently gets ranked as one of the best reefs in the world.”

He proceeds to describe all the high points of the resort—the exceptional service, the exquisite cuisine, the stunning ocean beauty—all things I already went over with Gwen when I showed her the brochure, but she listens to Conner with the enthusiasm of someone who never heard these things before.

Behind me, the young women talk to each other as quietly as the rushing air and propellers outside will allow.

“—Get out. That can’t be true,” girl Number One says to her friend.

Number Two nods emphatically, eyes wide for dramatic effect. “I’m telling you the truth. I got the text last night. Besides, like, why would I lie?”

“Oh, I believe you—for sure. You’re my best friend. Of course, I believe you. I’m just shocked—literally shocked—that Ashley would do this to me.”

“Didn’t I warn you? She’s a snake in sheep’s clothing. I never liked her. All that bullshit ‘No, I didn’t have plastic surgery. I just grew into my nose’. I mean, c’mon, get real. That big nose of hers could have provided us with shelter on a rainy day,” Number One guffaws in appreciation.

“You are so right,” Number One adds, her voice thick with contempt. “Ashley is such a liar. I’m sure she went there just to make a play for Justin. She’s probably rubbing him down with suntan lotion right now—and she said she would never go for him. I’m sorry, but what a lying bitch.”

Number Two nudges Number One to indicate they have an audience. I am eavesdropping so intently I did not realize how obvious I am. Both young women stare at me. Mustering a smile, I decide to adopt Conner’s tactic and confidently extend my hand towards them, “Phillip Crane.”

This direct introductory approach does not work for me nearly as well as it did for Conner. Instead of shaking my hand, the two women offer only a meek wave, recoiling from me as though I were a homeless man harassing them for spare change. From the corner of my eye, I see that Gwen and Conner are watching me crash and burn. My face reddens. If only I could open the door of the plane and jump. I have to salvage this somehow.

“You must be looking forward to going to the resort,” I gamely say, hoping to initiate a face saving conversation.

“We’re not going to the same resort,” Number Two deadpans.

“Then you must be going to Jumby Cove,” Conner interjects, and then turns to the rest of us to explain. “It’s a new four story hotel built right across the bay from our resort.”

“Hey, did you know what ‘Jumby’ means?” he asks. The young women shake their heads. “In the native dialect ‘jumby’ means ghost.”

“Oh, wow,” Number One exclaims as though Conner just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

Conner draws the women into the conversation he was having with Gwen regarding the natural wonders of the island, and they listen with what I suspect, for them, is unusually rapt attention. During the course of the conversation they volunteer to Conner what they denied me—their names—Piper and Willow. They also divulge their ages—twenty-one—place of origin—The Hamptons—favorite alcoholic beverage—Malibu Rum. Piper and Willow would make horrendous spies. Around Conner, they are physically incapable of withholding even the most banal information about themselves. In fact, they seem to compete as to which of them can perform the fastest verbal striptease. They dominate the conversation, relegating Gwen to the sidelines. In the front of the plane, Alexandra listens to the pilot explain what all the controls and gauges are for, unaware of her husband flirting with two debutantes at the back of the plane.

I turn away from them all, staring down at the endless sea, and settle in for a long flight.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot announces. “Here is the main attraction: Isla Fin de la Tierra.”

We crane our necks for the best vantage point. As we approach the island the deeper blue sea is dotted with patches of more shallow, aquamarine waters—the colors dazzling. Gwen clutches my hand once more, though not from fear but giddy excitement. How sweet and childlike she can be, her face aglow with wonder, like a little girl on Christmas morning.

A sail ship passes beneath us, cutting a neat line through the waves. The main island looms ahead, studded with hills and rocky cliffs jutting into the turquoise water. Fields of golden grass cover the rolling hills, and trees huddle in dark green clusters beneath the fierce equatorial sun. Scattered in the sea around the island are rocky outcroppings, some barely rising above the surf, a few large enough to be islands unto themselves, though not by much.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the pilot says to unanimous agreement. “After this island there is no other land mass until you reach Africa. If you look just below you will see the bay where your resorts—the only resorts on the island—are located.”

On the left of the bay, nestled in a cove, lies the four-story hotel, Jumby Cove. Numerous cabanas line the beach and scores of vacationers dot the sand, browning their skin in the sun. Across the bay lies my destination. It is a decidedly smaller and more intimate resort than the hotel across the bay. Forty bungalows line the beach. Designed to look like Tahitian huts, each one has spectacular beachfront views. In the center of the row of huts lies the main restaurant and offices of the resort. They look just like the bungalows but on a much larger scale. From the palm trees swaying in the breeze to the massive swimming pool complete with waterfall cascading down a faux rock formation, the resort is even more beautiful than the brochure depicted.

“What’s that there?” Gwen points to several acres of woodland behind the resort. “Is that part of the resort, too?”

“It’s a bird sanctuary,” I answer, speaking loud enough so the others can hear in case they wonder about it as well. “See the lagoon on the other side of the woods? It’s filled with brackish water. Those trees surrounding the lagoon, the ones with the roots coming out of the water—those are mangrove trees. Isla Fin de la Tierra is the only landmass around for migratory birds on their way from North America to South America. It’s fantastic that they built this resort without disturbing the sanctuary that these birds depend on.”

“Wow, Phillip, you know a lot about this place,” Gwen notes with admiration.

“Just some stuff I read online,” I reply sheepishly.

“I think it’s fascinating,” Alexandra says.

“No offense,” Conner grins and gives me a hard clap on the back. “But you can keep the swamp birds. I’ll be out on the ocean with a jet ski. You jet ski, Phil?”

“No, but I wouldn’t mind going out on one of the little catamarans I saw in the brochure.”

“They’re called hobie cats,” he explains. “They’re fun if you want to putter along, but if you really want to fly you need the jet skis.”

“I want to try that—the hobie cat,” Gwen says, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Phillip, you can steer and work the sails while I lay up front like a princess.”

I laugh. “Okay, your Highness.” Her enthusiasm is infectious, momentarily eclipsing all the turmoil between us.

We descend and the pilot calls our attention to a small town at the center of the island. “Just ahead is the capital of Isla Fin de la Tierra: Rio Galera. Population: 4,000. Give or take a hundred.”

The shadow of our plane races over the hillsides. It is fascinating to see the topography of the island from such a vantage. Many of the homes we pass over are little more than shacks, their roofs made of rusted sheet metal and their patchy yards festooned with rusting automobiles.

“It’s hard to believe people actually live in homes like that,” Alexandra remarks.

“Even paradise has a ghetto,” Conner jibes.

“No, no, I would not call it a ghetto,” the pilot corrects him. “People here don’t need as much to get by. They live simply.”

Conner shrugs. “You can keep it. I need hot running water and a flat screen TV.”

Our landing is smooth. There is no airport, not in the traditional sense, anyway. From a small control room two men emerge to assist the pilot in unloading our luggage into a waiting van that will carry us to our resorts.

The air has a different scent here, something subtle. Perhaps it comes from the salty sea or the sun-baked rocks. Even the light seems different here—brighter, more intense. It fills me with a quiet thrill, this sense of being somewhere foreign and free of my familiar surroundings. I look at Gwen and know she feels it, too. For no particular reason she rests her head on my shoulder and I do not mind at all.

Alexandra dons her oversized sunglasses and approaches the driver of our van. He is a tall man in his early twenties, his skin the darkest brown from the omnipresent sun, and he wears a crisp resort uniform.

“Owen, at your service,” he bows with a smile. His island accent is strong but still easily comprehensible.

“Can you tell me what nightclubs there are in town? Or duty free shops?” Alexandra asks.

“Sorry, we have nothing like that here. No disco clubs. No duty shops,” he gestures to the town around the small landing strip. “We have a church, a police station, and a hospital, but hopefully you won’t need to go there.”

“Why, is the doctor horrible?” she asks, her mouth pursed with concern.

“Ha, no,” Owen laughs. “We have very good doctor, but it is your holiday, no? Who wants to go to the hospital on holiday?”

Alexandra chuckles. “I see your point.”

Gwen touches my arm to get my attention. “Look at that stray dog. Poor thing. I wonder the last time anybody fed it.”

The dog she points to is a raggedy mongrel, sniffing the ground, roving for anything edible.

Gwen reaches into her purse and finds a granola bar. “Maybe it will eat this.”

She approaches the dog with soothing words, the granola bar held in her outstretched palm.

“Gwen, you don’t know this dog. Leave the food on the ground,” I advise her. “If the dog is hungry it will take the food without you getting too close.”

She ignores me, bending down to appear less threatening as the dog warily approaches. The dog takes the bar from her hand and sits in front of her to wolf it down. Gwen ruffles the dog’s fur and flashes me a triumphant smile.

“Ugh, that thing is probably crawling with fleas,” one of the debutantes sneers.

Gwen walks back to us with the mongrel trailing.

“It seems you’ve made a friend,” I grin.

“I know, isn’t he adorable? He or she. Whichever. It’s so dirty I cannot tell. I wish we could bring it with us to the resort.”

Owen loads the last suitcase into the van and joins us. “I would not fret for it, miss. The dogs on this island have the life of kings.”

“He does not seem very royal,” Gwen replies.

“Perhaps not by the standards of your American dogs, with their groomers and trainers and fancy dog food, but believe me the dogs on this island live well. They get to enjoy year round what you lovely people only get to experience for a week or two… the sun, the sea, the tropical breezes.”

With a rueful expression, Gwen climbs into the van and turns to the waiting dog. “I am sorry. I have no more food to give you.”

The dog gives a quizzical tilt of its head as Owen slides the door shut. As we drive away, Gwen waves to the dog. It watches us from the curb.

“I feel so bad for that animal,” Gwen says.

“As I said, miss, don’t fret for this pup,” Owen says. “It won’t miss many meals, believe me.”

We bounce over pitted and crudely patched roads. Owen drives with self-assurance taken to the point of recklessness. Men and women—their skin dark and leathery from the blazing sun—walk on the cracked sidewalks and gutters alongside the narrow road. Some of them stop to watch us drive past. Can they see me through the tinted windows? More than once, I flinch as Owen nearly sideswipes one of the pedestrians, but he drives on without pause. The other drivers sharing the road are just as heedless, each behaving as if there were no other vehicles on the road.

At the center of town the homes are little more than shacks with sheet metal roofs and crumbling, graffiti tagged concrete walls as dividers. Serpentine roads twist among the closely packed homes. The afternoon sun casts long shadows in the alleys between the homes where I glimpse flocks of chickens and the occasional goat.

As we pass a white clapboard church, Owen points to a small building beside it. “Dis is our police station.”

Alexandra remarks, “It’s no bigger than a fast food restaurant.”

“Dere is very little crime on de island. Maybe every once in a while somebody steal a chicken.”

Gwen chuckles.

“We ban all de guns,” Owen continues. “We have no killings, no robbery. Safest island in de West Indies.”

Conner glances at the poverty all around us and whispers conspiratorially, “I think we’ll stick to the resort, thanks all the same.”

Once outside the center of town the homes scatter over the hillsides, separated by fields of switch grass and brush. Some of the homes are fairly large and modern—topped with satellite dishes drawing television channels from around the world to this remote outpost and probably used as vacation homes by rich foreigners—but most of the homes are similar in size and construction to the shacks in the town. Sometimes, through a break in the hills, we glimpse the sea. I am eager to sink my toes into the sand and feel the waves lap against me.

We drop Piper and Willow off at their hotel. Steep, rocky slopes bound the road to our resort. The slopes become cliffs that surround our resort in a protective bowl. At the end of the road lies a sizable hut where we check in. The staff, all native islanders like Owen, greet us with warm smiles and help the women alight from the van. While Owen removes our luggage, the staff offers us tropical cocktails.

“Now this is my kind of greeting,” Alexandra winks and sips her daiquiri from a coconut shell. Gwen handles our check in and I take the opportunity to wander. Tiny red lizards skitter along the side of the building. The lagoon spreads before me, surrounded by mangroves and dotted with flocks of migratory birds. On the far side of the lagoon lies the resort. A man drives an electric cart over the narrow wooden bridge that spans the lagoon. He parks the cart alongside the van so Owen can load our luggage onto the back of it

“I am Jonas Dunlap, the resort manager,” says the man from the cart with a courteous bow. He wears an elegant linen suit and has the dark skin and heavy accent of the other islanders. His closely cropped silver hair gives away his age, but his skin is unlined, his figure long and lean and he moves with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“I trust you had an enjoyable flight,” Jonas continues. “Now is the time for you to relax and let us pamper you. Leave the cares of the world behind. Should you have any request—no matter how small—please do not hesitate to bring it to my attention. We pride ourselves on our hospitality. I may be biased in my opinion, but at the end of your holiday I am sure you will agree that Isla Fin de la Tierra is the closest place to heaven on earth.”

Jonas drives us across the bridge to our bungalows.

“It’s beautiful,” Gwen enthuses upon seeing the interior of our bungalow. “We have to take pictures. Check out the bathroom. This is the nicest place I’ve ever stayed.”

I have to agree. The bungalow has a vaulted ceiling with exposed wooden beams and a massive ceiling fan with blades shaped like banana leaves. Our bed is on a platform overlooking a seating area that comprises a few comfortable chairs, a coffee table, and a couch. The bathroom is spacious with a large, walk-in double shower.

This is the first time I have been alone with Gwen since we left home. I collapse on the bed and kick off my shoes.

“You hungry?” she asks.

“Starving.”

“I’ll take a quick shower—then we can hit the restaurant.”

I hear the shower faucet turn on. I begin to unpack my luggage and notice a silver, ice-filled pail with a bottle of champagne sticking out of it. The card taped to the pail reads:

To Mr. and Mrs. Crane. May this be the first of many romantic nights. Courtesy, Jonas Dunlap.

Holding the pail, I feel like an impostor. It is a welcoming gift better suited for honeymooners—not for a man and woman just coming off a months long separation. If things on this trip go successfully, we can drink the champagne on our last night to celebrate. If the trip ends in disaster, I can always drink the bottle alone to get good and drunk. I take the pail, open the sliding glass doors to our small patio facing the beach, and toss the ice to the sand. The champagne I place far back on the top shelf of our closet. Gwen hums softly in the steamy shower. I do not mention the champagne.

“Honey, can you help me with my dress?”

Gwen is in the bathroom. I enter to find her topless, wearing only lacy panties. I am stunned. We used to walk around nude in front of each other all the time, lounging in bed for long hours, naked and carefree, but that was before I discovered her affair. This is the first time since we separated I have seen any skin on my wife past her collarbone. Before her exquisite beauty, my mouth hangs open and I stammer nonsensically. If she notices my awkwardness, she does not let on.

She puts the bra on and turns her back to me. “Can you buckle this?”

I fasten her bra. She slips into her dress—a flattering red cocktail piece that tempts me to run a hand over the smooth silk that hugs her curves.

“I hope you’re going to get dressed,” she says as she turns to the mirror to apply make-up. “They won’t seat us for dinner unless you’re in formal wear. Isn’t that exciting, Phillip? Getting all dressed up for dinner? I feel like I’m in a classic film.”

“Sure, I’ll get one of my suits.”

“Don’t you want to shower first? A hot shower is so refreshing after a day cramped on airplanes.”

The thought of stripping down and exposing myself to Gwen is unnerving.

“It will take too long,” I dodge. “Maybe I’ll take one later.”

She shrugs, and then turns to me eagerly. “Hey, Phillip, before we go to dinner can we walk on the beach?”

“I like that idea. I was hoping to hit the beach as soon as we arrived.”

“Great. When we walk on the beach, make sure you roll up the hem of your pants. I want to be near the waves. I find it so romantic—walking on the beach with my handsome husband.”

I blush.

“This might sound sort of silly,” she adds. “But there is something about waves washing on the shore—one wave after another, forever, endless—that strikes me as incredibly rejuvenating. The water wipes everything clean.”

Wipe everything clean. The subtext doesn’t escape me. We finish dressing and walk along the deserted beach. The sun has nearly left the sky. Without prompting, I take her hand. Across the dark bay, a lonely red light flashes on a small, barren island. Crashing waves spray a light, salty mist on our skin. The brightest spot on the beach is the restaurant. We say nothing as we walk towards it, enjoying this moment together. Gwen is right. The crashing waves are renewing.

The restaurant stands above the beach on a wooden deck. Thick ropes—the kind normally used to tie a ship to a pier—serve as railings on the deck. Calypso music from a band wafts into the night. Couples dance arm in arm on the deck. Most of the other guests are older than we are. Jewel bedecked women in flowing evening gowns sway in the arms of white haired husbands.

Jonas Dunlap converses with one of the kitchen staff, but upon seeing us, he walks over. “Mr. Crane, if I may say so, Mrs. Crane looks marvelous tonight.”

“Is a table for two available?” I ask.

“We are preparing one at this very moment. Have you visited the bar?” he gestures to the far end of the deck where other couples congregate around a circular bar. “While you wait for your table, our bartender would be pleased to mix any drink you desire.”

As we approach the bar, I notice the handful of people there are closer to my age group on the younger end of the spectrum. I spot Conner leaning against the bar holding court with Alexandra seated on a stool sipping another daiquiri. Off to my side through the foliage I glimpse the swimming pool. The idea of spending more time around Conner’s cheery perfection gives me an idea.

“Hey, let’s check out the pool you saw from the plane,” I suggest, steering Gwen away from the bar.

Water splashes along the faux rock formation into the pool. Ripples on the surface bounce undulating ribbons of light into the palm trees. Numerous people dressed in evening clothes congregate in small groups around the pool. Others lounge in bathing suits in a steaming Jacuzzi carved into the side of the rock formation.

“C’mon in, lovely lady,” an islander half submerged in the Jacuzzi beckons to Gwen. “De hot water will do you good. Let de heat penetrate your bones.”

Gwen is surprised the man singled her out, and holds up her hand in mild protest to his offer.

He brushes her refusal away with a hearty laugh and flashes a gold-toothed smile. “Dese good folks with me have the right notion.”

“He’s right,” one of the smiling guests in the Jacuzzi, an Englishman, adds. “This feels wonderful.”

“Perhaps after dinner,” Gwen begs off.

The islander resumes speaking with the guests in the water. The island sun has reduced his dark skin to the texture of parchment. He has the sunken cheeks and painfully sharp jawbones of a cancer victim. In a strange contrast to his cadaverous face, his body is all muscle and bone, as lean and strong as a high school athlete. Dread locks fall to his shoulders. A gold ring pierces his nostril. Another ring pierces one of his nipples and from it dangles a gold dolphin. At the request of one of the guests, the islander hops out of the steaming water and proceeds to contort his wiry body in freakish ways. Without any difficulty, he bends his legs over his shoulders, and walks on two hands in a way that reminds me instantly of a skittering crab. The small audience cheers and claps, and the islander accepts their attention with a leering grin.

I am the only one not applauding.

“This guy creeps me out,” I whisper to Gwen.

“I wonder if he works here,” she replies.

“Oh, no, he doesn’t work here,” a nearby Englishwoman interjects. “His name is Action. The resort doesn’t mind his presence because he entertains the guests.”

“We haven’t seen you two before,” standing by the woman, a silver haired, ruddy-cheeked Englishman adds. “You must have arrived today.”

I tell him he is correct.

“You are going to love it here,” the woman raves. “By the way, I am Pamela and this is my husband, Bill.”

We shake hands. Tall and thin, with a thick mass of blonde curls and a double strand of pearls, Pamela is vivacious and seems the more out going of the pair.

“Are you two waiting to be seated for dinner?” Pamela asks to which we reply that we are. “Come, Bill, let’s see if our table is ready yet.”

With the option of staying to watch Action’s one-man freak show or begin dining, I turn to Gwen, “Maybe our table is ready, too.”

Unfortunately, neither of our tables is ready.

“They will be ready in a moment more,” Jonas says. “If you would prefer to be seated immediately we do have a table for six available.”

Pamela looks at me with a friendly nod. “I won’t complain about your company if you don’t complain about mine.”

“But there’s only four of us,” Gwen says.

“Excuse me, young folks, I could not help but overhear you need two additional people to complete your table,” a tall, elderly man leaning on a cane interjects. “My wife and I will join you for dinner.”

Bill chuckles. “Young folks. Ha, I haven’t been called that in ages. Jonas, I believe the six of us will take that table, now, please.”

We take our seats at a table overlooking the surf. The man with the cane introduces himself and his wife: Don and Amy, wealthy real estate developers from one of the Hamptons in Long Island. He speaks with a deep, rumbling baritone and a slight New York accent. His salt and pepper hair is thick and slicked back from a high, heavily lined forehead and deep-set eyes. Don is easily the tallest person at the table, with Amy not far behind. Thin with a no-nonsense chic, her silver hair has a simple but flattering cut. Looking at her, I cannot help but think that this is what becomes of yesteryears fashion model. Amy has the regal bearing of someone who worked the runway for Christian Dior, but she offsets this with an easy smile and hearty laughter.

Pamela is an executive with a major airline and Bill is “in construction” which I take to mean a lot more than being a mason or carpenter.

“And what do you do?” Amy asks Gwen.

“Oh, I’m an executive with a major bank.”

Gwen is a first level supervisor of a local call center—hardly what I would refer to as an executive. My wife continues embellishing her career, discussing the banking industry at length but in vague terms. She does not look at me as she speaks. If she saw the surprised expression on my face, it would probably throw her off her game. Gwen lies with great skill. This is the first time I am seeing her in action with the knowledge of what she is doing. Our tablemates swallow it all. I cannot help but think how easily she deceived me not so many months ago. I think of how earnestly Gwen looked into my eyes and thanked me for accompanying her on this trip and how happy she promised to make me. Was she lying? Did she dupe me as easily as she now dupes everyone at the table?

“And, Phillip, are you in the banking industry, too?” Amy asks.

“Uh, no, I’m an adjunct professor for a science department.”

I mention the name of my university. No one has ever heard of it.

“An adjunct professor. Is that like a professor’s assistant?” Pamela asks.

“Yeah, it’s something like that.”

“I thought in your country that was an unpaid position—like an intern,” Bill says.

“No, no, I get paid—just not very much,” I answer with a self-effacing chuckle.

No one else laughs. I seem to have led the conversation down a dead end. I look at Gwen; she buries her face in the menu.

“I find teaching fascinating,” Pamela breaks the silence and comes to my rescue. “Filling all those young minds with knowledge. If I had not gone into the airline industry I would have very much liked to become a teacher. Besides, I adore children.”

“How many kids do you have?” Don asks.

“Oh, I don’t have any,” For the briefest second something flickers in Pamela’s eyes, a shadow of sadness swiftly gone. “Bill has a daughter from his first marriage—lovely girl.”

Now it is time for me to come to Pamela’s rescue. “Well, right now I work with adult students, but I worked with children at one time and I can tell you it is not all shiny apples and eager minds yearning for knowledge.”

“So nothing’s changed,” Amy says and then elaborates, “Before I met Don, I taught high school English. So you see, Phillip, I know exactly what you mean when you mention how disinterested many students are in learning. I blame television.”

“The idiot box,” Bill says.

Amy nods in agreement. “It’s rotted their brains. I remember standing in front of the class and seeing such vacant stares. When I was their age I always had my face buried in a book.”

“She still does,” Don jibes. “Half the time I am talking to her she’s not even paying attention to me—she’s engrossed in some novel.”

“I like to read, too,” Pamela joins in. “I just wish I had more time to do so.”

“Oh, honey, find the time. This place is a book lover’s heaven,” Amy says. “Just give me a good book, a recliner under a palm tree and I’m happy.”

After our meal arrives, Don and Pamela engage in a lively discussion on world events, to which I pay only partial attention.

“-but that would be a violation of the U.N. resolution,” Pamela asserts.

“The U.N. is a glorified debating society,” Don booms. “Just a bunch of do-nothing politicians preening and posturing. If the U.N. won’t put a stop to this then we will.”

Similar statements fly back and forth loaded with words such as unilateral action and tactical strikes. Occasionally, Bill jumps in with a measured, slow statement, but Don, with the unquestioning certainty of someone who gets all his facts from Fox New, and Pamela, with the humorous, insightful approach of a devoted Daily Show viewer, are the heavyweights in this debate.

Amy observes Don robustly sparring, shakes her head, and then turns to me: “They had to get him started. Don will go all night now. Mark my words, later tonight, we’ll be lying together in bed, and he’ll still be going on about this. Do either of you keep up with all this world politics stuff?”

“I do, a little, but not nearly as much as these two,” Gwen chuckles and nods to Pamela and Don who continue to debate. “Phillip, on the other hand is oblivious.”

“It’s true,” I sheepishly agree.

“If it’s not written in some dusty, old English book Phillip doesn’t know anything about it,” Gwen teases. “Now, one thing I am an expert on is food, and I must say this is delicious. I can hardly wait for dessert.”

Amy nods vigorously. “I was torn between what I ordered and what you ordered. Everything looked so good. I won’t be able to fit into any of my clothes once I go back home.”

“Is something wrong, honey? You’ve hardly touched your food,” Gwen asks me.

I move it around on my plate with obvious distaste. “I should have asked the waitress more questions before I ordered. Everything on the menu is written in French. I thought I was playing it safe by ordering chicken, but it’s got some kind of fish sauce.”

“Phillip hates seafood,” Gwen explains.

“If it breathes water I won’t eat it,” I elaborate.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Gwen consoles me and slides her plate over. “Here, eat some of my food. You might like it better.”

“You ordered steak. I like mine well done, but yours is so rare the tail is practically still switching,” I jest.

“No it’s not,” Gwen chuckles.

“Yes, it is. Look at all that blood on your plate.”

“That’s the gravy.”

“Yes, blood gravy. I can’t eat that.”

“Picky, picky,” Amy chides.

“True, but it keeps me thin,” I playfully respond.

Amy pats my hand. “You are so right. I wish I was a picky eater.”

I resolve to make up for my poor dinner experience with an extra helping of dessert.

The midnight hour draws near. Long after most of the other guests have retired from their meals to mingle at the bar or slumber in their bungalows, the six of us remain at our table laughing and chatting. Bill barely stifles a yawn, prompting Don to glance at his watch and remark how late it is.

We all rise, shake hands, and bid each other good night. Heading back to our bungalow, Gwen and I take a path that winds through manicured, lush landscaping. Most of the bungalows are dark. The air is balmy and still, filled with the sound of tropical insects and the crashing surf.

“It’s funny, initially I hated the idea of having dinner with all these strangers,” I admit to Gwen. “I wanted to be alone and not have to make small talk with a bunch of people I don’t know, but I actually had a lot of fun. They’re such interesting people to spend time with.”

Gwen is quiet.

“You didn’t mind sharing our table with them, right?” I press. “We’ll have plenty of time to take romantic meals—just the two of us.”

“You know you could have just lied back there. You did not need to tell them you’re just an adjunct professor,” she says, a slight edge to her tone.

Taken aback, I look at her sharply. “Why? I’m not ashamed of what I do.”

“I’m not ashamed of what I do, either, but we’re associating with some heavy hitters—people who are way out of our league. Don’t you want these people to think we belong at the table with them, or would you prefer to have them think we should be taking their orders and clearing away the plates?”

I do not have a quick reply. Gwen has me by surprise. She seemed to be enjoying herself all evening just as much as I was; now it seems she was secretly irritated with me the whole time.

“I don’t give a damn what these people think about us,” I snap. “I didn’t come here with you to suddenly try on a freaking alter-ego to impress a bunch of people we’ll never see again once we leave this place.”

She visibly softens her stance. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just get self-conscious around people so much wealthier than us.”

“Keep in mind; they’re quite a bit older than us. They should have more money. We could be as well off as they are someday.”

“Not on your adjunct professor salary.”

I grit my teeth in anger, but she wraps her arm around me and teases, “Kidding. Just kidding.”

Back in our room, Gwen undresses for bed, and I head to the shower. My heart quickens with anxiety; this is the first time Gwen and I will lie together in the same bed since separating months ago. Naked beneath the steaming jet of water I lean against the shower wall, taking several deep breaths to slow my heart and collect my thoughts. Suddenly, arms encircle me, soft hands running along my wet skin. Gwen presses herself against my back, holds me close, and whispers in my ear, “I’ve missed you so much, Phillip.”

Oh, God, she feels good. Her lips are on my neck. Her bare breasts caress my back. I close my eyes, tilt my head back, and try to lose myself in her embrace. Something is wrong. I am holding back. Instead of a burning desire, I am frozen, unable to respond. When I close my eyes, I see images that have haunted me for months: Gwen, wearing another man’s sweatshirt, fire light flickering on her bare legs, another man’s hands snaking across her backside as she grinds into him.

“What? What is it?” she says with concern.

I put a hand against the shower wall to steady myself. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

My back is still to her, but I do not need to see her to know the dejected expression on her face. Deflated, she rests her head against my shoulders, holding me still but without the fiery urgency of just a few seconds ago.

She returns to bed. I finish showering and join her in bed where we lay side by side in the dark, not speaking, not touching, but listening to the sound of the sea until we fall asleep.

Chapter Four

The next morning we dress casually for breakfast. We do not mention the events from the night before. I feel that I owe Gwen an explanation, but she blithely buzzes around our room, applying sunscreen and make-up, planning our schedule for the day. I know her ruined attempt at lovemaking is forefront in her thoughts, but an outside observer would be unable to tell it.

The restaurant is half-empty; many of the guests have a head start on us and are already splashing about in the surf or lounging on chairs under the palm trees. Bill and Pamela sit at a small table for two and a friendly hostess seats us next to them.

“Ah, isn’t this view simply marvelous,” Pamela beams and gestures to the pristine tropical sea. The beach is blinding white, the sea dappled turquoise and blue. Hundreds of white butterflies stream past us. They head in the same direction, hugging the coast, fluttering on the breeze like a tropical ticker-tape parade.

“Wow, that’s amazing,” Gwen remarks.

“One of the staff told us this is part of the butterflies’ annual migration,” Bill explains. “They are bound for South America. It really is something. You picked a good time of year to book a holiday here. Just think—a week later or earlier and you would have missed this spectacle of nature.”

A server brings Pamela and Bill their breakfast and takes our order.

“So, what is on your agenda for the day?” Pamela asks us once the server is gone.

“I was hoping to go snorkeling,” Gwen replies.

“Yes, that does look like a lot of fun,” Pamela agrees. “After breakfast we’re going to tour the nature preserve. Why don’t you join us?”

We accept their invite. A winding paving stone path leads from the bungalows and other resort buildings that line the shore to the nature preserve. The nature preserve only spans a few acres, not counting the lagoon. Much of the terrain of the island is relatively arid—dry grasses, the occasional scraggly tree and bush—but here near the lagoon the setting is more lush. Huge bushes, heavy with fragrant, trumpet shaped flowers, crowd along the edge of the path. The palms and other trees are tall and close together. With just a few steps into the nature preserve the sound of the sea and any other sounds emanating from the resort disappear.

“I feel like I am in another world—some place prehistoric, untouched by man,” Gwen whispers, and touches a thick vine that rises into the canopy.

A group of hermit crabs, oblivious to our approach, wanders across our path.

“Aren’t they far from the beach?” Gwen asks.

“These are land crabs—they live near the water but not in it,” Bill answers. “I used to own one as a boy many, many moons ago. See that large crab bringing up the rear? The one with the big purple claw? That’s the male. The others are females; they comprise his harem. He is probably the largest crab around and he uses that purple claw to ward off the smaller males and keep the females all to himself. In the animal kingdom, it pays to be big. Our big, purple clawed lothario here is making certain his DNA is passed on.”

“And the smaller males—where are they?” Gwen looks around.

“I think I hear them under some leaves… weeping,” Pamela jests.

Pamela steps over the marching column of crabs. “Sorry to disturb your crustacean orgy.”

We laugh and proceed on. Bill aims his camera at an emerald hued hummingbird sipping nectar from a flower. “Don’t fly away, you little bugger. There—got it,” he shows us the digital photo on the back of the camera. “That should do quite nicely in the scrapbook.”

“Oh, look at this charming fellow,” Pamela points to a neon colored tree frog resting nearby on a leaf.

“Darling, it might be poisonous,” Bill warns. “Don’t touch it.”

“Really, Bill? And I was just about to put it in my hair,” she replies with sweet sarcasm to which we all laugh.

The air hums with the croaking of frogs, the strange cries of unseen birds, and the droning buzz of insects. Near the lagoon, the staff has cleared some of the trees for benches, which afford us a prime view of the lagoon. A white crane stalks fish in the reeds near the waters edge. Large flocks of birds paddle on the surface of the lagoon. Fluttering past them, as they did on the beach, are the migrating white butterflies.

Gwen wraps an arm around my waist. “I’m so glad we’re here. This place is unlike anywhere I’ve ever been.”

I kiss her suddenly, and surprise myself as much as Gwen. I pluck a large scarlet flower and tuck it into her hair.

She takes my hands and stands before me as a bride does when she takes her vows. “This place is so beautiful, Phillip. I feel light… weightless. Does that make any sense? It must be what a newborn baby feels like, when you have no yesterdays—only tomorrow.”

At this moment, I am not thinking of the past and all the bitterness that lurks there. I make a secret wish that it will always be like this—the two of us together, free of all baggage, the past forgotten, the future a blank page upon which we can write our dreams.

“Now how did he get up there?” Pamela asks, shielding her eyes against the sun and pointing to a wild goat perched on the edge of the cliffs that ring the resort.

“That goat is either very nimble or very stupid,” Bill says as he focuses his camera on the animal. The goat grazes on the scrubby bushes that grow along the rocky face of the cliffs, and watches us with far less interest than we display towards it before wandering out of view.

We head back to our rooms, passing other couples enjoying the preserve along the way. Our breakfast digested, we part company from Bill and Pamela and change into our bathing suits. When my bare feet hit the sand, I feel a boyish exuberance.

“Look at you—you can’t wait to dive into the ocean,” Gwen smiles beneath her wide straw hat. “Go for it.”

And I do. I run straight from our doorstep down the sloping beach and dive into the water.

“Is it cold?” she asks.

I shake the water from my hair. “It’s wonderful. Not quite bathwater temperature.”

Gwen joins me. “Let’s get the snorkeling equipment,” she suggests.

Lorenzo, a young island man, is in charge of all the nautical equipment—kayaks, flippers, masks and the hobie cats. He is my island twin—slight of build and height—with striking hazel colored eyes.

“The best reefs are at either end of de resort. Plenty fish out dere for you to see,” he advises as he hands us the snorkeling equipment.

“No sharks, I hope,” Gwen says.

Lorenzo laughs. “No, miss, no sharks here. At least no big ones. Maybe little, baby sharks. Don’t worry. You go have fun—enjoy yourself.”

We walk to the end of the beach where the cliffs that encircle the resort slope down and meet the water. No other guests are this far down the beach, which is a good thing because we look ridiculous, stomping towards the water in our flippers and masks. Swimming side by side, we glide above the coral formations that create underwater canyons. Gwen taps my side and points to a lime colored moral eel undulating in the crevices. Sunlight flickers on a clump of brain coral staunchly defended by tiny shrimp. Black sea urchins, their sharp spines jutting in all directions, lie in clusters and schools of fish swirl around us. We swim a bit farther and disturb a stingray hidden in the sand beneath us. I spot a large barracuda hovering motionless just beneath the waves, probably waiting for a fish to straggle into the open water. A translucent jelly fish pulses by us, as delicate as a scrap of old lace, and we give it a wide berth.

We swim for an hour—sometimes together, sometimes separated but never far from each other. The kaleidoscope of life all around me is mesmerizing.

“How about some lunch?” I ask Gwen.

“Great. Let’s do this again tomorrow,” she replies, flushing out her mask. “Maybe after lunch we can take one of the hobie cats out.”

“It’s a date.”

We return our snorkeling gear and head along the beach towards our bungalow to shower off and dress for lunch. A black sailboat sails into the bay. It looks like an old Spanish galleon, complete with cannons that blast from the gun ports to announce its arrival.

“Isn’t that something?” Don comes to stand by us. “Looks like something out of the age of pirates. The ship came here early today—picked up some of the other guests for a tour of the island.”

The boat drifts as close to the shore as possible without scraping the reef. At the stern Conner and Alexandra lean against the side of the boat. Her hair, tangled from seawater, blows in the wind. Shirtless and poised like a statue of an ancient gladiator, Conner looks to the horizon. One of the crew scampers along the bow and drops anchor. Conner, Alexandra and the other guests climb into a small powerboat chained to the sailboat. They motor to the beach and slide up where we stand. Conner helps Alexandra out of the boat. I am content to keep walking, but Gwen stops.

“How was it?” she asks.

“It was wonderful,” Alexandra sighs dreamily as she pulls her hair into a ponytail. “Captain de Salle sailed around the entire island, and then he took us diving on this amazing shipwreck. I felt like I was in an undersea National Geographic program.”

“That’s great,” Gwen replies and then gestures to me standing impatiently several feet away. “We just went snorkeling.”

“The reefs here are no comparison to the shipwreck de Salle just took us to,” Conner brags.

I take my wife’s hand with the intention of heading back to our room, and say to Conner, “Maybe later in our trip we’ll check out your shipwreck.”

“You know, Phil, if you’re concerned about swimming so far out to sea they have life vests to help you,” Conner says with a cocky grin. “Just in case you get tired.”

“I swim fine,” I retort.

He throws up his hand to indicate he meant no offense, and then promptly proceeds to offend me. “It’s just that it’s easy to get tired once you’ve been out there swimming for a while. You might not have the stamina.”

Am I imagining this or is this guy I hardly know taunting me? Conner seems completely at ease—we are just two men making polite conversation, but something about his amused expression reminds me of a cat toying with a mouse.

“How far did you two swim out on the reef?” Conner asks.

Gwen points to the far end of the beach where we snorkeled.

“Oh, that’s not far,” he remarks, and points to a buoy bobbing out in the bay. “Now if you said you swam out to that buoy I would be impressed. Hey, let’s swim out there now—you and me, Phil. The exercise would do us good.”

Gwen squeezes my hand. “Phillip, that’s too far.”

Conner steps into the surf, not waiting for my reply. “C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fun. We could make a race of it.”

I have been in situations like this before. The predicament I am in would be familiar to any boy on the playground. Accept the dare or back down? Conner’s easygoing smile barely conceals his smug bravado. When faced with a challenge like this in the past I always feigned an excuse to avoid it. Not this time. I do not want to be that timid, drip of a man, anymore—a man so easily overlooked and disregarded by everyone, even his own wife. I stand next to Conner in the water.

“Phillip, what are you doing?” Gwen asks, perturbed.

Her concern for me is irritating. Alexandra shows no such concern for her husband. How weak does Gwen think I am? I ignore her question.

Conner turns to Don. “Can you count us off?” then he says to Gwen. “Don’t worry about Phil. If he can’t make it he can always climb on my back.”

Don and the other bystanders laugh. Now I officially hate Conner.

Don counts us off, “One, two…” frustratingly long pause. “…three!”

I leap into the water, arms flailing, hearing nothing but the rush of water and the thrust of my arms propelling me forward. I get several yards out and realize I am alone. I stop swimming. Conner is still on the beach laughing at me.

“C’mon back,” he waves. “I was only kidding.”

My face burns. Conner played me for a fool. I hesitate, treading water, and then a stubborn streak rises in me.

“That’s okay, I still want to swim to the buoy,” I call back. “Like you said, it will be good exercise.”

Gwen starts to protest. I pretend I cannot hear her and swim on. After a few minutes, I feel winded. Despite all my effort, the buoy seems only marginally closer, while my wife and everyone else on the beach appear to be miles away. Pausing to catch my breath, I look down and cannot see the bottom. How deep is it? I have never swum this far from land. If exhaustion overtakes me and I drown, no one will be able to reach me in time. Gritting my teeth, I continue towards the buoy. I can do this. I can call Conner’s bluff. To keep my imagination from dwelling on whatever hungry sea predators might be lurking beneath me, I imagine my triumphant return to the beach, shoving my swimming prowess in that arrogant asshole’s face. Gwen will kiss me and extol my incredible stamina. I will take it in my stride, chuckling and pulling her close to me, accepting compliments from all the guests gathered on the beach.

I reach the buoy—a floating ball tethered to the sea bottom by a slimy, algae covered rope—and cling to it, panting heavily. As the black sailboat sails away, the crew point at me, say something to each other and chuckle. I give a weak wave. No one waves back. I turn to the beach. My wife is just a dot mixed in with the other dots. Now my imagination starts to get the better of me. I picture a shark—a ravenous tiger shark—circling in the deep blue below me, preparing for a fatal upwards rush towards my dangling legs. Or that barracuda—the one I saw poised so diligently over the reef. In a moment, I will feel it slice into me, opening a major artery. Feebly, I will struggle back to the shore but the blood loss will be too great for me to make it.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts from my brain. From this vantage point, the entire resort lays before me. How pathetic would I look if I refused to budge from the buoy and someone from the resort had to rescue me in a hobie cat? I am not about to find out. I rest for a few more minutes and then head back to shore.

No matter how spent I feel stopping in the middle of the bay is not an option. To conserve energy I flip over on my back and paddle with my feet. My progress slows, but never stops. It seems like an eternity, but I reach the shallows and touch bottom.

Don and Amy stand next to Gwen. Conner and Alexandra are nowhere in sight. So much for my victory lap.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Gwen scolds.

I am too exhausted for much of a rejoinder and can only shrug.

“We thought you’d be hanging out with Neptune, young man,” Don teases.

“That… was… my… workout… for… the… day,” I pant, trying to make light of it all.

“Really, Phillip, I cannot believe you,” Gwen mutters. “I am not ready to be a widow. You shouldn’t let Conner goad you into a stunt like that. I am just relieved you made it back.”

I am too tired to mount much of a defense. How could I explain to Gwen that all my life jerks like Conner have mocked and ridiculed me? Conner, Patrick Farber—all the overconfident jackasses who feel I am no competition, simply someone to brush aside while they take what they want. Gwen should realize I am finally standing up for myself.

Part of me wants to tell her all of this, but I do not.

“Let’s get ready for lunch,” I tell her, and we head back to our room.

After lunch, Gwen and I sign up to use one of the hobie cats. The hobie cat, which is the size of a compact car, is basically a miniature catamaran. Lorenzo runs through techniques of successfully piloting the craft.

“If you pull too swiftly on de line de cat will capsize, and you probably won’t be able to flip it back over,” he says.

“Has that happened to the other guests?” Gwen asks.

“Just dis morning,” he shakes his head with a wry smile. “When dat happens one of us has to sail out on another cat to come to de rescue.”

Gwen looks at me warily.

“Maybe it would be better if you came with us,” I suggest. “I don’t trust my sailing coordination.”

Gwen chuckles and pats me on the back. “Don’t feel bad, honey. At least this way we won’t end up floating in the middle of the bay.”

Gwen and I hop onto the tightly stretched canvas as Lorenzo pushes us off from the shore. The moment he raises the sail the ocean breeze propels us at a gentle pace away from land. Lorenzo shifts the sail, leans back on the line and we accelerate. I feel the water slapping against the canvas that we sit on. Within minutes, we are much farther than the buoy I struggled to reach during my swim.

Lorenzo sails near the other resort across the bay. Sunbathers dot the beach. A few shield their eyes from the sun to get a better look at us. Gwen waves to them. A few of them wave back. Lorenzo adjusts the sails to propel us along the craggy, arid coastline. Gwen hands me our camera and poses for a photo, smiling radiantly, long tendrils of hair fluttering in the breeze, the vastness of the open sea as her backdrop.

“What’s that over there?” I point to the rocky isle across the bay that I spotted on our first night at the resort. The red light I saw flashing on the island sits atop a metal tower.

“The light is to warn ships about de island.”

“Does the island have a name?” Gwen asks.

“Not really. Goat Island, I call it. Every once in a while a technician has to go dere to service de warning light. He told me a goat lives on dat island. It must have swum out dere one day—decided it seem like a nice place to call home.”

“Or it couldn’t figure out how to swim back,” I add.

“True, true. Dere is a current dat sweeps towards Goat Island. The goat is probably stuck, unable to swim back against de current. The technician told me he tried to coax it into his boat but no luck.”

“The island is so small. I’m surprised it has enough food to eat,” Gwen muses.

Lorenzo smiles knowingly. “Nothing is tougher den a wild goat. Dey don’t need much to get by.”

Back on the beach, we thank Lorenzo for his expert sailing skills. We shower and dress for dinner. Jonas greets us as we arrive at the empty restaurant. “You have the honor of being our first guests tonight,” he leads us to a small table at the back sheltered by flowering bushes with a prime view of the sea.

Alone with Gwen, I find myself at a loss of anything interesting to say. This was not something I expected. Throughout the day, we got along smoothly, except for the time I swam out to the buoy, but without anyone else around to help spark a conversation, or some physical activity like snorkeling to distract us, we become like two strangers. We deliberate over our dinner menu with the silent intensity of attorneys focused on a contract.

“Do you remember how it was when we first met?” Gwen suddenly asks, breaking the silence.

I pause for a moment, recalling that time. “Yes, of course. Those were the happiest days of my life.”

“You were so funny—the things you used to say. You were so different from the usual dumb jocks I’d dated before. You were clever and silly. When I first met you, I thought ‘What an interesting new friend I’ve made’, and then before I knew it you were so much more to me. Remember that time we went to a picnic and got caught in a downpour?”

I think back wistfully to that day. “The sky turned black. The rain came down in buckets. I was drenched straight through to my underwear.”

“And we ran all the way back to my apartment,” she continues, her face aglow from the memory of that day. “Stomping in the puddles—laughing because there was no point in trying to keep dry anymore. And once home…”

“We tore each other’s clothes off. It was the first time we ever made love—soaking wet and laughing, rolling around on your bed.”

She gazes into her champagne glass as though divining the future in its bubbly depths. “Will it ever be that way again?”

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “It’s asking a lot to think everything can be just as it was. We had something beautiful—”

“And I ruined it,” she whispers.

“Who knows? Maybe in time it can be good again… not like it was… different—but still good.”

The restaurant is nearly full now. We say no more as we eat our meal and look at the churning sea.

With our melancholy meal out of the way, Gwen rises from her seat and gestures to the calypso band playing a slow song in the lounge. “Come dance with me.”

Other couples are dancing arm in arm, smiling, chattering to each other. The last thing I want to do is join them. Nevertheless, Gwen stands before me, hand outstretched, with such a sad, hopeful expression, that I take her hand and stride to the dance floor. Connor and Alexandra are there. He dips her with dramatic flourish and she squeals with delight. I cannot stand to be near him. I lead Gwen to the other side of the dance floor. Don and Amy dance cheek to cheek, and wave to us as we approach.

The music is familiar to me, a calypso rendition of an American pop love song, and the band plays it expertly. I place my hand around Gwen’s waist and we sway unenthusiastically to the music, neither speaking nor looking at each other. With a jovial nudge, Don advises me how to dance with more zeal. I mumble a response, trying to force a smile. I look at Gwen; tears brim in her eyes. A lump rises in my throat. She breaks away from me, wipes her eyes, and heads towards the beach stairs. The couples dancing around us look on with concern. Embarrassed, I follow Gwen. She halts long enough to take her heels off, and then continues walking away from the bright lights of the restaurant towards the dark beach.

“Gwen, wait,” I call to her. She ignores me. I run after her, grab her arm, and spin her around.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

Weeping, she wraps her arms around herself. Wind off the ocean flings her hair in her face; she brushes it away. “What are we doing here, Phillip? We’ve spent so much money to come here and for what? I’m trying to save our marriage, Phillip. I’m really trying. Each time I feel I’ve made just a little progress with you… the next instant I find I’m right back where I started. We’re doing things together, having fun, and then we sit at a table like two complete strangers.”

“What do you want from me? To be the person I was before—the person I was before you cheated on me? You’re trying… well, I’m trying, too, but it’s not easy to go back to how things were before,” a sob catches in my throat. “Why’d you do it, Gwen? Why’d you throw it all away?”

A fat tear streams down her face. “I don’t know.”

“Was he funnier than me? Better in bed than me?”

“No, no,” she murmurs.

“Then why, Gwen? You’ve told me a lot of things since I saw you with Patrick. You’ve told me you were sorry. You’ve told me you love me. You even said that you’d work to bring us together again, but there’s one thing you haven’t told me. Why, Gwen? Why?”

Her voice is almost inaudible. “I don’t know.”

“Why?” I shout.

“I don’t know, Phillip. I don’t have an answer. If I knew maybe I wouldn’t have done it.”

I look back to the happy couples mingling in the lounge. Thankfully, they cannot hear us over the calypso band. Many of them are celebrating anniversaries while I stand on the shore with a marriage washing out on the tide.

I turn back to Gwen. “I’ll tell you something: I believe you love me. Yes, I do. Even when you were sleeping with somebody else I believe that you loved me.”

“Phillip—”

I raise my hand to stop her, and then continue speaking. “You said I was different from men you dated before. I made you laugh, I made you think, and that’s why you fell in love with me. But did I turn you on, Gwen?”

“Of course,” she responds.

I shake my head. “Not like Patrick, though. You’re a beautiful woman. You could have any man. On some level, you must have wondered to yourself how did I end up with this little drip.”

“That’s not true.”

“No? I think it is. In me, you had a man who was funny and smart, but I never really turned you on. Then someone like Patrick comes along, someone strong and tough, someone with money, a man that other people automatically respect, and he started paying attention to you. After coming home to someone like me every day all that attention from Patrick must have been very exciting.”

“Phillip, no.”

“It must have given you a thrill… this strong, handsome guy so interested in you. So, you decided ‘I’ll just flirt a little’ but it didn’t end there—no. Once you started, it felt too exciting to stop. Am I right, Gwen? Am I getting close?”

She swallows hard but does not answer.

“Am I getting close?”

“Yes,” her voice is barely a whisper, and then emphatically: “No! I don’t know. Maybe. One thing I do know is that I took you for granted. I admit it. I did not realize how wonderful you are—how right we are together. I know that now.”

“There’s something else you haven’t told me. Something you think I don’t know about.”

She looks confused. “What?”

“For the months that we were separated you led me to believe that you were crying in our empty bed, praying for me to come back. Yeah, you called me all the time… tried to work it out with me—but there’s one thing you neglected to mention: You were still with Patrick.”

She turns from me towards the dark ocean.

“Your affair with Patrick did not end the night I caught the two of you together. No, even while you called me—begging me to come back—you kept seeing Patrick—kept sleeping with him, too, I’ll bet. And how is it that I’m the one standing in front of you on this beach instead of him? Because, in the end, he didn’t want you.”

“It wasn’t like that,” she insists.

“Oh no? You’re telling me I am wrong?”

“I wasn’t with him. Not after you found out.”

I nod slowly. “Ah, but you did keep seeing him, correct? You wanted to keep me on the back burner in case your relationship with Patrick went nowhere. It took you a while, but eventually you figured out that he only wanted you for sex… he did not love you. Not like I did. That’s when you came crawling back to me. I’m not your husband. I’m your consolation prize.”

Gwen sniffles and wipes a tear from her face with the back of her hand. My words hang in the air like a storm cloud.

“Okay, yes, I guess it was exciting to be with Patrick—at first,” her tone is weary and forlorn. “But once you found out it changed everything. It wasn’t fun anymore. It wasn’t exciting. I felt dirty.”

“Then why’d you keep seeing him?”

“I was confused!” she wails. “I thought I’d lost you—that you were never coming back. Losing you caused me to see what a fool I’d been. I didn’t realize what an incredibly rare and beautiful thing I have with you… that we have together. I kept calling you but you wouldn’t take my calls and when you finally did, it was like talking to a statue. All the while, I had Patrick telling me to forget you. Okay, yes, it is true that I kept seeing Patrick even while I called you and tried to get you to come back to me, but I was not sleeping with him. Not anymore.”

“You expect me to believe that?” I sneer.

She is adamant. “You’re partly right when you talk about a consolation prize, but the consolation prize was not you—it was Patrick. When it looked like I had lost you forever I decided to salvage what I could, to see if out of the wreckage I could build something with Patrick. You were the one I wanted; Patrick was the one I was prepared to settle for. I tested him to see if his interest in me went beyond sex. You are right. I was just another trophy in his case. Once I realized that, it was fully and completely over between Patrick and me. I ceased all contact. Around this time, you started talking to me again. Just to hear your voice filled me with so much hope that I could reunite with the one man who made me truly happy. I was—and I am—prepared to do anything to win you back, even if it meant flying out to an island in the middle of nowhere just to spend time alone with you.”

I stare at her, uncertain what to say. She looks so earnest.

She takes my hand with both of hers and presses it to her heart. “I know I’ve lost your trust and you have no reason to believe me, but everything I just told you is true. Something horrible has happened between us, and it is all my fault, but I still believe we can move on from this.”

I pull my hand back and face the sea. It is so vast and empty. If only I could take all the anger, all the hurt I feel and throw it into that bottomless depth. How light I would feel—like being reborn.

She rests a hand on my shoulder. “It kills me to see the pain on your face and know that I put it there. Nothing I do seems to help. I don’t understand what I am doing here. Being with me only makes you miserable.”

“And being without you makes me miserable,” my voice is raw. “I can’t win, either way.”

“Phillip, let me ask you something,” she turns me around so that we are face to face. “I need to know this or else there’s no point in hurting ourselves any further. Do you still love me?”

I look into her eyes—those beautiful, beseeching eyes—and feel my heart disintegrating. The faith I’ve lost in Gwen cannot explain the intensity of the pain that sears my soul. If my agony only involved Gwen’s lies, then I would gladly believe the lies, turn a blind eye, and try as much as possible to believe in the illusion that was us. No, I realize that Gwen’s infidelity cost me two people: the woman I loved and the man I loved to be when I was with her.

“Phillip, please tell me. Do you still love me?”

“No,” I rasp.

A rush of emotions plays across her face—first surprise, followed by sadness, like a candle sputtering out. I start to speak, to say something else—maybe even to take back what I just said, but in that instant, all the lights in the resort go out, plunging us into total darkness.

Chapter Five

“Gwen?”

“I’m right here.”

“I can’t see a damn thing,” I look around waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of light. “We must have lost electricity.”

The half moon barely sheds enough light to see three feet in any direction. I hear the waves crashing nearby, and feel the sea spray on my face, but I cannot see the ocean at all.

“The power outage must be affecting the other resort,” Gwen says. “The lights on the resort across the bay are out, too.”

I look to where I believe the other resort to be. In the impenetrable black, it is difficult to be certain. Gwen is correct; no lights twinkle back to us from across the bay.

“A power line may be down,” I suggest. “Let’s head back to the restaurant.”

We say nothing as we trod towards the restaurant. Surrounded in endless black, walking in solemn silence, I wonder if this is what death is like. A Greek myth springs to mind—that of Orpheus descending into Hades. Orpheus, stricken with grief over the death of his young wife, journeys to the realm of the dead to retrieve her soul. He sings a song of such beauty that the lords of the underworld permit him to take his wife’s soul back to the land of the living on the condition that he does not look behind him as he leaves. As I trudge in the darkness back towards the restaurant, Gwen silently following me, I imagine this is what Orpheus would have felt like. I cannot help but remember the myth ends badly; as they leaves Hades, Orpheus suspects his wife is no longer behind him and turns to check. She still followed him, but for breaking the rule against looking back, ghostly hands drag her to the realm of the dead, separated from Orpheus forever.

As my eyes adjust to the absence of light, I discern the shapes of the bungalows that line the beach. Tiny spots of light hover near the restaurant. Cigarette lighters. The people in the restaurant huddle around the small flames. I hear other guests emerging from their bungalow, stumbling in the darkness, and calling out in dismay over the power outage.

We ascend the restaurant steps to find Jonas Dunlap returning from the kitchen with a bundle of tiki torches and a large flashlight. “This should shed some light on the situation,” he lights the torches and passes them amongst his staff to disperse around the restaurant. He tries to use the flashlight but it does not turn on.

“That is odd,” Jonas empties and reinserts the batteries to no avail. “These batteries were not that old. Ah, well, now I know the meaning of the phrase when it rains, it pours.”

Jonas whispers instructions to the head of his wait staff, and then speaks to all those gathered in the restaurant. “I apologize for the inconvenience and assure you our back-up generator will be on momentarily. During this short wait for the electricity to return, I recommend you take advantage of our gracious staff and expert bartenders. If anyone wishes to return to their bungalow one of the staff will guide you, however I recommend remaining here until the lights come back on.”

“What the hell just happened?” Conner approaches the group with Alexandra and some other guests in tow. He wears the same dress shirt he wore earlier in the day, open to the waist, a white towel draped over his shoulders and his hair wet and slicked back. “I was in the middle of taking a shower and then it went black.”

“I am afraid we have temporarily lost power,” Jonas explains in a soothing tone designed to keep everyone calm.

“You’ve got bigger problems than that,” Conner asserts, his voice a little too loud. “There’s no water pressure.”

Jonas arches a questioning brow.

“Yeah, there’s no running water,” Conner says. “I couldn’t even finish my shower.”

“He still has the conditioner in his hair,” Alexandra volunteers to Conner’s annoyance.

One of the bartenders tests the faucet behind the bar. With a loud gurgle, water spurts out, but immediately dwindles to a trickle. With evident consternation, Jonas tents his fingers and touches them to his lips.

“I don’t see how this could be,” he muses aloud to no one in particular. “Unless the water plant also lost power, in which case the outage would be island wide.”

“I hope no one needs to use the loo,” one of the British guests gripes. Other guests mutter unhappily.

“Any water plant would have a back-up generator,” Bill advises. “The water pressure should be back soon. Call into town—to your sheriff, or whoever your authorities are. Let them know we’ve lost power.”

“Hmmm, yes,” Jonas agrees, his brows still wrinkled with concern. “In the meantime, let me check on our own generator. Please, everyone, order something from the bar while we make this inconvenience as brief as possible.”

The calypso band switches to acoustic guitars and steel drums to play again. A few stalwart couples make light of the disruption to their otherwise lovely evening and resume dancing.

Following his instructions, the staff encourages the throng of guests to take a seat at one of the tables so they can take our drink orders. Pamela and Bill beckon me to join them at their table. I begin to walk over to them and realize Gwen is not moving.

“You coming?” I ask.

“Go ahead,” she advises without looking at me, her tone flat and emotionless.

I leave her and sit with Pamela and Bill. A waiter comes for my drink order. The disorder from the power outage mirrors the confusion in my heart. It seems that nothing in this world works as it should—from the machines we build to the relationships we have to each other.

“A double shot of rum,” I say to the waiter.

Pamela guffaws and slaps my knee. “That’s the spirit. When life hands you an impossible situation, getting plastered is an excellent option.”

She only refers to the lack of electricity, but her advice is especially apt for me considering the shambles of my personal life. Bill and Pamela discuss the power outage; I am not paying attention. Gwen stands at the bar, making small talk with other guests, not looking my way. I am sorely tempted to head back to my room pleading some excuse—a headache, upset stomach, anything just to be alone again. Coming to this resort was a mistake. My marriage is over. It is obvious now. These past few months I deluded myself into thinking it could have any other outcome.

Emotions churn within me like a cyclone. Anger, sadness, doubt. I am even angry with myself. Gwen offers herself to me, willing to endure whatever she can to bring us back together, and I am the one unwilling or unable to get over what happened. No! I shake my head as though to cast out this unwanted thought. I was not the one who cheated. I should not feel guilty just because I am unable to forgive her infidelity. Besides, Gwen is not the woman I believed her to be, therefore our marriage was a fraud. Gwen might be comfortable continuing to live a lie; I am not.

And yet, if that is true, why don’t I just get up and leave? Why do I keep glancing at Gwen hoping to catch her eye—hoping she will leave the people gathered at the bar and come sit with me?

Amidst my turmoil, one thing is clear: It is going to be a long couple of days until I am home again. The thought of feigning happiness to the other couples for several days and then returning to my loveless bungalow with Gwen is unbearable to me.

The waiter returns with our drinks. Pamela clinks her martini glass to mine and jests, “No electricity. No running water. Tiki torches to ward off the darkness. However, I have an ice-cold martini that embodies the perfect balance of gin to vermouth. At least I’m roughing it in style.”

Across the room, I spot Jonas Dunlap conferring with Owen, the man who picked us up from the airport. At this distance, it is impossible to hear what they are saying to each other, but from Jonas’s grim expression and sharp hand gestures coupled with Owen’s bewildered expression, it is safe to assume the news is not good.

At a nearby table, a woman remarks that her cell phone is dead.

“But I just charged it,” she complains.

“Hey, mine is dead, too,” responds another.

A murmur ripples through the crowd as other guests check their phones. I stand up. Something is seriously wrong.

“Bill, check your watch,” I say.

“Why, this can’t be right,” he says. “It’s at least an hour off. It seems to have stopped. Is your watch working?”

“Mine is working, but it’s a wind-up,” I reply.

The guests mill about in confused, anxious groups, like children who lost their parents in the mall. I cross to the edge of the restaurant where the wooden deck ends and the beach begins. I lean against the rope that acts as a guardrail, squint and peer across the bay.

Bill is at my side. “What is it?”

“Look,” I point into the darkness.

“What am I looking for?”

“That’s just it. There should be a red flashing light on that island across the bay. That light has its own generator; it does not rely on a power supply from the mainland. The light isn’t flashing. It is gone.”

“So it is,” Bill exclaims. “What does this mean?”

I am about to venture a guess, but a commotion near the bar stops me.

“What is going on, Jonas?” A frustrated guest demands. Everyone moves to the bar to listen. “You said the back-up generator would be on by now. What did the authorities in town say?”

Jonas pauses. “Actually, our phone lines are also down. We have been unable to call them.”

“And you are just informing us of this now?” asks an incredulous older woman. Her face is as taut as the leather on a wallet from what seems to be multiple face-lifts. Botox injections have rendered her brow as smooth as a field blanketed with snow. The total placidity of her expression is completely at odds with her alarmed tone of voice.

“I did not see the need to trouble any of you regarding the phone lines, especially in light of the fact that our generator would be on shortly,” he responds.

“Then why isn’t it on?” the botoxed woman shoots back.

Jonas looks at rows of angry, worried faces. For the first time I sense he is losing control of the situation. “Please, I must ask for everyone’s patience. Unfortunately, the back-up generator is also malfunctioning. We will continue working on it to return power to the resort as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid it won’t do any good,” I advise. They all turn to me; Gwen locks eyes with mine. “If what I suspect is true the back-up generator will not work. Nothing that relies on electricity will work. I believe we just experienced an E.M.P. blast.”

It is obvious from their blank expressions they do not understand what this means.

Conner grips the towel around his neck like a lamb tossed over his shoulders and asks, “What the hell is that?”

“An electro magnetic pulse,” I speak slowly and deliberately. “It’s a surge of energy that fries electrical equipment. Cables, wires, batteries—any device that uses them will be rendered inoperable by the blast.”

“What blast?” snaps a surly British man close to my age. “There was no blast. Nobody saw an explosion. You’re talking out of your arse.”

Some guests become increasingly dismayed, while others look at me as though I were a babbling idiot.

“It’s not a blast you would see,” my voice rises above the noise of the crowd. “If this is what occurred—I am not saying for certain that it has—it occurred in the uppermost levels of the atmosphere. We wouldn’t see anything or feel anything.”

“Please, everyone, I am sure there is a simple explanation for this,” Jonas waves his hands to settle everyone, and then he casts an irritated look my way. “There is no need to begin speculating wildly. I understand this is a major inconvenience. We will do everything in our power to make this as tolerable for you as possible. I’ve sent Owen into town to ascertain what has happened.”

No sooner do the words pass Jonas’s lips then Owen enters the restaurant.

“The van won’t start,” Owen hands Jonas a set of keys.

There is no response from anyone—just mute bafflement.

Finally, Jonas speaks, “Try the other vans.”

“I tried them all. Nothing. I think the batteries are dead.”

“This confirms my theory. We’ve had an E.M.P. blast,” I speak up. “Engines will not start—not so long as they need an electrical spark to kick on. It’s likely every vehicle on the island is useless. In the blink of an eye, we’ve gone back to the Stone Age. Help must come from outside the island. Doesn’t a commercial flight land every day on Isla Fin de la Tierra? We can tell the pilot what happened and an emergency generator can be flown in.”

“That could take days,” Amy gasps.

Someone in the crowd asks, “What are we going to do for electricity in the meantime?”

Jonas turns to Owen and orders him to scour every tiki torch and candle he can find. “Since it seems none of our automobiles are functioning I will send someone on foot into town to find more information. Perhaps someone from the town is already on their way over here to inform us what occurred. In the meantime, my staff and I will endeavor to make this situation as tolerable as possible.”

“But the toilets aren’t working,” Don insists. “Where are we supposed to go to the bathroom?”

Jonas—previously so sophisticated and courteous—wavers with distress by the fact that he must discuss provisions for the waste elimination of his guests. “I realize this is incredibly challenging for all of you. We will provide buckets for those purposes.”

A plump British man at the back of the crowd bellows, “Buckets! What kind of nonsense is this? We are not living in the Dark Ages.”

“We will close the restaurant shortly,” Jonas announces, a total reversal from his earlier advice for us to remain drinking at the bar. “Your safety is my first concern, followed, of course, by your comfort. So that you are not wandering in the dark trying to find your rooms, the staff will escort you. We will provide candles… and any other items you may require. Hopefully this issue will be resolved by morning.”

Several in the crowd continue to grumble and gather in small groups to vent their displeasure, but the staff begins closing the restaurant, dispersing the irate crowds before they turn into a rowdy mob. A waiter holding a tiki torch guides a batch of us down the winding path to our rooms. It is so dark and the bungalows so identical that several times we try to enter the wrong one. Gwen and I reach our bungalow. The waiter hands us a small citronella candle and a bucket. Alone with Gwen, the room is as cheerful as a tomb. The gloom swallows the candle light. Without air conditioning, the air in the room is heavy and warm. Fumbling with my hands, I open the sliding glass door at the back of the room and throw the heavy curtains back to let fresh air into the room.

I find a comfortable chair and sit on it. In the darkness, the creaking of the mattress is the only indication that Gwen rests on the bed.

“Now I understand why the cavemen were so terrified of the night,” I muse. “With the setting of the sun it must have seemed to them that the world was coming to an end. No wonder they believed in so many myths and superstitions to explain things.”

No response.

“I expect we’ll have power tomorrow after an emergency generator is brought in from outside the island,” I continue. “Though I doubt we’ll have full power for some time.”

“I’m leaving on the first plane out of here.”

Her words echo off the walls like a gunshot.

“There probably won’t be normal flights to and from the island for a few days,” I reply.

Pause. “Then whenever the first plane leaves—tomorrow, the next day—I’ll be on it.”

“You could always stay the rest of the week. We’ve paid for the time.”

“There’s nothing to stay for. This marriage is over. You do not love me; I don’t blame you. What we had is dead and I killed it. It will always be the biggest regret of my life. Staying here any longer would just drag it out.”

“But we’ve paid so much to come here.”

“Then at least one of us should enjoy it. The money doesn’t matter to me. You should stay.”

“If you leave I am leaving, too.”

“No. Stay. It was more your idea to come here than mine, anyway. Also, I want to fly back alone.”

So this is how a marriage dissolves. No screaming. No throwing things. Just this quiet discussion involving travel arrangements. I suppose I should feel a deep sadness, but I am numb. In a day or two, I’ll have this island to myself. Maybe I will do a lot of snorkeling. Sleep late in bed. Take meals in my room to avoid the curious glances of the other guests wondering why I am alone.

I wait for Gwen to say something more, but there is nothing more to say. I fall asleep in my chair.

Chapter Six

The air hangs on me like a warm, wet sheet. I open my eyes. A shaft of morning light falls into the room. I check my wristwatch. It is almost 9 a.m. The sheets on the bed are rumpled and it is empty.

“Gwen?”

No answer. I check the bathroom. She is gone. The absence of air conditioning confirms that we are still without power, but I test the lights anyway. The lulling rhythmic sound of the waves and the humid, stillness of the air brings about a strange pensiveness in me. I feel that it would be wrong to make a sound or disturb this quietude in any way. I touch the bed where Gwen slept. Her satin robe lies crumpled in a ball. Pressing it to my lips, I inhale the trace of her perfume that lingers on the fabric.

I use the bucket to relieve myself. If Gwen suddenly returns at that moment and catches me squatting over a bucket, I will likely die of embarrassment. Now what to do with the contents of the bucket? Will someone from the staff collect it? God, no—that would be too humiliating. I cannot—with any dignity—hand someone a bucket of my piss and shit. I have to dispose of it myself. Outside, I scamper to the side of my bungalow, looking around to make sure no one is watching, and I dig a hole in the sand into which I dump my waste and bury it. I tromp down to the sea and wash the bucket out with seawater. On the way back, I spot one of the refined grand dames doing the same thing with obvious revulsion. This is going to make for some crazy stories when I get back home.

Left to my own devices I would stay alone in the bungalow all day, but hunger forces me out. I throw clean clothes on. My face is oily, my hair unkempt. If only I could take a hot shower. Maybe I will go for a swim in the pool later to wash some of the sweat away.

Along the way to the restaurant, I pass other guests all looking ragged at the edges. The elegant ladies have lost their perfect composure. Their hair is frizzy and their faces have a pinched, sour expression. Two elderly white men are heading in my direction. One of them wears a blindingly garish Hawaiian shirt and has a sizable potbelly. His face is ruddy from the heat. He walks with the aid of his companion who wears a straw hat and seems to take the power outage in stride. From the tender way they lean on one another it is obvious they are a couple.

“Isn’t this something?” the thinner and spryer of the pair remarks to me as I pass by. “Our trip to paradise has turned into such an ordeal.”

“This is awful. Simply awful,” his red-faced companion adds. “Hey, we heard you in the restaurant last night. You seem to know what you’re talking about. Better than that manager anyway—”

“Jonas is doing the best he can,” his friend amends.

The plump man is not convinced and gives a dismissive shrug. “You said something last night about an explosion—about the power never coming back on…”

“Yes, an E.M.P. blast. It’s a likely explanation for how we lost power on our watches, cell phones, and flashlights. No other explanation makes sense.”

“I’m Nelson, by the way,” the slender man says. “And this is Curtis.”

I introduce myself.

“So, Phillip, let’s say for the sake of argument that you are correct—that we’ve had this electric, magnetic blast thing,” Curtis ponders. “How long should we expect to endure living like cave men?”

I scratch my chin. “Well, if I am correct then power won’t return until emergency generators are flown in from outside the island.”

“I am so glad we purchased vacation insurance,” Nelson chuckles. “We came here to celebrate our anniversary, you see.”

“Twenty five years,” Curtis says.

“This was a big expense for us. We’re not so well off as a lot of the people who come here,” Nelson whispers.

I laugh, and with the same conspiratorial tone reply, “Don’t worry. I’m in the same boat as you. We maxed out our credit cards to come here.”

“You’re wife is lovely, by the way,” Curtis says.

“Yes, it’s good to see young couples in love,” Nelson agrees.

My only reply is a wan smile.

Curtis sniffs the air. “Mmmm, something smells good.”

It certainly does. We reach the restaurant, filled almost to capacity. Jonas stands before the grill with a few of his chefs preparing a feast of mammoth proportions. I spy Don leaning heavily on his cane but still managing to balance a platter crammed with food.

Don asks, “Hey, kid, how you holding up?”

“The lack of electricity doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite,” I chide.

“Man’s gotta eat.”

Out on the deck the chefs grill food that is wholly inappropriate for breakfast, including lobsters and a whole pig. The guests help themselves to the buffet of food and stack their dirty dishes on several tables at the back of the room buzzing with flies. There are no waiters to serve us or collect the used dishes.

“You gotta help yourself, kid. They’re short staffed,” Don explains. “Most of the staff walked back into town last night; half of them did not come back.”

“Then this is as I suspected. There are no working cars on the island.”

“Seems so. If you’re looking for Gwen she arrived an hour ago,” he nods to a long table where Gwen sits next to Conner and Alexandra.

I pile some French toast and tropical fruit on a plate and find a seat at the end of the table. Gwen does not acknowledge me. She listens with rapt attention to Conner blathering on about the New York City blackout in the 1970’s and all the mayhem that ensued. Alexandra notices me sitting by myself and seems about to call me over, but she glances at Gwen, looks back at me and remains silent. The other people at the table, a mixture of Americans and Brits culled from the younger ranks of the resort guests, wash their food down with beer chilled in a cooler filled with rapidly melting ice. Compared to the other tables filled with dour faced, anxious, elderly guests, my table has the raucous energy of a gang of gamblers and scalawags on a hell bound train. Decorum is cast aside. They laugh louder and drink more than is appropriate.

I have the unenviable seat next to the young Brit who mocked me the night before. His laugh is like a braying mule. His name is Robby and I know this because he constantly refers to himself in the third person, saying such things, as “Robby won’t stand for that” or “They didn’t count on Robby coming to town.” Between Robby and Conner, I cannot tell who is more pleased with himself. Robby’s girlfriend is a pear shaped woman; plain faced with an amiable though vapid expression, like something I have seen on livestock.

Robby hands me a beer. “Drink up, mate. No tee-totaling here.”

“Shouldn’t we be conserving our supplies?” I ask.

Conner slams his bottle onto the table, barks out a laugh and leans forward. “My friend, this liquor is about the only thing making a bad situation bearable. Don’t be such a Nervous Nelly.”

Giggles all around the table.

“But you don’t even know when the power will be returning,” I press. “We’re consuming in one day what could last us for weeks if properly rationed.”

“Good morning, Mr. Crane,” Jonas stand besides me. “Why are we cooking so much food at once, you ask? You have heard the phrase ‘waste not, want not’. Without refrigeration, we risk the food spoiling. Better to cook it all at once than lose it.”

“Yes, but the bottled drinks wouldn’t spoil,” I counter.

“No, but they’re getting warmer by the minute. Better cold in my gullet than warm in a bucket of melted ice,” Robby interjects to general agreement at the table.

My voice rises in frustration. “I know this island is small, but they’ve got to have some kind of police force. Hasn’t anyone come by to tell us what happened?”

“Mr. Crane, there is no need to upset yourself. We are expecting someone from the authorities to arrive shortly and provide answers to all your questions,” Jonas touches my shoulder, his words soothing but his eyes nervous. “In the meantime, we have everything under control. Granted, we are short staffed today and I must beg your patience, but the resort is still here to cater to you.”

Jonas leaves his hand on my shoulder. I sense that if I raise any other doubts he will throttle me. This situation is not under control. I realize what Jonas is doing. His mastery of the situation is tenuous. He plies the guests with food and liquor, stalling for time. I see at once that he hopes with all his might for the power to return soon and for order to return. The last thing he needs is me blurting out that our predicament may be much direr than we comprehend.

I look to Gwen for support and get none. She does not look at me, as though I were not here.

Fine. I will keep my warnings to myself. To hell with all of them. Without another word, I leave the table and march to the farthest end of the beach where the cliff walls throw jagged rocks into the surf. No one swims in this section. Even walking here is treacherous.

On the way, I pass Pamela floating on the waves with a few other Brits. She waves to me. Bill reclines on a chair beneath a palm tree.

With an indulgent smile, he nods towards his wife as I pass him. “Pamela came here for sand and sea, and by God, electricity or no, she means to have it.”

“Yeah, I’ll probably be doing some of that myself,” I reply, and notice, despite the cooling sea breeze, sweat beads Bill’s forehead. “Are you O.K.? You look a bit flushed.”

He sips from a tall glass of some cloudy concoction. “I am feeling a bit spent.”

“Maybe you should go easy on the liquor,” I point to the three empty glasses on the table beside him.

He gives a weak smile. “These, my lad, are fruit drinks. No liquor involved. No, I’ll leave the hard drinking to your rowdy friends in the restaurant. I think it’s the heat getting to me, that’s all.”

I am about to point out that in the shade near the ocean it is actually rather pleasant, but I prefer not to talk any further. Thunder grows in my heart. I want to be alone.

At the far end of the beach, I sit behind a large rock where the foaming surf is just inches from my toes.

I hate Gwen—sitting with those drunken jackasses, not even acknowledging me, not even giving me the courtesy of maintaining a pretext that everything is all right between us. Fuck her. The moment we get back to America I will file for divorce—something I should have done months ago. In a way, it is good I am so angry. This fury is something worth holding on to. It will put steel in my spine if I ever start to waver. The sooner I file for divorce the sooner I can move Gwen from my present to my past. God, this sucks. How many days am I to endure her hobnobbing with everyone but me in this damn resort? A hermit crab scuttles amongst seaweed cast on shore. I wish I had a shell to retreat into like this crab. Safe within the shell, I could let the whole world go to hell.

Lorenzo still signs out the water equipment, dutifully registering the name of each guest to ensure the return of the items.

“I’m surprised to see you here today, Lorenzo,” I sign out a snorkel and flippers.

He gives a slow smile. “Tings are very difficult now, to be sure. As you can see, much of de staff is not in today. It is a long walk from Rio Galera to de resort.”

“You walked all that way?”

“I have a bike. De electricity is out,” he taps his legs. “But dese still work.”

“I haven’t spoken to anyone from Rio Galera about the outage. Do they know anything that we don’t know here at the resort?”

He shakes his head. “No. We are still in de dark.”

“Literally and figuratively.”

I float over the reef, face down, observing the aquatic life. My fingers prune; still I float. There is nothing and no one to rush back to the resort for. Do my parents know about our power outage? Has it made my local news? I envision my mother watching the news, anxious for a call from me. If only I could communicate with them somehow—just a word to let them know what has happened and that I am okay—physically if not mentally. Such thoughts fill my head until hunger finally drives me back to shore.

I return the snorkeling equipment and walk by Don, Amy and some of the British guests huddled under some nearby palm trees.

“—goddamn ridiculous,” Don snarls. “I don’t even care about the money anymore. Just get me out of here.”

Amy nods gravely. “I know, I know. We are reduced to living like savages—like people you see on TV… the people who live in the Amazon… in huts.”

“Forget Jonas,” a wizened Brit adds with disgust. “That man is just shy of useless. We need to march into town and demand some answers.”

Don taps his cane. “That’s a farther walk than I can manage.”

Don spots me walking past. “Phillip, what about you? You could walk into town and demand something be done.”

“I thought someone from the authorities was coming here to explain what happened to the power,” I reply.

“They did,” Amy says. “A policeman, or sheriff or whatever the hell they call themselves—one of them pedaled here an hour ago. He was as clueless as we are.”

“But planes land here every day,” I point out. “They can tell the pilot what has happened. He can bring help from another island.”

“Tell me,” Don gestures to the sky. “Have you seen any planes? A flight was due hours ago. It never arrived.”

I inhale sharply.

“Yeah, kid, we’re prisoners here,” Don says.

“The blast that struck us probably hit our nearest islands, too,” I grasp for answers. “If that’s the case then it could be much longer before power is restored—days even.”

“Oh, God, I cannot go days living like this,” Amy covers her eyes. “This is becoming impossible. Impossible.”

I leave them and head to the restaurant where the grim news of the missing flight is the number one topic of discussion. Pamela carries a tray laden with dirty dishes to the sea.

“Phillip, if you wouldn’t mind,” she taps a stack of food encrusted pots with her foot. “I could use a bit of help.”

“Are things really that bad?” I scoop up the pots.

“They’re worse,” she grimaces as we walk on the beach. “You know, I could wring some necks around here. I thank you for helping me, but look at all the others, standing around, not lifting a damn finger. Useless. Utterly useless.”

We kneel in the sand, pour liquid soap on the pots and dishes, and wash them off with seawater. She holds a sea bathed wine glass to her critical gaze. “If anyone complains about spots on their crystal I will kill them.”

With his fine linen dress pants rolled to his knees to keep them dry, Jonas joins us.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Crane,” he scours a greasy pan in the waves. “I deeply appreciate your assisting us. I made an announcement earlier; perhaps you did not hear.”

“Announcement?”

“Obviously, I am unable to contact our home office, but when we finally establish contact I will insist that due to the hardships our guests have endured the resort will offer a full refund or a complimentary visit at some future date.”

This is the only good news I have had in days. “Thank you, Jonas. I appreciate that.”

“It is the least I can do given the circumstances,” Jonas sighs. “I am afraid this problem may drag on longer than any of us have anticipated.”

“And in the meantime used dishes and pots pile up and we have people standing around still expecting someone else to cater to them,” Pamela scrubs a plate with such anger I expect the pattern to vanish from the china. “Really! How galling. Bill would be here helping us, but he hasn’t been feeling quite himself lately. He’s back in our room having a lie down.”

I rise with a stack of clean pots. “Sounds like a good idea. I think after lunch I’ll do the same.”

Gwen is not in the restaurant. The breakfast buffet still sits out, covered beneath tin foil to keep the flies away. What looked appetizing at breakfast is far less enticing now. Congealed fat coats the sausages and eggs. The seafood remains untouched. From this faded menu, I gather enough food to hold me for a while and walk back to my bungalow.

I half expect to find Gwen there. She is not. I lay on the bed watching shadows move across the ceiling as day fades to night. If Gwen returns I will look pathetic, sealing myself in the room like a hermit, but wandering alone around the resort is not helping my self-image, either. Worst of all, this ordeal seems likely to stretch for several days, perhaps well into next week. This feels like a prison sentence, but I cannot recall committing any crime.

It is nearly 9 p.m. Gwen has not returned to our bungalow. Perhaps she will spend the night somewhere else. Who is she with right now? What is she doing? The ease with which Gwen moves on with her life is infuriating. While I mope about, avoiding the company of others as though I were a leper, my soon-to-be-ex-wife plays the role of social butterfly. How wonderful it would be not to care, to regard the dissolution of our marriage as nothing more than a minor setback. A day will come when this agony will fade to a dull ache. I wish that day was now.

I sit on our patio. Moonlight shatters into a thousand flecks of silver on the undulating surface of the bay. Palm trees sway in the warm breeze. It is peaceful here, alone with my thoughts, but I cannot remain. Mosquitoes. They whine in my ear. Each second I feel something on my bare arms and legs. It may be bloodthirsty insects; it may be my imagination. Either way, I cannot stay.

I stroll barefoot along the edge of the surf. Sometimes, the waves come farther than I expected and rush against my shins. I do not mind. The resort is unnaturally quiet. Without electric lights, I cannot tell if the other guests are awake in their bungalows. Each bungalow is dark and silent. As I approach the restaurant/bar, I spot a few burning tiki torches. Jonas and Lorenzo clear away the remains of the buffet. Save for the handful of torches near the buffet, the rest of the area is dark and empty.

I ascend the wooden steps from the beach. “Where is everyone?”

Jonas hands Lorenzo a tray of spoiled food and directs him to toss it into the sea. “The other guests are in their bungalows, most likely. They were not feeling particularly festive. Bad news from Rio Galera. No flight came to Isla Fin de la Tierra today. There has been no contact from the outside world. I do not know when help will come.”

“My God,” I sink to a chair. “What will we do?”

“As you said earlier, we must ration our food supplies.”

“I thought you cooked everything this morning.”

Jonas props his hands on his waist, surveying what food can be stored away for another day and which must be disposed. “Not everything—just the food most likely to spoil without a working freezer. Much remains in cans, boxes, and bottles. Certainly enough to last us for some time if we are prudent,” and then, with a rueful chuckle, he adds, “The good news is we have plenty of booze, so you will not lack for libations.”

“Yes, well, that’s a relief,” I respond with grim sarcasm, and then ask, “Jonas, was my wife here for dinner tonight?”

“I believe Mrs. Crane had a light supper with us, yes.”

Curiosity gets the better of me. I should not ask—I should not even care—but I cannot help myself. “Was she alone?”

“She sat with some of the younger guests of the resort.”

“Like Conner Gilroy.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Gilroy—among a few others.”

I stare at a spot on the floor, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. “I must look like an idiot.”

Jonas Dunlap, diplomatic as ever, offers me a tactful way to save face. “The power outage places stress on every relationship, Mr. Crane.”

“Phillip. Please call me Phillip. It’s somewhat absurd to stand on formalities when we’re using buckets for toilets,” I playfully chide. “Do you have family on the island?”

“I have a daughter—about your age, but she is not here. She lives in our native Antigua.”

“She must love to visit you here.”

“She has never been here. Perhaps some day. I am working on it,” Jonas replies, a wistful note in his voice.

I am curious about this man. Normally, I would not ask personal questions, but since it appears we will be together longer than expected it would not hurt to know each other better.

“I notice you are not wearing a wedding ring…”

Jonas does not immediately answer. Have I offended him by prying? Instead of responding, he walks behind the empty bar, sets out two glasses, and pours room temperature rum and cokes. He hands me a glass, takes a seat opposite mine, and calmly says, “A marriage is a difficult thing to maintain even during normal circumstances.”

Here we are—not host and guest, not old and young, but two men, speaking plainly to one another as equals.

“So you were married?” I ask.

“That was some time ago, Phillip. I assume you will be leaving us as soon as normal flights resume,” Jonas does not attempt to hide the fact that we both know my marriage is over.

I take a long sip of my drink. “Either I will or my wife.”

“No children?”

“No.”

“Then that is one good thing; less to fight over,” he nods sagely, with the air of a veteran of some half-forgotten battle. “Ending a marriage is always worse with a child involved.”

It is not necessary for him to elaborate further. I envision a rift dividing Jonas and his daughter. Here we are, years later, and the fault line between them remains.

“It kills me to wander alone around this place,” I confess. “I sit by myself in our bungalow or skulk around at the end of the beach, knowing all the while that my wife is somewhere else in the same resort, enjoying herself with other people—like nothing happened at all.”

Jonas rests his chin on his hand. “I would not say she is enjoying herself. Perhaps she is, but I doubt it. Some people have a way of appearing happy when they are really dying inside. So it was for me, when I was married.”

“Maybe you are right. Maybe she is just as miserable as I am. Either way, it’s over.”

Jonas takes a dip swig of his drink and leans back in his chair. “And that could be just as well. It is not healthy to hold on to something that is not meant to survive.”

“You never re-married?”

With a wry smile, Jonas gestures to the empty restaurant and bar. “I am married to the resort. Believe me, she is a very demanding wife.”

Talking to Jonas helps my mood. The example of his life gives me hope that I will not always feel so wretched. Love grows and fades. Sometimes a marriage starts with great promise only to end in divorce. It is not a death sentence. Life goes on.

We finish our drinks, bid our goodnights, and I return to my empty bungalow.

Chapter Seven

The sand is cool on my bare feet. I stand shirtless on the beach, facing the bright morning sun. Except for some sea birds scampering along the surf, and the ever-present stream of white butterflies fluttering past, I have the beach to myself.

Hands on my bony hips, I survey the scene. I inhale the sweet air. Perhaps, today we will get news from the outside world. Taking into account our dwindling food supplies, today would be a good day to keep my word to my father and try to land a big fish for dinner. Unfortunately, if successful in catching a whopper, I will not be able to provide my father the photographic proof he required because no camera will work. He will just have to take my word for it after all.

Something on the horizon snaps me out of this reverie. A sailboat. Gleaming white, sails full with wind, it lists to the side.

“Hey! Hey!” I leap into the air, waving my arms. I cannot see anyone on deck. I am so far away it is impossible to tell if someone is there or not. Likewise, if anyone is on deck, I doubt they can see me either.

I look to the bungalows behind me, hoping my yells roused some of the other guests, but no one stirs. I must get the attention of whoever captains that sailboat. Maybe someone is at the restaurant. I dash along the beach, keeping one eye on the sailboat, which is closer now but not headed for us. No, it seems that it will sail right past the resort.

As I sprint up the deck stairs to the restaurant I spot Conner and Robby, shirtless and sunburned, sitting at the bar getting a head start on the days inebriation.

“Relax, Phil,” Robby holds forth a pitcher of booze. “There’s still plenty of liquor to go around.”

Winded, I point to the sailboat.

“Holy shit!” Conner hops off his stool. “It’s gonna crash.”

He is right. The boat lists even more than it did when I first saw it, and it sails directly towards the jagged coast of Goat Island.

“I know how to use the hobie cats,” Robby declares. “We could sail out to the boat.”

The three of us run to where the hobie cats are stored.

“Fuck,” Conner curses, jerking on the chain used to lock the hobie cat overnight.

“I’ll find Jonas. He must have the key,” Robby says and runs to Jonas’s bungalow.

Conner and I watch the sailboat. It rams into Goat Island at full speed, the crunching sound of the impact hitting our ears a moment later.

“Where’s the crew?” Mouth agape, Conner asks.

“I didn’t see anybody on deck.”

I hear the rattle of chains behind us. It is Jonas, bleary eyed in rumpled pajamas, hurriedly unlocking the hobie cats.

“The boat is still afloat,” Conner notes as we haul one of the hobie cats to the water. “If we hurry we can get there before it goes under.”

Robby, Conner, and I push the craft into deeper water. Jonas remains behind. Robby unfurls the small sail and steers us towards the damaged boat. I sit out front, ocean spray coating my face. Each minute the sailboat sinks further beneath the waves. As we approach, I see why: the reef tore a gaping hole in the bow.

Robby pulls alongside the sailboat. “We don’t have an anchor. I have to stay with the hobie cat.”

Maintaining our position is nearly impossible. Looking down into the turquoise depths, I estimate the water is thirty feet deep. Conner scrambles onto the tilted deck of the sinking boat and reaches back to haul me after him.

“Anybody here?” He calls out.

We grip the sail rigging to steady ourselves. The starboard deck is partially submerged. Behind the captain’s wheel, a small flight of steps descend to the cabins. Over a foot of water covers the floor of the interior. Cups, clothing, papers, and other debris float in the water. I head down the stairs. Expensive teak wood panels the walls and floor. Brass lamps suspended from chains hang at crazy angles. A long table bolted to the floor lies submerged. Opposite the table, cabinets hang open, their contents dumped into the water.

“Hello?” I call. No response. With each successive ocean wave, the boat sways and takes on more water. Suddenly, an electric crackle fills the air.

“What’s that?” Conner whirls in surprise.

Securely bolted to the wooden counter, a ham radio emits a static hiss.

“It’s working!” I seize the mic. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone getting this signal?”

Our only reply is a low buzz.

“How is it that this radio still works?” Conner asks.

I examine the radio. There’s no protective case Faraday cage to shield the radio from the E.M.P. blast. So how is it still working?

“The ship must have been outside of the blast zone. It’s the only possible explanation,” I say.

Conner snatches a photo of a man taped to the cabinet door. “Hey, I know this guy. It’s Dawson Hartford,” Because of my blank stare, Conner elaborates, “Dawson Hartford—the British hedge fund CEO. He’s huge—big time—one of the wealthiest men in England. In the financial biz, guys like me are pygmies next to him. I spent half my days trying to guess what his next move would be and profit from it.”

In the photo, Dawson Hartford stands at the wheel of the sailboat with a black captain’s hat perched on his head. He grips an open bottle of Dom Perignon, a frothy rivulet bubbling over his hand. Tall and imposing, with a thick mane of salt and pepper hair, he sports the proud, toothy grin of a man used to bringing the world to heel.

“You never heard of him?” Conner asks incredulous. I shake my head.

Conner regards the photo with the reverence a medieval pilgrim would give to the bones of a saint. “Floating across the Atlantic in a balloon, sailing around the world, rocketing into space—Dawson’s done it all. This has to be his boat. My whole life I wanted to meet him, and now I’m on his boat.”

“As it sinks to the bottom of the bay,” I pull Conner back to reality. “C’mon. Let’s see if anyone is onboard.”

Sloshing through the water, I open a door at the back of the cabin. It leads to a narrow, water-filled corridor. As we proceed down the corridor, we hear the unmistakable groan of fiberglass sliding against stone. The boat lists further to the side. Any moment, the boat could slip to the sea bottom with us trapped inside.

Conner points to a cabin at the end of the corridor. “That must be the sleeping cabin.”

Because the sleeping cabin is closer to the hole in the hull, the water level is higher—waist deep. Half the windows in the cabin are underwater. The room is dim. Clothes and paperwork float by. The body of a man slumps in a plush chair bolted to the floor.

“Is that Dawson?” Conner whispers.

Treading water, I move closer, but even from a distance, I can see something is terribly wrong with the man in the chair. The skin on the man is blistered and missing in long, oozing strips. Dawson’s thick hair—if it is Dawson—is gone. Only scraggly patches remain.

“What’s wrong with him?” Conner gasps.

I crouch before the body, bending to examine the mangled face. “I don’t know. He’s dead.”

“Holy fuck. That’s him… that’s Dawson Hartford. I recognize his face, even after… after whatever happened to him. It’s like somebody threw acid on him,” Conner grimaces, cautiously reaching out, nearly touching the man’s face.

Suddenly, the eyes on the body open, causing us to recoil in shock. Dawson Hartford sucks in a painful, rattling gulp of air and looks at us with an agonized stare.

“Help me,” he rasps, bloody spittle falling from his lips. “Help me, please.”

Recovering from my surprise that Dawson is still alive, I inch closer. Wracked with pain, his eyes beseech me. How could a man suffer such trauma and still cling to life? “What happened to you?”

“I… don’t… know,” he struggles to say, and then contorts in excruciating pain. It subsides and he continues, “Set sail… from London three days ago. Rio de Janeiro. Head for Rio. Everything… good. Two nights ago… just past Tropic of Cancer… storm. Massive storm. Out of nowhere. Wind roaring loud. So loud. About to capsize. Had to go on deck—right the boat. Everything foggy. The fog burned, felt like—like being roasted… alive. Need doctor. Please.”

Conner backs away towards the door, eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of storm could do this?”

Dawson’s head sinks down. Only the faintest movement of his chest indicates he is alive.

Not getting an answer from Dawson, Conner grabs my arm and jerks me back. “Tell me what did this to him!”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe some kind of volcanic eruption—no, no, that couldn’t be it. The boat isn’t burned. He sailed into some kind of acid cloud. Maybe a chemical spill. Something that burns flesh but not wood—not the sails,” In a jolt, the answer hits me. “Radiation. These are radiation burns.”

With an awful rumble, the boat lurches downward. As Conner and I grab hold of the doorframe to steady ourselves, Dawson tumbles head first from his chair into the water.

“No, no, no,” I thrash through the water towards Dawson and flip him over.

“Leave him,” Conner orders. “We’ve got to go.”

“He needs a doctor!”

“No doctor can fix what’s wrong with him.”

Conner staggers towards the deck leaving me alone with the floating, blistered body of Dawson Hartford. His eyes flutter open—his swollen, ruined face just inches from mine. I struggle to drag him with me. I cannot. He is too heavy.

“Don’t… leave… me,” he chokes on each word.

I look into the blue, terrified eyes of a man who toppled empires with a single word. He probably never imagined that some day he would beg for help from someone like me.

“Don’t… lea—”

“Shhh,” I calm him. “Save your strength. I’m not going anywhere.”

Conner tromps on the deck over our heads.

“Just one man on board,” Conner yells to Robby. I cannot make out Robby’s response, but Conner replies. “Horrible, man. Burned up—peeling skin. As good as dead. The boat’s sinking fast.”

Embarrassed by Conner’s bluntness regarding Dawson’s survival odds, and uncertain what to do, I look at Dawson. He gives a weak smile, as though appreciating a joke played at his expense, and closes his eyes. I hold his head out of the water, repulsed to touch him, but unwilling to turn my back on another human being. Anxious minutes pass as the boat slips further to the sea bottom. The water in the sleeping cabin rises to my chest. I listen to Conner stomping about on deck, to the waves slapping against the ship and objects clunking together in the water, and above all, I listen to the faint rattle of breath in Dawson’s lungs. Despite his blistered and burned skin, with his eyes closed and the faint smile still on his lips I get an idea what he must have looked like as an infant dozing dreamily in his mother’s arms.

His chest stops moving. The wheeze of his breath is gone. Only the curious smile remains on his cracked, bleeding lips. He is dead. I let him sink away.

I slosh through the water and debris to the deck just as Conner crawls from the sailboat to the hobie cat.

“Wait!” I yell.

“We’re not taking him,” Conner shakes his head. “Come with us now or stay here with him.”

“No, you fool,” I snap. “The ham radio. It still works. We cannot leave it. It’s the only thing we’ve got to communicate with the outside world.”

Conner groans with exasperation, but he knows I am right. He climbs back on the sailboat.

“The fucking thing is bolted down,” Conner grunts as he tries to move it.

“Watch out,” I wield a fire extinguisher and use it to smash the wooden counter apart. Together, we hand the ham radio to Robby on the hobie cat.

We sail back to the resort; I face the sailboat and watch it roll to the side.

“Dawson?” Conner asks.

I do not take my eyes from the sinking boat. “Dead. Like you said.”

Conner tells Robby all about the distinguished man who died in my arms. I watch the sailboat until it sinks from sight.

Chapter Eight

“This is Phillip Crane, Phillip Crane on 14352.6—anyone on this frequency, over?” I speak into the mic on the ham radio. The radio sits on a table in the restaurant.

“No luck getting anybody on that thing?” Bill asks. His white hair seems damp with sweat, and his face is ashen.

“No, but it’s definitely got power,” I point to the battery that comes attached to the radio. “So far as I know, this is the only working electrical device on the island and our best shot at getting help.”

The resort buzzes with news of the sunken sailboat. Many of the guests, especially the British ones, express shocked disbelief that Dawson Hartford is dead. I am probably the only person at the resort who did not know who he was.

A sizable crowd surrounds me: Jonas, Bill, Pamela, Don, Amy, Robby, Alexandra, Conner, and others. Gwen is here, too. We do not speak to each other. Sans make-up, her hair pulled into a low maintenance ponytail, she seems somehow more fragile, like a knight without a suit of armor. With each turn of the dial on the radio, Amy wrings her long, bony hands together and restlessly spins a diamond tennis bracelet about her wrist as though it were a magical talisman. Hunched on a chair, Don leans forward on his cane, closely observing what I am doing. From the radio speaker comes a low buzz.

I drop the mic to my lap and stare at the radio. “I don’t understand. I’ve been at it for two hours. We should have contacted somebody by now. Where is everyone?”

“The damn thing could be broken,” Don suggests.

“I don’t know. It appears to be working as it should, but if that were the case we should hear other chatter,” I stare befuddled at the gauges that show I am getting a good signal. “The internal antenna on this thing is weak, but even with a weak antenna we should hear something. We might not get a clear transmission, but we’d still hear voices… people talking back and forth. There’s nothing. Absolute silence.”

Robby pushes to the front of the crowd. “You’re probably doing it wrong.”

I step back from the radio and offer him the mic. “I’m no ham radio expert. My father had one when I was a boy, so I have a rough idea how it’s supposed to work, but you’re welcome to give it a shot.”

Suddenly uncertain of himself, he takes the mic. “Hello, hello, anyone out there?”

“I already checked on this frequency,” I advise, and turn the dial on the radio for him. “Here. Turn this to check a different frequency.”

Robby tries to reach someone, switching the frequencies without success.

Finally, he puts the mic down. “It’s no use. This machine is broken. You probably damaged it when you removed it from the boat.”

“And if I left it on the boat it would be at the bottom of the sea by now,” I retort.

Robby rolls his eyes and stalks off. The crowd disperses; the excitement of a working ham radio replaced by sullen disappointment. Gwen walks in the direction of our bungalow—probably to change her clothes since she has not returned to our bungalow at all the previous day. I want to follow her there and tell her how fucked up she is for avoiding me as if I am toxic. However, there is no point in following Gwen back to our bungalow to blast her as she rightly deserves. Alexandra is with her. I do not need an audience.

I turn the dial on the radio, lift the mic, and try once more to reach anyone who can get me home.

It is late morning. A few people linger in the restaurant with me—more to be near the meager buffet than out of any expectation I will reach someone on the radio. I halfheartedly turn the dial, calling out into the ethereal void, but most of the time I stare at the stream of white butterflies flitting along the beach.

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of a voice crackles from the radio speaker. I bolt upright in my chair. “This is Phillip Crane on 14352.6. I don’t know what my call letters are. This is not my radio. Can you hear me, over?”

The people within the restaurant, and even some nearby on the beach, surround me. The voice on the radio—a man’s—crackles and pops. A few words in English are clear: “medic,” “rescue,” and ominously “all gone.”

The crowd around me murmurs with excitement. I repeat my name and my frequency.

The man speaking to us stops suddenly, as though he is as astonished as I am to reach someone.

“Hello?” He asks.

“This is Phillip Crane on 14352.6 from Isla Fin de la Tierra. We have lost all power and need an emergency generator.”

Long pause and then, “This is Romeo Kappa Nancy Delta Mary. My name is Paul Morgan. You are unhurt?”

“Yes, we just lost power. We need a generator.”

“But no one is injured?” Paul asks.

I exchange a dubious glance with Jonas. Why does he think we are injured?

“Where are you, Paul?”

“Redstone, Australia. The storms haven’t hit you yet?”

“Storms?”

“Poison clouds. Radiation—” we lose contact beneath a wave of static. “—Major population centers—no survivors—dying.”

I grip the mic so tightly that my hand aches. The serene image of the nearby sea and surf contrasts with the adrenalin rushing through my veins.

“Paul, what happened?” I nearly shout. “What are you talking about?”

“The war!” He yells, and then chokes on a vicious coughing fit. When he finally returns to the mic, his voice is low and exhausted. “They finally did it. They killed us all.”

I am stunned, as is everyone around me. For several moments, no one speaks and the only sound is the lonely buzz of the radio. Then Paul continues, “Not sure who launched first. The Pakis or the Americans. Maybe the Chinese. Within an hour it was all over.”

“Nuclear war?” Dizziness sweeps over me.

“The big one. I’m in the middle of nowhere, halfway across the Outback. The missiles landed far from here, but it did not take long… The next day the storms came. We saw them on the horizon… red, boiling, blocked out the sun. Took cover. Everyone took cover… no use. Can’t keep out the radiation. All dead now… I’m the last… won’t be long…”

Wild with panic, Jonas takes the mic. “We need a generator! Tell someone to send help to Isla Fin de la Tierra.”

Paul gives a bitter laugh that immediately devolves to a hacking cough. An eternity passes until he has enough strength to say, “Everyone is dead. The whole world—dead. Watch the skies. Look for the storms… good luck.”

I take the mic from Jonas. “Paul? Paul, wait.”

Paul does not respond. I dropped the mic.

“Is this some kind of twisted joke?” an incredulous Brit asks. “That’s got to be it. It’s a hoax.”

I run my hand over my face and through my hair, still trying to grasp the enormity of what Paul Morgan said.

“He said ‘Everyone is dead’,” I say aloud to no one in particular.

“Get him back on the line. Have him explain himself,” Jonas orders.

I set the mic on my chair and back away from the radio. “I think he’s dead. It explains why no one has come to help us. They all died—if not from the initial detonation then from the nuclear storms that followed.”

Jonas surveys the horizon. “There are no storms.”

“They are out there. Dawson Hartford sailed into one,” I say as I pace the floor. “It could be that the storms just haven’t reached us yet.”

“Or it could be that help will arrive at any moment,” an older guest counters.

“Maybe. I hope you are right, but I don’t think so,” I reply.

“Where are they going?” One of the guests points to the few remaining staff members, including Lorenzo, who walk towards the bridge spanning the lagoon.

Jonas hustles after them and practically begs them not to leave.

Clearly unnerved by the news over the radio, Lorenzo speaks for all of the staff when he says, “I need to be with my family in Rio Galera.”

Unable to dissuade them, Jonas nods that he understands and watches them leave. In a daze, I stumble from the restaurant and onto the beach, dropping to the base of a swaying palm. Resting my back against the trunk of the tree, I close my eyes and listen to the sea, breathing slowly, trying to still the thoughts that collide within my head.

News of the nuclear devastation travels through the resort with the speed of a highly contagious virus. Those who learned the news firsthand pass it on to those who were absent when I made contact with the dying Australian. People gather in raucous groups, some wailing in misery and needing several people to calm them down, while others ridicule the news and demand more information. Unfortunately, I am the person from which they demand that additional information.

“What’s this nonsense that you’re telling everyone about a nuclear war?”

The interrogation comes from a bald headed Connecticut doctor who looms over me where I still sit, eyes closed, by the palm tree. I open my eyes. The doctor is not alone. Two other anxious guests stand beside him to form a ring around me.

“I only know what the dying Australian told me,” I reply.

The bald headed doctor scrunches his face into a frustrated knot. “Maybe you heard him wrong.”

“I heard him right.”

I should be indignant, but I am oddly unperturbed. Wrestling with the likelihood nearly everyone I know just died leaves little emotion for an angry stranger. Rising, I dust sand off my backside. The bald headed doctor yells something about “Just because the lights don’t work doesn’t mean the world came to an end.” Ignoring him, I walk away. As I walk up the wooden steps from the beach, a woman shouts in the restaurant.

“No, don’t say that! Nothing has happened to my family.”

Alexandra grips the ham radio mic and points an accusing finger at Jonas and a few other people who warily try to approach her. Jonas steps forward and gently pries the mic from her grasp.

Lip trembling, eyes brimming with tears, she looks into Jonas’s eyes. “My family is waiting for me. They’re going to take me home. I know it.”

Undoubtedly, suffering from his own familial losses, Jonas summons the compassion to nod tenderly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Alexandra spies me standing at the back of the room and her face lights up as if she were a drowning woman tossed a life preserver.

“Phil! Phil, please help me reach my family. I need to get back home. The others tried using the radio after you did, but they couldn’t get hold of anybody.”

I do not want to encourage her false hopes.

“Where’s Conner?” I ask.

She snatches the mic from Jonas. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. The people we love—they are not dead. I’ll show you, then you’ll see… you’ll see.”

With one hand outstretched, warding us off, she speaks into the mic. “Hello? I am trying to reach my family in Scarsdale, New York. Is anyone out there? My name is Alexandra Gilroy. Al-ex-an-dra.”

There is no reply save for the eerie buzz of deserted frequencies.

Jonas whispers in my ear, “Someone is fetching her husband now. We’ve got to keep her from damaging the radio.”

“Alexandra, hey, look,” I hold up my hand mimicking the shape of the mic. “You’ve got to press this button here… on the side… for anyone to hear you.”

She follows my example and repeats her plea into the mic with the same disheartening result. Her shoulders sag and a heaving sob wracks her body, but she tamps it down, swats a tear from her cheeks, starts punching random buttons on the radio, and repeats her plea over the airwaves.

Conner dashes up the steps from the beach. Sweat lines his brow. It seems he sprinted here.

“Baby, what’s going on?” He walks toward her and she crumbles into his arms.

“I’m not giving up, Conner,” she sobs. “I’m going to keep trying. I’ll get hold of my family, and then they’ll get us out of here.”

He takes the mic from her and places it on the table. “I know, baby, I know. C’mon, let’s go lie down.”

She squirms in his arms. “I don’t want to lie down. We’ve got to reach my family.”

He grips both her arms and looks earnestly into her eyes. “And we will, but now we need to rest. Look,” he taps the radio. “The radio’s not going anywhere. We can try again later, or maybe even let someone else try for you, huh? Now c’mon.”

Alexandra’s resolve washes away. He leads her from the restaurant. I shut the radio off.

From a bench beside the lagoon I observe a long legged white crane stalk amongst the reeds of the lagoon. The crane moves with careful precision, moving only when necessary, and then waiting—every cell in its body fixated on the one simple objective of catching a fish. Whether the world as we know it has ended or not does not matter to this crane. No, to the crane the only thing of any importance is the difference between eating a fish or the fish slipping away. Poised for the kill, it strikes. The reward: a slender, wriggling fish.

To think I will never see my mother again, hear my father’s voice, or feel the security of their presence, causes my lungs to tighten as if a python enfolds me in a crushing embrace. Two nights ago, while I argued with Gwen on the beach—focused only on my petty emotional suffering—everyone I knew and loved—mother, father, and friends—died, incinerated in a flash. What if they did not immediately die instantly, cremated before they even knew what was happening? What if they are still alive, blistered and poisoned with radiation, wracked with pain so agonizing that death would be a welcome relief? Are they thinking of me, wondering if I am all right?

I feel a soft hand on my shoulder and do not need to turn to know it is Gwen.

It does not surprise me that she sought me out. Our marriage might be over, our love battered beyond repair, but she shares a history with me that no one else on the island can match. Any anger I felt towards Gwen disappears.

“Is it true?” Gwen asks. “Is everyone really dead?”

My tone is flat, shell-shocked. “I think so. I want to believe that it’s not true. But then I think about the man on the sailboat. I think about what he looked like—what the radiation did to him. Something has happened in the world, something awful.”

Gwen kneels before me, her eyes haggard and imploring. “It can’t be, Phillip. It just can’t be. If my sister died, if my mother died, I would know. I would feel something. They can’t be dead because I don’t feel anything.”

I know what she wants from me. Gwen is powerless to change things if everyone we know is dead. She cannot prevent what has already happened. But if she can convince me that possibly, just possibly, everyone back home is alive and that maybe things are not as dire for all of humanity as the evidence currently before us leads us to conclude, then she will be justified in clinging to unrealistic hopes.

As she desperately tries to construct a different reality than the one we are living, a pink flush tinges her cheeks and her hands flutter like frightened birds. “I feel the sun on my face. I feel the wind off the ocean. I even feel hungry, but the one thing I do not feel is that my family is dead.”

She sits beside me and begins to weep. I pat her back. The crane finishes its meal and flies away.

The last trace of sunlight slips from view. I stand alone before the sliding screen door of my bungalow. Gwen went her separate way after we left the lagoon. I invited her to accompany me; she politely refused. Perhaps, any remaining link to each other vanished when the world we once shared incinerated. Now, I am simply a man, and she a woman, with nothing to tie us to one another. There is no communal property to divvy up. The very concepts of marriage or divorce become pointless.

I rub the grainy stubble on my jaw and prepare for another long night in an empty room. The candle provided to me remains unlit; it does not seem wise to let it burn for hours since it may well be the last candle I will have. Ghosts and memories fill the room. I recall the day I walked home from elementary school, plucked roses from our neighbor’s yard, and gave the bouquet to my mother. A song was playing on the radio; she sang the words to me. I fooled around and fell in love. I blushed as red as the roses. One winter brought an especially heavy snowfall. Perhaps it only seemed like a heavy snowfall because I was just knee high at the time. In any case, I tromped into the snow and my father chased after me, grunting and growling, pretending to be the abominable snowman. When he caught me and scooped me into his arms to carry me back to his imaginary lair I squealed with glee. I think of my friends, the handful of people with whom I could laugh and confide in. They were the people I turned to when I realized my wife was cheating on me, and not once during that horrible time did they make me feel embarrassed or ashamed.

It is hard to fathom that I will never see them again. A strong urge pulls at me—to ignore the facts as Gwen begged me to do, to cling to the hope that none of the people I love back home were harmed and that soon a plane will arrive to rescue us. Having held Dawson Hartford as he died in my arms, and having heard the ominous silence on the airwaves via the ham radio—airwaves that should have teemed with chattering voices but instead yielded only one, and that one was the last transmission of a poisoned, dying man—it is impossible for me to carry much hope. Still, the heart wants what it wants regardless of the facts.

Two figures wander past my room towards the beach. Squinting against the dying light, I realize it is Pamela and Bill, leaning close to each other, like inseparable young lovers. I leave the bungalow to join them, if only to get a moments respite from the painful memories swirling around my head.

As I approach Pamela and Bill, I realize this is not a romantic stroll as I first assumed. No, Bill is practically staggering and leans on Pamela for support. Rushing to his side, I take his other arm to steady him.

“Oh, thank you, Phillip,” Pamela speaks my name like the conclusion of a prayer. “Bill isn’t well. I thought a cool breeze off the ocean would help him.”

“Bill, what’s wrong? Is it something you ate?” I ask.

Clammy perspiration coats his face. His blue eyes are glassy and vacant, but he focuses on me with a weak smile. “Ah, Phillip, that’s a good lad. Pamela seems to have taken the notion that she is some kind of super woman, leaping from building to building, slinging frail old men over her shoulders with ease. I will be all right. I’m just a little peaked. Look, Pamela was right about the sea air. I feel better already.”

With what seems to be considerable effort, he nudges us back and stands on his own feet.

Pamela clasps her slender fingers to her lips. Worry pinches her delicate, patrician features. Nervously, she glances from me to her ailing husband.

“My little girl, my Angela, is gone,” he laments, swaying like a tall oak in a gale. “She was studying to be a doctor… make the world a better place. Gone. All gone.”

He tries to step forward but his knees buckle. Pamela and I rush to grab him.

“Water. Let’s get him fresh water from the restaurant,” I urge.

We half drag him along the beach to the restaurant. No one is there. It is completely dark, but through the swinging kitchen doors, I see the glow of a torch moving around and hear the clatter of pots and pans.

“Hey, can you bring us some water?” I call to whoever is in the kitchen. “We’ve got a sick man here.”

We rest Bill on a chair. Pamela clasps his hand in both of her own, and he looks up at her with a hazy stare, as though he is descending into a dream. Several buttons on his shirt are undone, revealing the sun burnt skin of his chest and white chest chair. His breathing is shallow. Where the hell is someone with fresh water?

“I’ll be right back,” I head to the kitchen. The doors swing open. The kitchen is large, with a center island covered in stainless steel. Pots and pans of every possible shape suspend from an oval ring over the center island. The glow of the torch comes from around the corner.

“Hey, we need water,” I call. No answer.

Rounding the corner, I see two island women I recognize from amongst the staff stuffing supplies into sacks. They freeze when they see me. On my first night at the resort, they waited on my table, joking amiably with all the guests, but now they regard me with undisguised contempt.

“Stop! Those are our supplies. You can’t take them,” I try to wrest one of the sacks from the women. Slapping me about the face and neck, cursing furiously, they hold me off. Owen appears from one of the pantries with an arm crammed with food. He drops the food, reaches into a drawer, and pulls forth a carving knife. Hulking over me in the dancing torch light, his face gleams like black granite.

With swift jabs of the knife, he advances towards me. I hop back, staying beyond the reach of his blade. Behind him, the two women scoop up the food Owen dropped.

“Help!” I cry. “They’re stealing our food!”

Owen slashes at me; I duck away.

“Not your food, man,” he snarls, crouched low to spring in any direction to prevent my escape. “Dis is our island. Everyting on it belongs to us.”

I grab a pan and swat the knife aside. He lunges again, the sharp point aimed straight for my heart.

“My God, somebody stop them!” Pamela stands in the doorway, while Bill leans heavily against the doorframe.

Owen’s lip curls into a menacing sneer. Panting with effort, he slashes at my face. I tumble backwards, narrowly avoiding the knife. Pamela hurls plates at Owen with considerable accuracy; it gives me enough time to dash to the far end of the center island and out of Owen’s reach.

“Owen, come!” The island women call, nodding in the direction of what I assume is a back way out of the kitchen. Shouts of alarm from the other guests grow louder as they rush towards the scene.

Torn between his desire to gut me like a fish and the need to escape with his loot, Owen hesitates, but yields to the calls of his companions and follows them away. Jonas, Robby, and some other guests barge into the room.

My words rush out. “It was Owen. Owen and two of the women who work here. They stole our food. I tried to stop them; they got away.”

Bill groans and collapses to the floor.

Chapter Nine

“We’ve got to go after them,” Conner paces the kitchen, crunching the shattered plates beneath his heels. “Who’s with me?”

“Owen has a knife,” I warn.

Jonas lifts the torch the women dropped in their haste to leave, surveys the damage, and shakes his head. “Don’t bother. They’re long gone by now.”

“Fucking great,” Conner huffs with his hands on his hips. “Do we have anything left?”

Holding the torch aloft, Jonas looks in the pantry. “They didn’t wipe us out—”

“Only because they were interrupted,” Amy interjects with loud exasperation.

“They certainly knew what to look for—bottled water, boxes of dried cereal, bags of rice,” Jonas continues.

“My husband,” Pamela pleads. “My husband needs a doctor.”

Bill lays flat on his back, his head cradled in Pamela’s lap. I kneel beside him, hold his wrist, and look at my watch. “He’s got a faint pulse. I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. Bill, can you hear me?” A weak flutter of his eyes assures me he is conscious. “Bill, listen to me. Have you eaten anything that could be affecting you?”

“No,” he rasps. “This might be the problem,” he opens his shirt to reveal a thin scar on his chest. “I have a pace maker.”

The realization of what this means makes my eyes grow wide with alarm. “The pace maker stopped working when the E.M.P. blast hit us,” I rise to my feet. “Bill, you’re in danger of heart failure. We’ve got to bring a doctor here.”

“There is no way to summon a doctor. You would be better off bringing him to the town,” Jonas advises.

“How? There’s no car,” Pamela says.

“We have flat carts—big enough for a man to lie on. It is the best we can do,” Jonas offers.

Pamela looks uncertain, desperate to save her husband but clearly daunted by the task of pushing him over the hilly, winding road all the way to Rio Galera.

I place one of Bill’s arms over my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Pamela. I’ll help you.”

Visible relief washes over Pamela.

Gwen steps forth from the crowd. “I’ll come, too.”

What? Why does she want to come? I shake my head. “It’s too dangerous.”

She stands firm. “It doesn’t matter. We can get Bill to a doctor faster if three people do it versus only two.”

I am about to argue, but Conner slams the door to the pantry. “What are you going to do about this, Jonas?”

Caught off guard, Jonas tries to stammer out a response. Conner presses on. “How’d they get in, anyway? Maybe you let them in.”

“That’s absurd,” Jonas protests.

“One thing is certain, those fuckers will be back to steal the rest,” Conner bypasses Jonas and addresses the crowd. “If the rest of the world really was blown to hell then these supplies are the last we’ll get. When they run out, we’re screwed. From here on out we’re responsible for our own security. Who’s with me?”

Numerous heads in the crowd nod in vigorous agreement. Jonas stands off to the side, obsolete and forgotten.

“Phillip, we’ve got to hurry,” Pamela re-focuses my attention.

Jonas takes us to a flat cart over which we lay blankets to provide Bill with some cushion. Gwen dashes off to the kitchen. She returns and hands me a steak knife. “Here, it’s better than nothing. Tuck it in your belt.”

Pamela leads the way holding a torch. Gwen and I push Bill over the narrow bridge that spans the lagoon. Mentally, I retrace the road from the airstrip in Rio Galera to the resort. We have a long journey ahead of us.

More than once, we come to a fork in the road and struggle to determine which way is correct. Night is an impenetrable shroud upon the land; landmarks are impossible to see. Pamela and Gwen look to me for guidance, to decide which road will lead us to town. I half remember and half guess, pointing the way we should precede and praying I am right.

“Even if we find the doctor, do you think they’ll be able to help Bill?” Gwen whispers.

I check to make sure Pamela cannot hear us over the rattling wheels of the cart. She walks several feet ahead to light our path. Bill is alive but unconscious.

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “There’s a good chance he is beyond saving, at least here on this island. What he probably needs is a new pace maker, and that’s not going to happen. Either way, we’ve got to try.”

We push on for several minutes, struggling on the steep hills and pitted asphalt.

The road levels off. I turn to Gwen. “Why are you helping us?”

“This may shock you to know, Phillip, but I care about Bill, too,” she replies in a tone that makes me look stupid for asking. “Besides, it’s good for me to do something; it’s better than sitting in the resort, slowly losing my mind,” she continues, her expression calm and self-possessed. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened to my parents, to our home and everyone I knew… I’m not like you. I haven’t completely given up hope that our parents and all the other people we care about are still alive—even if it’s only a shred of hope. In that way we are very different, Phillip. You do the sensible thing. When it is pointless to hope for something that is not going to happen you accept it… you move on. I’m the fool who keeps believing, keeps thinking that suddenly things can change.”

It is clear she refers to more than just the whereabouts of our families. For Gwen to be so transposed and self-aware is odd. It is unlike her. I want to tell her how much I admire her perseverance, long after other people would have surrendered. I want to tell her that she is not wrong or foolish for clinging to her dreams, but I do not get the chance.

“What is that glow in the sky?” Pamela calls our attention to a pulsing, orange light that fills the horizon.

It takes a few seconds for me to realize what I am looking at.

“Fire,” I say. “Rio Galera is burning.”

Chapter Ten

The ominous glow acts as a beacon, guiding us onward. The closer we get to our destination the brighter the glow. It illuminates the hillsides, turning the land an unsettling red. The smell of charred wood fills the air.

“Huh, what’s that light?” Bill rouses himself and struggles to rise.

“Something is burning,” Gwen answers in a soothing tone. “We’re taking you to a doctor. Lie down… conserve your strength.”

“Pamela! Where’s Pamela?” He tosses his head from side to side, anxiously looking for her.

In an instant she is at his side, stroking his face and murmuring, “Shhh, Bill, I’m right here. We’re heading into town to find a doctor for you. Rest, darling.”

The sound of breaking glass comes from one of the large vacation homes atop the nearest hill. In the crimson light, I spot the black outlines of two men furtively running from the back of the house to the front. They notice us on the road below.

“Looters,” I mutter, and prompt Pamela to get in front of the cart again. “Let’s keep moving.”

Unmoving, they stand together, looking down on us—silent, foreboding sentinels.

We proceed with renewed speed, and as we go, I check over my shoulder to see where the men atop the hill are. They remain in place. Perhaps the house they are no doubt looting is not worth leaving to harass us. Either way, I do not breathe easier until we are out of their sight.

As we near the town, women pass us—some with children in tow—heading in the opposite direction. They carry bundles of clothes and jugs of what I assume to be fresh water.

“Doctor. We need a doctor. Can you tell me where to find the doctor?” Pamela stands before some of the fleeing women, but they brush her aside and continue on their way.

We reach the final stretch of road that leads to the heart of Rio Galera. A section of the town—where tiny homes press tight to each other like captives in the hull of a slave ship—belches forth great jets of flame. From this distance, each burning home resembles a smoldering lump of charcoal. Fire floats into the night sky in rolling sheets and waves, filled with thousands of incandescent sparks caught by the updraft.

Scattered around the town other buildings burn, one of which I recognize as the office to support the airstrip. Nearby fires cast swirling shadows on the untouched façade of the white clapboard church.

The carnage brings us to a halt. Awestruck, we stand before the conflagration without speaking.

Gwen breaks our paralysis and points to a section of Rio Galera unscathed by fire. “The clinic—I spotted it on the way to the resort.”

Islanders pass us on the streets, none stopping to offer aid. The scorched hull of a burnt out car sends plumes of smoke billowing our way. Shadows skulk down the narrow alleyways. I hear a woman’s terrified scream, and from somewhere else the shouts of men fighting. I take the knife Gwen gave me and hold it with my free hand.

Even from afar, I can tell the glass doors and windows of the one level clinic are shattered. As we roll Bill up the cement ramp to the clinic, a gaggle of children clutching stolen goods dash through the shattered doorframe and vanish down the alleys.

Light from Pamela’s torch reveals a long hallway strewn with office supplies.

“Wait here,” I tell them, and then take the torch and enter the building. With the knife firmly in my grasp, I walk down the corridor, shining the torch light into the various rooms, all of which have the appearance of a building ravaged by a hurricane. Anything that could be broken is broken: computers, chairs, glass cabinets that just a few days ago likely held medical supplies but now are bare. As a macabre joke, vandals placed the clinics demonstration skeleton in a chair behind the doctor’s desk, seated upright, nonchalantly resting its skull on one bony hand.

I hurry back to Gwen, Bill, and Pamela. “Everybody’s gone. The clinic staff probably abandoned the place to protect themselves. The place is a wreck. Looters stole all the medical supplies.”

“No, no, no,” Pamela trembles. “What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry, love,” Bill struggles to sit up. “I feel stronger now… getting my second wind.”

Pamela buries her face in her hands. “This is madness. Where are the authorities? Why don’t they put a stop to this?”

“I could be wrong, but I think we passed the police station,” Gwen looks about us warily. “It was burning to the ground. It’s not safe for us here. We should get back to the resort.”

Pamela grips the cart handle to prevent us from moving it. “No. No. We must get a doctor!”

Plaintively, I gesture to the vandalized clinic. “Pamela, the doctors are all gone.”

“They must be somewhere,” she insists. “You didn’t see their bodies in there, did you? No? Then that settles it. Someone here will tell us where the doctor is.”

“Even if we find the doctor what could they do for Bill without their supplies and the clinic looking like this?” Gwen asks.

Pamela hesitates as doubts shake her resolve, but then she stands firm and says, “You don’t know the supplies were stolen. Maybe the clinic staff removed all the supplies to protect it from the looters.”

Pamela is determined to scour the island for a doctor, and looking at Bill laboring to breathe I cannot fault her devotion. Gwen exchanges an uneasy glance with me, but we both know turning back without finding a doctor is not an option.

“Okay,” I agree. “Let’s make this quick.”

Backtracking, we propel the cart over the pitted, debris-strewn streets. Behind the shutters of a home, we glimpse the light of an oil lamp.

Pamela pounds on the doors. “Please, can you tell us where to find a doctor?”

I see movement behind the shutters—at least one person is definitely inside the home, but they do not answer the door.

“Please!” Pamela kicks the door. “Just tell us where a doctor is and we’ll leave!”

Gwen urgently taps my arm, and points towards a tall island man watching us from the shadows of a nearby building. On the other side of the street, another man also observes us with keen interest. My heart freezes when I realize they hold machetes in their hands.

“Pamela!” My whisper is an urgent hiss. “Pamela, we have to go.”

Weeping with frustration, she scratches at the door. “I know you’re in there. Why won’t anyone help us?”

I rush up to the door and gently drag Pamela away while Gwen labors to get the cart rolling again. Methodically, without haste, the two men follow us. We pick up speed, almost running now.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” Pamela sees the men and whimpers with growing panic.

The cart jostles Bill incessantly, but we cannot slow down.

As we race towards the end of the street, two more machete-wielding men, visible only in outline, step out of the darkness. They stand in the center of the street, blocking our way.

“The alley!” Gwen shouts, and immediately steers the cart down the nearest alley.

We sprint down the alley, crashing through piles of trash and stumbling over the uneven terrain. At the end of the alley, we strike a gutter. A wheel snaps off the cart, sending Bill tumbling to the ground.

“Bill!” Pamela screams.

I rush to lift him up, and then I see a flash of white that snaps my head back and flings the knife from my grip. Falling flat on my back, my vision clears and I see Action standing over me clenching the fist he used to punch me in the face. Before I can move, a handful of men surround us. One of them seizes me from behind and hauls me to my feet while another places the pointed end of a machete against my throat.

Pamela backs against a wall, hands raised defensively. One of the men stands behind Gwen. With one of his hands, he clenches a fistful of her hair, jerking her head back, and with the other hand, he places the sharp edge of a machete on her neck. Bill is facedown on the pavement.

“Let us go! We have no money,” Pamela screeches. “My husband needs a doctor.”

Dispassionately, Action prods Bill with his feet. Bill does not move.

“Husband needs a grave digga,” Action laughs, deep and malicious.

We stand in the flickering light from a raging fire down the block. Action wears shorts and an unbuttoned vest without a shirt. The fire light causes his gaunt face to appear unusually cadaverous. His baleful eyes lock on mine; the malevolence in his dead, black stare makes it clear that begging for mercy is pointless.

“Well, well, what a pretty fishy caught in de net,” Action slides a skeletal palm over Gwen’s face and over her breast which he roughly kneads.

Panting with fear, she whimpers, and a tear slides from her eye

“Get your fucking hands off her,” I seethe.

Action mockingly cups a hand to his ear. “What’s that, you say? I’m sorry. You made a mistake, mon. You must be tinkin’ we still work for you. Maybe you wan Action to do a trick for you?”

He does a herky-jerky dance towards me, like an evil marionette, causing the men with him to laugh.

Drawing his face near to mine, his lips pulled into a leering grin. “Dis island is ours—not yours. Life… she roll de dice. Now we on top and you on de bottom. De water, de food, de women…” he nods knowingly to Gwen. “Dey all belongs to us. Now we are de ones in control.”

My heart thuds in my chest and my skin feels strangely cold even as sweat gushes from my pores. This is a feeling of bone chilling terror—the trembling pulse of a man who knows he is about to die, but despite my fear, a fury builds within me.

“You’re a fool,” I sneer. “We should be working together, not burning homes to the ground, raping and stealing.”

Action’s face twists into a cruel mask. He yanks the machete from his comrade and raises it to strike.

“Kneel,” he commands.

“Phillip!” Gwen cries.

Held by the man behind me, I cannot escape this execution. Time slows to a crawl. Life is pointless. All my hopes and fears, my tiny tragedies and puny triumphs—the love I felt and lost—none of it matters. Six billion lives vanished overnight; the loss of one more is beyond insignificant. In a moment, my head will roll into a trash-filled gutter, my blood pooling into the hard packed dirt. My life is a thing of no consequence, just as the lives of kings or heroes will cease to matter with no one alive to remember them, and their monuments blasted to dust.

“Kneel!” Action roars, and one of his men punch me in the solar plexus. The wind rushes from my lungs in a hoarse gasp and I sink to my knees.

I look to Gwen, my poor Gwen, the wife I could not save. In a moment, my suffering will be over; Gwen’s is just beginning. Our eyes meet and I know the only kindness this absurd life will ever give me is to look upon her face as I die.

Suddenly, Bill crashes into the man standing next to Action. In all the commotion, none of us observed Bill rise to his feet. Like a kamikaze, Bill hurls his weight into the man who yelps in pain. I take a second to realize that Bill took my fallen knife and buried it in the ruffian’s ribs. Howling in pain, the ruffian slumps to the ground and pulls the knife from his side. Blood spurts from the wound like a geyser.

“Run!” Bill yells, his voice faltering.

The man holding Gwen is so distracted that she whirls on him with a kick to the groin and breaks free. I roll to the side and dash towards Gwen

Bill wobbles and falls. Standing in shock, Pamela screams his name, but Gwen seizes Pamela’s wrists and yanks her away. As we flee, I dare to look back. Bill is on the ground. Machetes descend as Action and his men hack him to death.

At the end of the alley, Pamela digs in her heels and tries to run back to Bill.

I spin her so that we are face-to-face and state, “Bill’s dead. They’re coming for us.”

I cannot see the thugs, but their shouts echo through the twisting alleys as they fan out to trap us. Hysterical, her cheeks streaked with tears, Pamela looks in the direction of where her husband’s body lay. The sound of feet slapping on the hard earth increases. Fear of the murdering ruffians overcomes her grief; without a word, she runs with us. We dart through the maze of alleys, not pausing for a second. I cannot see the men, but I hear their shouts from several different directions, like the howls of wolves tracking their prey.

Through the curtains of a ramshackle home, I glimpse light. Frantic, I try the door. Locked. The voices close in, encircling us. I kick the door. It shudders. I kick it again and it swings open. We race inside, Gwen slamming the door behind us and holding it shut with her body.

“Whatcho doin’? Git out! Git out of my house!” A petite woman pummels me.

I swat her blows away , and hearing men approach, I seize her and clamp a hand over her mouth. Her struggle is so fierce that despite her small size she drags me to the floor where we grapple like Olympic wrestlers. I must not lose my hold on her mouth. If she screams, the men will know where we are.

I drop the entire weight of my body onto the woman and warn, “Quiet! We are not going to hurt you.”

Men skulk past the window. Gwen and Pamela, panting for breath, eyes wide as saucers, press themselves against the door. The knob twitches as the thugs try to enter. The woman beneath me freezes. Far off shouts call the men away. Cautiously, I relax my hold on the woman, releasing her when I am certain she will not scream.

She crawls away from me. “Git out,” she hisses.

I shake my head. “We can’t leave. Not while they’re out there.”

Gwen creeps from the door towards the woman. “Please, let us stay, just until the men are gone.”

The woman’s stern expression makes it clear she will not offer us refuge. A sound at the back of the room—the frustrated squall of a toddler—draws her attention. Holding the child, she soothes it with a gentle back rub, but her eyes point at me like loaded cannons.

“Shhh, baby, I know you are hungry, shhh,” the woman murmurs to the child, coddling it with soothing noises. “Momma will get you someting to eat soon.”

The frail light from a single candle illuminates the sparsely furnished room. The presence of a small dining table, dilapidated sofa, sink, and stove indicate that this one room serves many purposes. An open door leads to a lightless room that I assume is the bedroom. The poverty of her situation is marked. Gwen notices it, too.

“This woman’s entire home is no bigger than the bathroom back at our bungalow,” Gwen whispers to me. “No wonder the islanders are trying to kill us.”

I crawl to the entrance and listen for the whereabouts of the thugs.

Dazed, Pamela sits on the floor, her back pressed to the door. When she speaks, her voice is frail and weary. “Anything?”

“They are farther away,” I answer, straining to detect every sound. “They’re calling to each other… trying to figure out where they lost us, I think. It’s hard to tell, but they don’t sound close. Maybe something else distracted them.”

Pamela closes her eyes and releases a trembling sigh.

“I’m so sorry,” I rest my hand on her shoulder. “Bill died to save you… to save all of us.”

The hardships and horrors of the last few days have taken a toll on Pamela. Her eyes flutter behind her closed lids like trapped moths. Scores of tiny wrinkles that I did not notice before line her eyes and mouth.

“How could this happen to us?” she places a sun speckled palm on the flat of her chest. “One minute Bill was with me… and now he’s gone. I’m alone.”

She buries her face in her hands and silently weeps, her shoulders convulsing from the strain.

“You are not alone. We’re with you,” I rub her back and say. My sentiments are flimsy things to offer a widow who just saw her husband slaughtered in front of her, but they are all I have. I sit beside her until her weeping subsides.

Staying low, I creep back to Gwen who sits before the island woman.

“I am Gwen and this is Phillip. What’s your name?”

The toddler is quieter but not at peace, still stirring fitfully in the woman’s arms. She regards us with open hostility.

“You should not be here,” she says. “You put my baby in danger if dey finds you here.”

Gwen nods solemnly. “I know, and we are sorry. The woman by the door—they murdered her husband and they would have killed us, too, if we did not hide here. As soon as it is safe to go we’ll leave.”

The woman settles into a scowl, patting her fussy child, and then accepting the fact that we are not going to harm her or immediately leave she says, “Dellas”

“What?” Gwen asks.

“Dellas. You asked my name. My name is Dellas,” she responds. “Dis is my little girl, Rhodesia.”

“Hello,” I wave.

“Do you have any watt-tuh?” Dellas asks, pronouncing the word “water” with a heavy accent.

We shake our heads, to which Dellas purses her lips.

“You plan on leaving when it is safe,” she says. “It won’t be safe—not now, and not in de morning. De gangstas—dose rotten bums—dey will watch de roads in and out of town for you.”

I inch closer so that I will not have to raise my voice. “What happened here, Dellas? Where are the authorities?”

“All dead. Once de gangstas learn dat no more food or watt-tuh is coming dey

get to drinkin’ and den de run wild,” she shakes her head with righteous disgust. “We only had de sheriff and two deputy—no match for de gangstas. Nobody could stop dem, robbing and carrying on like such.”

Rhodesia starts to bawl again. Dellas rocks her back and forth with diminishing results.

“She is hungry,” Dellas explains.

“Dellas, is there another way out of town?” I ask.

“Over de hills, through the countryside, yes, if you know de way.”

My eyes narrow. “And you know the way.”

“I do.”

“There is plenty of food and water at our resort. If you guide us safely back we can give shelter for you and your daughter.”

Dellas cannot be more than twenty years old, but she regards us with the steely-eyed circumspection of a banker considering a loan. I wait expectantly, knowing her cupboards are bare and that rocking and tender words will not soothe Rhodesia much longer.

“Okay, I take you,” she agrees. “First light, we go.”

Chapter Eleven

Long past midnight, as the last hour of darkness surrenders to the coming dawn, Rhodesia’s restless cries rouse me from sleep. How long have I been asleep? I glance at my watch; an hour has gone by, but it seems I only closed my eyes a second ago. I sit on the floor against the entrance, blocking the door from opening with my body. Pamela dozes nearby and appears as light-hearted as when I first met her. Perhaps she dreams of better times. What a shame it will be to awaken her and steal her from this blissful state.

Snoring on the couch, an exhausted Dellas is oblivious to the child fidgeting in her arms. Gwen lifts the child and coos sweetly to her. Rhodesia falls silent, mouth agape, trying to comprehend whom this new, strange woman is that holds her. Gwen rocks her back and forth, tickling the little girl’s chin and any other gesture to distract and placate her.

As Gwen coddles Rhodesia, Gwen’s apprehensive expression becomes tender and dreamy. Watching her, I recall our own plans to have a baby. I used to picture how beautiful our child would be, and I imagined that Gwen would be as caring and warm to our child as she is now to Rhodesia. Early in our marriage, we discussed having a baby, but she was not ready. “When we’re more financially stable,” Gwen said, and so we put it off. Whenever I mentioned the subject, she raised the same objection, pointing to a stack of bills that was hard to refute. Maybe we’ll have a baby next year, I told myself, and told myself again the year thereafter.

“What?” Gwen asks, startling me. I did not realize I watched her so intently.

“Uh, nothing,” I stammer. “It’ll be sunrise soon.”

She nods and quietly asks, “What’s going on outside?”

I peek through the curtains. “It looks like most of the fires have burned themselves out. The sky isn’t red anymore. I don’t hear the thugs… maybe they’re asleep.”

The air in the home is stagnant and still.

“I’m so thirsty,” she swallows hard. “Back home I’d turn on the faucet and there it would be—clear, cold water. What I wouldn’t give to be able to do that now.”

“I know,” I agree. “I’m starving. These past few days I must have dropped 10 pounds—and I didn’t have any weight to lose. By the way, you were pretty impressive back there—kicking that guy in the crotch the way you did. Did you take a kung fu class over the summer?”

A slight smile crosses her lips. “It’s surprising to find what you’re capable of when you have no choice.”

It feels good to talk so easily with Gwen, but something has been weighing on my mind.

“Gwen, when we get back to the resort what’s going to happen with us? I suppose you want the bungalow to yourself.”

She pauses, perhaps trying to find the right words, and then, “My main goal is simply making it back to the resort alive. I hadn’t thought of anything beyond that. I could move out of the bungalow if you prefer.”

What I really want to say is that I prefer Gwen to share the bungalow with me. The strength of this desire surprises me, and the fact that I even have this desire at all is bewildering. However, the ease by which she yields the bungalow is certainly not the sign of a wife who would insist on remaining with her husband, so there is no point in entertaining this desire.

“I can keep the bungalow, but I’m not going to have you sleeping on the beach,” I counter.

“Someone will take me in… maybe Conner and Alexandra.”

Conner would love that—his own little harem. “Or Pamela—she is alone now, after all,” I snidely suggest.

“Fine, I’ll move in with Pamela,” she shoots back.

I have to get the last word. “Fine, then it’s agreed. I’ll keep the bungalow.”

Tense silence settles on the room, and then Gwen shakes her head and with a bitter chuckle says, “One good thing about the rest of the world getting blown off the map—at least we don’t have to go through a long, expensive divorce.”

Like scurrying mice, we sneak from Dellas’s home. Clutching Rhodesia to her chest, Dellas leads the way. Acrid smoke drifts from the black, charred ruins of smoldering buildings. Dellas sticks to the shadows, hugging the walls, moving swiftly. I bring up the rear of our column. Pamela walks ahead of me, eyes darting everywhere, looking, I suspect, for the remains of her husband. Thankfully, we do not pass his body, but I see others, sprawled on the street, slick with blood, swarmed by flies in the morning heat.

We come to a point where we must cross an open space. Atop a nearby hill, two men stand on the corner, drinking bottles of beer and laughing.

“Are they one of the thugs?” Pamela asks.

“What udder men would stand outside so easy-as-you-please?” Dellas mutters. “All de good people are hiding in dere homes or ran off into de hills.”

Crouching in the alleyway, completely exposed should a thug suddenly emerge from nearby, we wait for the men to turn away. A bead of sweat slides down my side. Every muscle tenses, ready to sprint.

The men leave the corner and wander out of sight. Without a word, Dellas bolts across the open space and we immediately follow. Safe on the other side, we slip down other alleys until we reach a cracked and twisting road that snakes out of town. A rusted guardrail runs along the other side of the road, and beyond the rail lies a rocky gulch dotted with scraggly bushes.

“Dat is de way we go,” Dellas points to the gulch. “De won’t see us if we take dat way.”

We clamber over the guardrail, but climbing into the gulch is no simple matter. Loose rocks skitter from our feet. Each step requires great care to avoid tumbling head first to the bottom of the gulch. I reach behind to guide Pamela down while Gwen assists Dellas. Our movement is distressingly slow. The clattering stones sound as loud as firecrackers in the early morning stillness. Any moment I expect to look up and see murderous thugs standing above us. Progress is not any easier by the fact that the people of Rio Galera use the gulch as a convenient garbage dump. Busted appliances, broken bottles and the rusted out hulks of old automobiles litter the gulch.

Pamela accidentally kicks an empty liquor bottle. It shatters and we freeze. Voices—men’s voices, from the streets above, grow closer. We look at each other, panic on everyone’s face. No time to dawdle, we jump the last few feet to the bottom of the gulch and dive behind the nearest rusted automobile.

My head is near the ground. The men’s words are indistinct, but there is no mistaking their nearness. I peek around the tire of the car and see the dark skinned bare legs of three men. There is no doubt they have come to investigate the sound they heard. Pamela grips my arm like an eagle’s talon. We dare not speak or even breathe. The men do not move. Suddenly, not far from us, a flock of chickens comes forth from behind a bush. Two of them squawk and fly at each other. The men above us chuckle, assuming, I pray, that the chickens are the source of the noise that drew their attention.

The men wander off. Several minutes pass without hearing or seeing the men. I chance standing up for a better view; the men are gone. We head east, the gulch taking us away from Rio Galera into the hills.

Hunger saps my strength. Overhead, the rising sun bakes my skull like pottery in a kiln. The tree cover is sporadic. The sky is a cloudless, blue bowl offering no protection from the sun. The rest of my ragtag group plods onward, feet dragging, heads bowed. Dellas slows to a crawl. I volunteer to carry Rhodesia for a while. The little girl cannot be more than thirty pounds, but she weighs on me like a stack of bricks. We tread across deserted roads and fields of golden grass as high as our knees. The trickling sound of water has us stumbling and running to a tiny stream in a small gully. The water pools in pockets before disappearing into the parched soil. A clump of trees shades this spot. In all my life, I have never seen any place more beautiful.

We sink to our knees and greedily scoop up what little water remains, running our wet hands over our oily, sunburned faces.

Gwen slurps up the water and sits back with an exhausted sigh. “Shit, this is wonderful. If I die, bury me here.”

We linger in the shade, enjoying the feeling of water evaporating on our skin as the breeze blows against us. With renewed energy, we resume our trek. A tangle of bushes and sharp edged grass lies in our path. Pushing our way through, we find an abandoned papaya farm on the other side. The papaya trees have thin trunks, standing around thirteen feet tall on raised rows of soil and hay to allow proper drainage. Wide leaves fan out from the tree tops. The trees are barren—the fruit probably picked and shipped to far off places that no longer exist, but amongst the rows of trees, fallen papayas lay.

The fallen fruit is spoiling, much of it covered in ants and dust, but we fall upon it with the zeal of children at an Easter egg hunt. It takes time, but each of us finds a papaya that is not too spoiled or covered with insects to inhibit us from tearing into it. Gulping down chunks of fruit, I hear the sound of rustling shrubbery behind me. We freeze—every eye on the wall of bushes, waiting to see who followed us. Hiding is not an option; the rows of trees offer no cover. A mongrel dog bursts forth from the bushes, runs several yards towards us, then stops. Barking vociferously, it comes no closer.

“Get out of here!” I hurl a rotten papaya at it.

The dog scurries back, barks some more and receives another hurled papaya for its trouble. Tail between its legs, the mutt vanishes into the bushes from which it came.

“Our brave hero,” Gwen jests, to which, grinning, I bow elaborately.

We resume scavenging for edible fruit; the bushes rustle again—this time much louder than before.

A look of dread on all our faces, we watch the bushes violently sway from the movement within, and then, as swiftly as it started, the movement ceases. There is no rustling—no sign that just a second ago the row of bushes shook as though rocked by an earthquake. There is complete silence.

“What the bloody hell?” Pamela nervously looks to us and then back at the bushes.

Then the bushes seem to explode, belching forth something from my worst nightmares: a pack of wild dogs, ravenous and coming our way. A German shepherd, fangs bared, leads the pack.

“Run!” Gwen screams.

On the far side of the farm lies a hill that leads to a roadway. Sprinting for the hill, legs pumping furiously, I look back to see the pack closing the distance. I am the first to reach the hill. It is not an easy climb. Clumps of long grass dot the hillside interspersed with patches of dried dirt that crumbles beneath my feet, making it difficult to ascend. Gwen is right behind me assisting Pamela. The dogs are so close I can see the muscles ripple beneath their skin, their fangs gleaming white, eyes locked on their target.

“Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” Dellas races, Rhodesia bouncing in her arms. The frightened wails of the child are nearly as loud as the voracious growls of the pack. Rhodesia is right to wail, for looking backward, she sees what Dellas does not: the lead dog is about to bridge the gap between them with a final leap.

Scrambling on their hands and knees, Gwen and Pamela reach the top of the hill.

“Hurry, Phillip!” Gwen cries.

I can make it. If I throw everything I have into climbing this hill—I can make it. But Dellas and her child are doomed. The pack knows this. I cannot leave them to die. I grab a rock and pelt the German shepherd with it to minimal effect. Throwing the rock buys Dellas a second, nothing more, but a second is all I need to grab Rhodesia. The dogs are all around us, jaws snapping, leaping, and colliding with each other. They crash into me; I grip a clump of grass to save myself from tumbling into their midst. Should I fall I will never rise again. From above, Gwen and Pamela heave rocks onto the pack. Dellas screams in pain; the jaws of the lead hound sink into Della’s exposed calf. A well-delivered stone from Gwen smacks the big dog on the skull. Stunned, it releases Dellas.

I am nearly at the top. Two dogs try to pounce on me, but the soil crumbles beneath them and they slide away. Pamela reaches for Rhodesia and I hand her off. Bleeding profusely, Dellas begs for help. Tears stream from her eyes. I jump to her side and kick one of the hounds away, and then together we reach the top of the hill.

There is no tree to climb, nor building to take refuge in, but a minivan, the type used to transport guests to the resorts, lies one hundred yards away on the side of the road. Gwen is already halfway there. There is no way Pamela can outrun the dogs and reach the minivan while holding Rhodesia.

“Go, go,” I yell to Pamela. “Give me the baby.”

Without hesitation, she passes the little girl to me. Running for the van, I turn to see the German shepherd clear the hill. It looks both ways, no doubt verifying the whereabouts of its prey, and then lopes after us. In a second, the other dogs clear the hill and join the chase. Gwen cannot get into the locked minivan. She grabs a chunk of asphalt from the side of the road and smashes the driver side window. She rushes into the minivan—Pamela and Dellas immediately follow. The German shepherd is close enough that I can hear it panting and the click of its claws on the road.

Gwen hangs out the driver side door, waving frantically for me to hurry. Almost there. I find a last reserve of strength, nearly throwing myself forward, and dive into the minivan. The massive hound comes with me, fangs lunging for my face. Rhodesia falls to the floor, out of the animal’s reach.

“Shut de door!” Dellas screams.

“I’m trying!” I shout, kicking and punching the dog, and punctuating each kick I yell, “Get! The! Fuck! Out!”

The dog falls out of the car. I slam the door shut. Determined not to let me escape, it jumps at the window, thrusting its head in, but I beat it back with several kicks. The rest of the pack swarms the car, climbing on the hood, bounding at the windows, barking and snapping. A stocky, shorthaired hound climbs on the hood of the van and throws itself at the windshield. Gwen shrieks. Unable to break the windshield, the dog snaps at the air, throwing spittle on the glass. The van shakes from their assault. Face up on the floor of the van, Rhodesia cries with wild terror. Dellas picks her up. In the back of the minivan, Pamela yelps each time a dog leaps at the window, crawling from one side of seat to the other. The glass holds. Legs up in the air, I dare not take my eyes off the broken driver side window for a second.

The lead dog tries to enter via the driver side again, but the space is too small, my defense too vigorous, and reluctantly, it backs off. Gasping for breath, too terrified to speak, we watch the dogs circle us.

Chapter Twelve

The sun must be directly overhead now, turning the inoperable minivan into an oven. Rhodesia, too hot and exhausted to cry, falls into a dangerous, groan filled sleep, the kind from which I fear she may not wake. I am sweaty and shirtless; my shirt donated to make a bandage on Dellas’s calf. Pamela, held tilted on the back seat, drapes an arm over her face. Gwen sits in the front of the van with me.

Under the shade of a small tree, the dogs are a hundred yards away, lounging in dust on the side of the road.

“It looks like the lead dog is asleep,” I remark to Gwen. “He’s sprawled in the dirt, passed out.”

Gwen shakes her head. “It’s a trick. They are just far enough away to encourage us to leave the safety of the van. They know we’re trapped. Look at our options: die of dehydration in here or get ripped to pieces out there. They can afford to wait; it’s only a matter of time.”

I try to think of a way out of this. “Maybe someone from the town will come and chase the dogs away.”

“Nobody come from de town,” Dellas waves a scrap of paper left in the van over her baby’s face to circulate the air. “If dey foolish enough to come de dogs will eat dem. Only de gangstas can stand up to de dogs.”

“I’d rather deal with the dogs than the thugs,” I reply. “At least the dogs can’t open the doors.”

Gwen breathes slowly, her eyes drooping with fatigue. “There’s got to be some way to get this van started.”

“There is no way,” I answer. “It’s dead—that’s why the driver left it on the side of the road. We could wait till dark and try and make a run for it.”

“Run where?” Gwen gestures to the empty, open countryside. “We wouldn’t get twenty feet. Maybe if we ran in different directions—split up…”

“Some of us would get away, but one of us certainly wouldn’t,” I note with grim certainty. “No, we stick together.”

“We might not have a choice, Phillip,” Gwen counters, exasperation in her voice.

“No, Gwen,” I shoot back. “We have a choice. We’re human beings, for God’s sake, not sheep to be separated from the herd and picked off one by one.”

Chastened, Gwen drops the idea and looks through the dirty windshield. “What’s on the road up ahead?”

I peer through the glass. “Nothing. Open road without a tree to climb or a house in sight.”

“But the road dips down,” she is suddenly hopeful. “Phillip, we’re near the crest of a hill. A hundred feet ahead the road drops. The van is dead, but the tires aren’t flat.”

My eyes widen as I grasp what she implies. “If we can put the van in neutral and push it over the edge we can coast away.”

She smiles. “It’s our only shot. We’ll have to get out of the van and push. What about the dogs?”

I look back at the pack. “If they come for us we’ll have enough time to hop back in the van.”

I slip the car into neutral. “I’ll do it now—while I still have the strength. Get behind the wheel so you can steer.”

Instead, Gwen grips her door handle. “You’ll need my help to get this van rolling. Don’t think you can do it on your own.”

Pamela pushes her head between us. “I’ll steer.”

As usual, there is no point in arguing with Gwen. She is determined to push the van with me.

“Okay, fine,” I look at Gwen. “But the second the dogs start running for us you get your ass back in the van.”

“You, too,” she admonishes. “Don’t be a hero.”

I grin with dark humor. “Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t put on this earth to be Puppy Chow.”

I crack my door open. The dogs do not move. Gingerly, I put a foot on the road and inch out of the car while Gwen does the same on her side. My eyes never stray from the dogs, looking for the slightest sign of their movement. I reach the back of the van at the same time as Gwen. With our backs to the van, we face the dogs. The lead dog is motionless, but his eyes watch us, waiting for one of us to run from the safety of the van.

Without saying another word, we brace ourselves against the van and begin pushing. It does not move. My pulse is weak. My knees shake. A trickle of sweat runs down my face. Gwen grunts and pants next to me.

“It won’t budge,” Gwen rasps between clenched teeth.

“It’s got to. C’mon, Gwen, push,” I rasp and dig my heels into the cracked asphalt.

Every cell in my body focuses on moving the van. Muscles that I have not used in years tense for a final exertion. Should I fail to move the van I will not have the strength to try again or do much of anything else, for that matter, so I tap whatever hidden stores of strength I have.

Sucking the air between my teeth, I push and the van begins to move.

“It’s working,” Gwen can barely contain her elation. “Keep going.”

The wheels do a full rotation; momentum kicks in. The lead dog lifts his head. We keep pushing. The van picks up speed.

“He’s coming,” Gwen cries.

The lead dog sprints towards us, and the rest of the pack, caught off guard, hurry to follow.

“Phillip, we’ve got to get back in the van!”

While still pushing I peer around the side of the van. “We’re still too far from the drop off.”

The dogs charge at full speed, teeth bared.

“Dey coming!” Dellas screams out the obvious.

“Get in the van, Gwen,” I say.

She hesitates.

“Go, I can keep us moving by myself,” I add.

She still lingers, looking again at the charging pack.

I yell, “Go!”

She dashes for the passenger side door. I know she is in the car because the weight of the vehicle shifts. Suddenly, as we reach the drop off the van rolls so fast that I must turn around and run at full speed to keep up with it. Gwen is at the back window, screaming for me to jump onto the van. I turn for a second and see a mass of fur and fangs hurtling towards me. I jump, grab a railing on the back of the van, and turn around.

The German shepherd—eyes filled with murderous fury—snaps at my feet. Racing down the long, steep hill, the van widens the distance from the pack. The subordinate dogs refuse to let their prey slip out of the trap, but the leader of the pack knows better and quits the chase.

Laughing like a lunatic, I let out a loud cheer, echoed by the women inside the van. Wind blows threw my hair and my heart fills with glee. Sun baked hills slide past us and the dog pack disappears in our dust.

Moonlight illuminates our path. The van lies far behind us. We trudge onward, not stopping for a second, lest the dogs catch up to us. Torches glow ahead of us. At the welcoming center for the resort, two men spot our approach and step forward with torches and makeshift weapons.

“It’s us,” Gwen calls out to them. “We’re back.”

“Where’s the cart?” One of them asks. I recognize the questioner as Robby.

We lumber into the light of their torches.

Robby is incredulous. “Where’s the old man?”

“My husband is dead,” Pamela does not look at him, her voice devoid of all feeling.

Robby and his comrade glance at each other and then back to our rag tag group.

“And who’s this?” Robby nods to Dellas and her child.

“They helped us survive,” I am weary of the interrogation. “We’ll answer all your questions, but first, food, and water.”

We push past the two men and walk across the narrow lagoon bridge. Behind us, Robby blows on a conch shell to alert everyone else in the resort of our arrival. Torches flash in the darkness and I glimpse figures rushing towards the bridge. Alexandra, Jonas, Conner, Don, Amy, and many other guests anxiously await us.

I smile when I see Jonas. “Food,” I say to him, and he swiftly takes us to the restaurant and rummages in the stock room for supplies. While we tear into bowls of dried cereal and gulp bottles of warm soda, the guests gather around us expectantly.

Finally, I wipe my mouth and let out a loud belch.

“What happened to you?” Conner demands.

I look to Pamela. Her face is downturned. She seems too spent to go into details on what we faced.

I relate everything we endured, leaving out nothing. The crowd listens in stunned silence.

The moment I finish my tale, as though to put an exclamation mark on everything I just said, someone at the back of the crowd yells, “What’s that—over there, across the bay? They’re lighting a bonfire.”

We look across the sea to the other, larger resort.

“It’s not a bonfire,” Gwen realizes. “The resort is on fire.”

The main tower is ablaze, flames leaping upwards. Fire light flickers on the rippling waters of the bay. We rush down the deck stairs to the waters edge.

“Sweet Jesus, it’s burning to the ground,” Don remarks.

I spot tiny figures running back and forth before the burning building. Some figures appear to chase the others. The faint sound of screams floats across the bay.

“It’s Action and his crew. They’re killing everyone at the resort,” I say.

Several women begin crying. Powerless to intervene, we form a line along the beach, watching the fire engulf the tower and listening to the screams.

Chapter Thirteen

As flames from the other resort leap into the sky, some of the people around me panic.

“They’ll be here next,” one of them exclaims.

A few of the spryer guests hurry back to their bungalows, and emerge clutching hastily packed suitcases, running in mad circles like molecules of boiling water.

Don hobbles past me as swiftly as his bad leg will allow.

“Don, where are you going?” I ask.

Without stopping, he shouts over his shoulder, “The hell out of here. I’m not going to wait for them to chop me to bits.”

Conner rushes ahead of the people running back to their bungalows, and holds up his hands for them to stop. “Listen to me! If you leave this resort you will die.”

Don shakes his cane in frustration. “They’ll kill us if we stay here. I’ll take my chances outside the resort.”

“Think about it. Remember what he said,” Conner gestures to me. “If the murdering islanders don’t get you then the wild dogs will. You want to live? Then stay here. We can defend this place.”

Don and the other panicky guests hesitate. No one consults Jonas. He stands to the side, impotent and forgotten, and it is clear that Jonas has lost control of the resort.

Conner paces back and forth like a general before the frightened crowd, striking his palm with a fist for emphasis. “Look around you. Cliffs protect the resort on three sides. Let the islanders try to climb over them. It’s a straight drop to the bottom—at least a hundred feet—if they do. They’ll need the lagoon bridge to reach us. No problem—we burn the bridge.”

“But then we’ll be trapped here,” Amy remarks, with a few murmurs of agreement.

Conner holds his palms up, asking for patience. “We can create a raft to float across the lagoon if someone really needs to get to the rest of the island.”

Pamela steps forth from the crowd. “And what’s to prevent Action and his men from creating their own rafts to cross the lagoon and attack us?”

“We are,” Conner responds with a flinty smile.

Despite their obvious dismay, the other guests respond to Conner with timid nods. Most of them make poor warriors, and they seem to know it, but they have no other option if they want to survive.

“We’ll need to make weapons,” I say, brainstorming ideas. “We can use gasoline to make Molotov cocktails, and steak knives taped to the ends of sticks to make spears.”

Conner rubs his hands together in approval. “Exactly. Right, and the sooner the better.”

Jonas snaps to attention now that he has the chance to assists our plans. “Come, we have cans of gasoline in a storage shed—we can make those cocktails you spoke of.”

“And everyone else, look around the resort—gather anything that can be used as a weapon. Rocks, sticks, knives—anything,” Conner decrees.

As we disburse on our errands the tower across the bay collapses into a blazing heap.

Dawn. It has been well past twenty-four hours since I had any sleep. It is a wonder I am still standing. A moment ago, I was alert; scrounging up empty bottles for Molotov cocktails, but now weariness descends on me like an avalanche. I stumble to my bungalow to rest. Candle light already glows from within.

I push open the door to find Gwen gathering the last of her things.

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d be leaving so soon,” I say. I do not know why I am surprised—Gwen said she would be leaving, but the suddenness of it has me unprepared.

Gwen dumps a handful of beauty products into a bag. “I thought about it and realized you’re right: Pamela shouldn’t be alone right now. My company will be good for her. I ran it past her and she agreed.”

“Yes… yes, of course,” I stammer. “I just thought this would come about later.”

She smiles softly. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to finally have me out of your hair.”

Gwen seems so nonchalant, as though were are not man and wife severing the last symbol of our marriage, but something akin to college roommates, looking to the future with jaunty cheer as we part company at the end of the school semester.

“Well, it will be a pleasant change not to have all your lotions and perfumes cluttering up the bathroom,” I quip, affecting a jovial spirit I do not really feel.

“There you go,” she laughs. Was there a trace of sadness in her tone? I cannot tell.

She lugs her baggage to the door.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I offer.

“No, no. I got it,” she declines, but then stands in the door looking over the room, a rueful expression on her face.

“Gwen?”

She blinks and the expression disappears. “Just checking to make sure I didn’t forget anything.”

“Ah, okay,” I nod, and as she turns to leave I add, “Hey, by the way, we were a good team out there.”

“Out there?”

“Yeah, you know—out there with the dogs.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah, Phillip, we were a good team.”

Then she hauls her baggage away.

Late morning. I sit on the beach under the shade of a palm pouring gasoline into empty bottles and fitting the caps with strips of torn sheets. Smoke from the smoldering hotel spreads a sulfurous haze across the bay. The stench of burnt things is strong enough to taste it. This is the first morning since my arrival at the resort that the clouds of white butterflies that flit by the shore fail to arrive. No doubt, the smoky fog keeps them away. Dellas sits cross-legged in the sand and helps me create the incendiary bottles. While she works, she sings an island song about a man happily cheating on his wife only to discover at the end that his wife has been doing the same to him. Each time she reaches the end of the song and its ironic twist she chuckles to herself. Meanwhile, Rhodesia crawls nearby in the sand, wrapped in an old dishrag as a makeshift diaper.

We pause from our work to see Robby sail towards shore on a hobie cat. I help Robby drag the hobie cat to shore.

Robby is visibly shaken. “The people in the hotel… all dead. I only sailed by, but it doesn’t look like anyone was spared. There’s bodies all over the beach, man. I even saw bodies in neat rows, their heads lying elsewhere in the sand. They lined those poor folks up and executed them,” he makes a chopping motion. “Just like that. It’s fucking sick, man.”

“But Action and his men… are they still there?”

“The only thing I saw moving was gulls picking at the corpses.”

A long column of black smoke rises from the lagoon. Walking over to the lagoon, I find Conner, Jonas and a few other men staring at the far end of the lagoon bridge, which they just set ablaze.

I join the group. On the far side of the lagoon, two island men appear from the shrubbery. Tall and thin, they walk around the welcoming center and the end of the bridge burning nearby.

“What are they up to?” Jonas asks.

“Scouting,” I reply. “They’ve come to test our defenses.”

The men stroll past the welcoming center, seeming to search for a way around the lagoon, but on either side, it soon becomes impassable for them. They give up and head back on the only road leading to and from the resort.

“They’ll be back,” Conner stands shirtless with his hands on his hips, almost challenging the island men to return.

On the way back to the beach I pass the fitness center and spy Gwen, Pamela and some of the other women making weapons.

“What have you got there?” I inquire of Gwen.

She holds forth a steel twenty-pound plate for weight lifting. “I had an idea that if we knot a rope through the center holes on these plates we can swing them at somebody if we need to.”

“Sort of like a mace,” I remark. “We’ve just got to be careful when we swing that thing around—we don’t want to knock out the good guys in the process.”

Alexandra strolls by the window. At the edge of the lagoon, she picks a flower from a trumpet vine, gazes at it with dreamy wonder, and then tucks it behind her ear. I leave the fitness center and approach her.

“The women in the fitness center could use your help making weapons,” I say.

The closer I get to her the more fragile she appears, moving about like a wisp of smoke that the slightest breeze could blow apart.

“It was nice to meet you,” she looks at me and clasps her hands to her lips to hide a childishly innocent smile. “You should give us your address and we can write to you when we get home.”

“Home?”

A wry smile indicates she finds it amusing that she needs to explain herself, as though I were an adorable though forgetful child.

“Yes, home. I can’t wait to get back. Our flight leaves today.”

Perplexed, I search for something to say. Conner walks over.

“I thought I told you to lie down,” he takes her by the wrist and leads her to their bungalow.

“I don’t feel like resting anymore,” she whines. “If you’re coming back to the bungalow with me then you can help me pack.”

I look to him for an explanation, but he brushes past me and says to Alexandra, “Later. First, I want you to rest some more.”

I watch Conner lead Alexandra away.

“Something’s wrong in her head,” Gwen stands behind me. “She’s been acting strange—talking like nothing has happened at all and that she’ll be going home soon.”

“I hope she snaps out of it,” I add with concern.

Alexandra sulks behind Conner, pouting as if she was a child denied a toy.

Mid-afternoon. Captain de Salle’s pirate ship replica sails around the rocky cape. Within a minute, nearly all of us stand on the beach or on the restaurant deck. Jonas stands beside me wearing a rumpled, untucked dress shirt and linen pants rolled nearly to his knees. The ship sails as near to shore as the jagged reef will allow and then drops anchor.

On the deck of the ship, a man wears a large captain’s hat better suited to the 18th century. Without anyone telling me, I know this man is Captain de Salle. He climbs into a speedboat that the E.M.P. blast reduced to a simple rowboat. They reach the shore and two men hop out to drag the boat in the rest of the way. Captain de Salle steps off the ship and doffs his hat to reveal thinning white hair pulled into a twig of a ponytail. He is as tall as Jonas, but not nearly as slender. Light skinned with a reddish hue, the captain is a mix of races.

“Jonas,” he shakes Jonas’s hand.

Our predicament is too grim for Jonas to smile in greeting. “Any news?”

“Stay out of Rio Galera.”

“We already know that,” Jonas replies. “Some of us found that out the hard way. You can see what happened to the other resort last night.”

Captain de Salle glances at the smoking heap across the bay and shakes his head. “These are dark times, my friend. Bands of marauders roam the island, killing anybody they chance upon. It was safer for us to put out to sea rather than staying at port. The murdering scum can keep Isla Fin de la Tierra. We’re leaving. It’s why I am here. We sail for Barbados. There is space onboard for fifteen people, provided they can afford the passage.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand pounds,” a British man immediately shouts.

“Fifteen thousand,” shouts another.

de Salle purses his lips in contempt. “No paper. Gold. Jewels and gold. Platinum is good, too, of course.”

“You sail for Barbados now?” Don asks.

de Salle nods.

Don huddles with his wife, whispering heatedly. It is a discussion repeated throughout the crowd, husbands and wives cataloging what possessions they have to barter.

“We want on that ship. Don’t leave without us,” Don advises de Salle, and then hustles back to his bungalow with Amy to grab her jewelry from the safe.

They set off a stampede that has other guests running to do the same. Pamela stands near Gwen. For the first time since Bill’s death, there is a focus and awareness in Pamela’s eyes. I know she is calculating what jewelry she possesses to trade for a space on the ship.

“Wait, Captain, you’re making a mistake,” I step forward. I think of Dawson Hartford and the radiation cloud he sailed into that ruptured the cells in his body as though he boiled from within. “There’s a poisonous radiation storm out there. You’ll never reach Barbados. This is a suicide voyage.”

Captain de Salle turns to Jonas as if to ask, Who the hell is this guy? Before de Salle can say a word, an old British woman snaps at me, “Mind your own! Stay if you want. Those of us who can afford to leave should go if we choose. Don’t you listen to him, Captain.”

The old British woman looks as though a rough sea tossed her about and then belched her up on the beach. Her lower jaw protrudes like a bulldog. Any second I expect her to lunge at me and gnaw my ankle off. The crowd steps away from me. I hold my ground.

“Listen to me. Please, do not sail for Barbados,” I urge, my voice becoming strident. “On the ham radio there’s been no contact from anyone in Barbados.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” the same old British woman brushes my argument aside with an angry swat of her hand.

“You weren’t on Dawson Hartford’s boat,” I respond. “You didn’t see how the radiation affected him.”

Jonas places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Be that as it may, Phillip, why haven’t we seen these poisonous clouds? Don’t you think they would have been here by now?”

I pause. It is an excellent question. I’ve been watching the horizon for signs of the deadly clouds. Why haven’t they come? Then something I read about in the National Geographic magazine about Isla Fin de la Tierra comes back to me.

“I think the reason the radiation clouds haven’t hit us is because of our location,” I explain. “This island is located in the middle of a wind tunnel that channels air from the south central Atlantic, towards the Caribbean Gulf Stream and up the coast of North America. The wind tunnel is the reason, for instance, we’ve got swarms of butterflies flying by every day. They’re using the wind current to facilitate their migration. It could be that the wind tunnel shields us from the radiation clouds.”

“And it could be that you’re talking out of your arse,” the old British woman scoffs.

The crowd around me grows increasingly hostile. For the first time since the E.M.P. blast, someone offers them a way out of this hell; they will not allow me to squash it. Still, if they decide to take this voyage they need to know the dangers they face. Despite the eagerness of the crowd to dismiss my warnings, the captain hesitates. Perhaps after many years studying the mercurial interaction between wind and sea, and knowing that a mistake in judgment when you are miles away from dry land can be fatal, the captain appears to mull over everything I said.

Just then, the first of the guests determined to sail for Barbados returns from their bungalows clutching handfuls of glittering jewelry, which they eagerly thrust towards the captain.

de Salle takes one look at the proffered loot and turns to me. “At the first sign of any poisonous clouds I will turn around and return.”

I am about to say something more when Conner pulls me to the side and whispers, “Shut up. Let them go. Look who’s trying to get onboard—the old and the weak. He can have ‘em. They won’t be much use defending this place from the islanders, and besides, it’s more food and water for everybody else left behind.”

Conner continues to grip my arm, staring me down, daring me to protest any further. Over his shoulder, I see Don and Amy come out of their bungalow. I shirk Conner’s hand off and head towards them. Amy drags a hastily packed suitcase and the front pocket of Don’s shirt bulges with bracelets and necklaces. I repeat my warnings of the radiation clouds. Don huffs but stops to hear me out, while Amy anxiously looks at the throng around Captain de Salle, each haggling for a spot on the ship.

“Don, c’mon,” she urges.

I stand before them knowing they are already gone—that my entreaties will not sway them.

Don regards me with sad, kind eyes. “Listen, kid, I’m an old man. I’m not cut out for war with the people on this island.”

Amy prods Don by pressing her hand on his back.

“Phillip, we’re sorry to leave you like this,” her voice catches. “I wish we could all leave together. Believe me, as soon as we reach Barbados we will send help back for you.”

I respond with a grateful nod.

Nearby on the beach, de Salle appraises the jewelry offered in trade.

Pamela remains near Gwen, making no effort to get on board de Salle’s ship.

“Don’t you want to go?” I ask her.

She looks to the anchored ship and shields her eyes against the sun. “I thought about it. Then I thought about what you said—that you couldn’t get hold of anyone from Barbados on the radio and that there are radiation clouds. Sailing for Barbados is a big risk, just as staying here is. Without Bill, I guess it doesn’t much matter either way.”

Nearly a third of the guests vie to sail with de Salle. Of those who do not, I estimate half seem like they desperately want to sail away but know they have nothing to offer to buy their passage, and the rest seem interested in the drama but have no desire to risk their lives on the open ocean.

Don plops a fistful of jewels in de Salle’s hand, easily purchasing space onboard the ship for Amy and himself. More people haggle to get onboard than there are spaces. It comes down to two elderly couples—one British and one American. The value of the jewelry offered by the American couple puts them in the lead for the final spots, but the old British husband turns to his wife and says, “Evelyn, I’m sorry, love, but we must.”

Evelyn, a tiny, white haired woman, wraps a protective hand around the large, antique diamond wedding ring she wears. She cannot even form a word, her only protest being an anguished little squeak.

Her husband gently takes her hand, looking as tenderly in her frightened eyes as he probably did when they first married so long ago.

“Love, please,” he says. “It is only a stone and some metal. It does not matter so long as we have each other.”

Slowly, she gulps, removes the ring, and hands it to de Salle. He gestures to his men to allow Evelyn and her husband aboard the ship.

“Pardon me, Captain,” Evelyn says with a tremulous voice. “How long is the voyage to Barbados?”

“With a good wind—two days.”

Evelyn’s husband, a slight man with fine, delicate features like a sparrow, licks his thin lips and asks, “And you have food to last us?”

de Salle places his hands on his hips. “Not for you. There’s only enough for me and my crew.”

The fifteen guests lined up for the rowboat that will take them to the anchored ship all get the same idea at once and head towards the restaurant supply room.

Conner leaps ahead of them and blocks their path. “You’re not taking our food.”

The fifteen guests suddenly halt.

“It’s our food, too!” One of them argues.

Conner clenches his fist, making it clear he has no qualms about beating any of them senseless. “It’s not your food anymore. It belongs to the people of the resort. Sail away if you want to, but the food stays.”

The elderly guests hurl curses at him, but none dare try to push him aside. The rest of the guests, those remaining behind, say nothing and do not intervene. It is wrong to send these elderly people off without so much as a drop of water, but some selfish part of me—a part focused only on my self-preservation—sides with Conner. It shames me, but I must admit that I want to keep as much of the supplies here with us as possible.

Trying to keep the peace, Jonas approaches Conner, but Conner shrugs him off.

“I don’t give a shit,” Conner growls to Jonas. “They bought their ticket out of this; we’re left behind. The food remains with us.”

de Salle makes no effort to intervene. Even if he could influence the situation, I am not sure he is inclined to. He has the jewels. That is all he cares for. Don lurches to the front of the group, waving his cane with the intention of splitting Conner’s skull, but his movements are so feeble and sluggish that he stands no chance. Amy pleads with Don to stop.

Evelyn’s husband pipes up, his voice shrill and indignant, “Give us our supplies, otherwise we won’t send any help for you when we reach Barbados.”

Conner smirks. “If you’re lucky enough to reach Barbados the captain will send for help.”

“No I won’t,” de Salle grunts, and turns to the rest of us. “Begging your pardon, but give them their supplies or no one will hear of you.”

So, the captain has a shred of decency after all.

Conner scowls. “Two bottles of soda and a box of crackers. If you ration it out it can last for two days.”

Some of those bound for Barbados begin to argue, but de Salle nods his head, accepting Conner’s terms. Robby fetches the soda and crackers for the departing guests.

Don and Amy do not look back as de Salle’s men row them to the sailboat. They raise anchor and from the bow of the ship the captain bids us goodbye by doffing his ludicrous hat.

Twilight. Holding back the curtains in the sliding glass door in the empty bungalow next to mine, I step aside to allow Dellas to enter. The bungalow belonged to a grey haired restaurateur from Pittsburgh and his trophy girlfriend. They were among the first aboard Captain de Salle’s boat. In their haste to depart, they left the bungalow in horrible disarray. Food encrusted plates and soiled laundry clutter the place. It does not matter. Dellas is obviously relieved to have a roof over her head and food for her daughter.

Rhodesia clutches Dellas’s hand and looks about the room, uncertain what to make of this new home.

“Now we’re neighbors,” I say, and then joke, “And if you need anything, a cup of sugar, milk, tea—whatever, just knock on my door. You want me to help you tidy up this place?”

She places her daughter on the rumpled bed. “No, but tank you. Dis place will do very well.”

As I leave, I glimpse Alexandra standing on the beach facing the sea. She wears a long silk dress that billows behind her in the wind. Foaming waves lap around her bare feet. Both hands clasp at her chest, much like a body in a coffin.

“Alexandra,” I call to her but she stares at the horizon so intently that she does not hear me.

I stand next to her. “Hey, Alexandra.”

She turns to me and it is clear from the vacant look in her eyes that she has no idea who I am.

“Why didn’t they take me?” her voice is so soft I strain to hear.

Now I understand why she stares at the horizon; she fixates on the spot where de Salle’s ship disappeared from view.

“Never mind Barbados. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with Conner?” I try to coax her back to reality.

Staring at the sea again, she ignores my question and says, “Why didn’t anybody ask me if I wanted to go? My jewelry is just as good as theirs. Look, see.”

She opens her hands to reveal several common seashells. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

I do not know what to say, but she smiles at me, awaiting my answer.

“Yes… yes, they’re lovely,” I say.

She beams with triumph. “See, then I could have been on that boat, too. I don’t like it here anymore. I want to go home.”

I nod. “We all do.”

She sighs. “I’m tired now.”

Without another word, she turns from me and treads through the sand back to the open backdoor of her bungalow. Conner leans against the doorframe, watching us. When Alexandra reaches him, he turns into the darkened room, gone from view, and Alexandra follows him.

Chapter Fourteen

Banging pots and shouts of alarm snap me out of my slumber. I sit up in bed, naked, and fumble for my shorts. Torchlight glides past my window as people run past my bungalow. Outside, I find Nelson running towards the lagoon. Curtis, heavily winded and looking about ready to faint, tromps behind him.

“They’re attacking!” Nelson explains to me, though I need no explanation.

Across the lagoon comes a cacophony of hooping and yowling, like a pack of ravenous hyenas, but the sounds come not from animals but from men. It can only be Action and the other marauders. Near the lagoon, Robby clangs pots together to alert everyone.

“A couple of them tried to sneak across where the bridge is burnt out,” he breathlessly tells me. “The moment I sounded the alarm all the rest of them showed up. There’s got to be fifty of them.”

At least fifty torches bob amongst the shrubbery on the far side of the lagoon. There are so many torches that the cliff wall at the back of the resort glows orange. If the thugs intend their cacophony of animal sounds to intimidate us, they succeeded spectacularly. My rubbery legs threaten to buckle beneath me. Wild-eyed old women dressed in flimsy nightgowns, their hair matted and gnarled, run in circles, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do.

“Phillip!” Gwen rushes towards me with an armful of Molotov cocktails. “They’re trying to cross at the bridge. We’ve got to stop them.”

I grab more bottles of gasoline from the stack and catch up with Gwen.

We are badly outnumbered. Unlike the resort defenders, all of the marauders are young and strong. We stand no chance in open combat with them. If the marauders cross the lagoon, it will be a massacre.

More than halfway across the lagoon, Conner stands at the end of the bridge. Wielding an axe, with his head high, Conner acts as a lightning rod, drawing the murderous mob to him. Rather than disperse and try to cross the lagoon from several different points, thereby making it hard for us to prevent them all from getting across, the mob converges at the tip of the burnt out bridge. They mass together, torches held aloft to form a giant, incandescent dagger pointed at the resort.

“Hide the bottles,” I say to Gwen as we place them behind Conner. “I don’t want them to expect this.”

Robby and all the younger guests join us brandishing our self-made weapons. We use our bodies to shield the cluster of unlit Molotov cocktails from view. Roughly twenty-five feet of water separate us from the mob. Many in the mob wield machetes taken from the papaya and pineapple farms; others wield pitchforks, small knives, and even crowbars. Packing onto the stub of bridge that remains on their side of the lagoon, they cluster to the charred, crumbling edge of their bridge, but they do not attack. They hoot and holler—an ungodly chorus, howls of the damned—but they come no closer.

Pamela clenches a rudimentary spear, legs planted firmly apart. Her chest heaves from the exertion of running to get here, but she does not seem exhausted. She seems enraged. These men killed her husband. This is the moment of her revenge.

My heart pounds and my mouth feels as dry as an old piece of leather. I wish I stood as valiant and eager for battle as Conner does. Instead, I reckon where I can hide in the resort if we are overrun.

The howling intensifies, builds to a crescendo, and the mob points their machetes at us, stomping in gleeful anticipation.

“Phillip, I’m scared,” Gwen looks upon the jeering horde with terror.

Then, as though flipping a switch, the howling stops. The mob parts. Action steps to the front. In his fist, he grips the neck of a wine bottle. Standing opposite Conner, Action takes a long, contemptuous swig from the bottle, wipes his mouth, and lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Hey, Yankee man,” Action addresses Conner. “Give us food and drink and we spare your lives.”

“You want our supplies? Come and take it,” Conner brandishes his axe.

The firelight cast deep shadows on Action’s gaunt face making him appear ancient, deathless, his eyes deep pools of malevolence. The men around him tense, each one waiting for the command to strike. Action takes another swig from the bottle, and then says to Conner, “You like stories, Yankee man? I have a good one for you. One time I catch a big fish—a fish too big for my little boat. Looking at dis great fish, I say to myself, ‘Action, you will feast tonight.’ But first, I have to get de fish home. So I tie it to my boat and row for land. Dat is when de reef sharks come. Now, de ting about de sharks, Yankee man, is dey are quick and dey come all at once. Dey rip into my catch, every one taking a little piece,” he makes a motion with his hands like teeth snapping together. “Soon, only de bones are left. Dat is how we will take your woman, Yankee man. We will kill you last so you can watch as we take her, watch as she begs for death.”

The dread that gnaws at my gut must be nothing compared to what Gwen feels. If I die, it will be quick. But Gwen…

A clap of Action’s hands is the signal to attack. So many thugs leap into the water the surface of the lagoon becomes as wavy as the open sea. Conner shouts something unintelligible. Everything is motion and noise. Thrashing bodies churn the water. Elderly women screech and flee back to the bungalows as though there could be any safety there.

“Now!” Gwen hurls a lit Molotov cocktail over everyone’s head. It lands with deadly accuracy into the packed midst on the other side of the bridge. As a ball of fire explodes, shrieks unlike anything I ever heard pierce my ears. Flames engulf the men from head to toe. Burning men fall into the water to douse the flames. Men at the front of the mob, including Action, avoid the fire, but the frantic, burning men behind them push them all into the lagoon. Pamela steps to the front of the group of defenders and hurls her spear straight into the open mouth of a machete-waving thug.

Several thugs reach our side of the bridge. Conner swings his long handled axe with both hands, smashing the skull of one marauder to a pulp. Another marauder tries to climb onto the bridge. Gwen buries a kitchen knife in his forearm.

Action paddles back to waist deep water. “Kill ‘dem!”

The rest of the marauding horde still on land bypasses the burning segment of bridge and plunges directly into the water. Trudging towards us, they shove the floating bodies of their comrades aside. We hurl bricks and rocks at the men. Behind me, someone cries for help as two thugs pull him from the bridge. Robby rushes to his aid, but the man goes under and does not come back up. Marauders swim at us from all sides. Our Molotov cocktails are useless at this close range. We resort to hand-to-hand combat. My weapon is a hammer that I found in the tool shed. A man lunges from the water, grasping for my legs. I tumble down. As he tries to pull me into the water, I hit him once on the top of his head. Instantly, he spasms violently, losing his hold of me. I push him back into the water where he drifts away face down.

Everything is a blur. Conner stalks the edge of the bridge. Men fall before his axe like wheat before a scythe. While Pamela hurls rocks at the struggling swimmers, Gwen stabs at those trying to clamber onto the bridge with us. A few marauders opt to avoid the heavily defended bridge altogether, swimming instead directly for the resort. The few that make it to the resort are bludgeoned to death before they get out of the water.

As quickly as it started, the battle stops. Action stands on dry land, hands hanging at his side, fingers curled as though ready to strangle someone. They cannot take the bridge, and the lagoon is too vast and deep for them to wade across. On the burning bridge segment, several bodies blacken in the flames. Bodies float all over the lagoon. Gwen is on her knees, gasping for breath. Conner stands as he did before, axe in hand, challenging Action to attack again. On the opposite side of the lagoon, the rest of the marauders trudge out of the water and mill about.

One of them says something inaudible to Action, perhaps suggesting they launch another assault, perhaps advising Action to retreat. Whatever he says, Action does not acknowledge him. He stares at the handful of us on the bridge, and then turns around and storms away. Within minutes the rest of the marauders follow him, dragging their injured, and forsaking their dead.

Conner lets out a raucous cheer, followed by all the elderly guests lined up at the resort who clap and hug each other. Gwen lies on her side and weeps.

Chapter Fifteen

The morning is as bright and beautiful as any other on Isla Fin de la Tierra. At a distance, one would assume our resort was a slice of paradise. Only upon closer inspection, would you see bodies floating in the lagoon, or see the guests wandering around looking as raggedy as scarecrows.

Ravenous after the harrowing battle of the previous night, I walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute—why is everyone already here before me, and why did they alter the arrangement of tables? Instead of rows of tables, the tables now form a giant square with an open floor in the center. One of the sides of the square contains the raised step the band played on. Now, instead of a group of musicians standing on that step, Conner sits there on a large rattan chair. The immediate impression is of a king on his throne overlooking his court. To drive this impression home, Conner’s axe, the symbol of his power, lays at his feet.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Conner sees me approach and motions for me to take a seat. “We’re having a meeting.”

I take an empty seat next to Nelson.

“Where’s the food,” I whisper to him.

He leans close. “You’re guess is as good as mine. I just got here a minute before you.”

“What we accomplished last night can’t be overstated,” Conner stands and addresses all of us in a relaxed yet authoritative tone. “We showed those miserable sons of bitches that this resort is not an easy target. We will not fall like the hotel across the bay.”

Many of the guests nod vigorously. Something in the way they look at Conner makes me uneasy. It is a look of blind trust and adoration. I imagine a parent would give such a look to a doctor who saved the life of their child.

“Make no mistake about it, this is not over,” Conner pauses for added significance. “The islanders will be back. We must be ready for them. Now I know we’ve all heard the rumors… our homes are gone, our families dead. Maybe those things are true. I pray to God they aren’t. In the meantime, there’s some things we know for sure. There is no sign that anyone is coming to rescue us. At this point, until given reason to believe otherwise, we have to assume that no one ever will. That means we’ve got to get serious about defending ourselves. Yeah, we did good last night, but you can bet the next time they attack they won’t be so disorganized. We also have to get serious about our food supply.”

A murmur ripples amongst the guests.

“How much food do we have?” A middle-aged man with white, wiry hair and nervous blue eyes asks.

Robby sits near Conner on a less ornate chair, much like a second-in-command. He rises to speak to us. “How much food we have depends entirely on how quickly we consume it.”

“That’s right,” Conner agrees. “We’re in no danger of starvation—so long as we follow a few simple rules. From now on, we don’t eat whatever we want, or whenever we’re hungry. We will serve food at specific times, and in rationed amounts. The all-you-can-eat-buffet is over.”

“Who rations the food?” Pamela asks.

“I do,” Conner pulls a chain from around his neck upon which dangles a key. “This is the key to the supply room. From now on, anyone wanting food has to come to me.”

In shock, I say to Jonas, “How could you agree to this?”

Jonas opens his mouth, preparing to answer, but the words disappear and he hangs his head.

Ignoring Jonas, I turn to everyone else in the restaurant. “I agree we should ration the food. You might recall I was the first to suggest the idea, and at the time, many of you laughed at me. We can ration the food without it being under one person’s control.”

Several people agree with me, albeit more quietly than I prefer.

Conner puts his hands on his hips and flashes a smile that is all teeth and no mirth. “Fine. Let’s say we follow your suggestion, Phil. How are you gonna enforce it? I suppose you expect everyone to be on some kind of honor system, taking no more than their fair share. Do any of you actually believe for a second that would work?”

No one speaks up to support my suggestion.

Conner continues. “Tell you what—I’d give it a week and all the supplies we have would be gone if we try it Phil’s way. Listen to me people. The food is our life. Without it we die. In a situation like this, we need a strong hand.”

Conner’s words seem to sway any who had objections, and if any still agree with me, I doubt they have the backbone to defend the point. Robby is not the only one backing Conner. At a quick glance I count at least ten other people—mostly middle aged men and their wives/girlfriends—who have thrown their lot with the strongest man. Curiously, Alexandra is absent.

Robby details the meal schedule: three times a day with long, hungry gaps in between. He does not ask for feedback or approval. Conner stands beside him, hands still on his hips, nodding occasionally, watching us, and practically daring anyone to raise an objection.

“From now on we’ve got to think like a team,” Conner picks up where Robby leaves off. “And there is no “I” in team.”

I cannot believe he actually laid this tired, corporate pep talk cliché on us.

“Anybody who still has any supplies back in their bungalows needs to bring it to the supply room as soon as this meeting is over,” Conner continues. “I don’t care if it’s something as small as a breath mint. If one person hordes food it’s a crime against all of us. Another thing, every one of us has got to contribute something to the resort every single day. That means catching fish, making weapons, patrolling the grounds, cooking, cleaning, so on, and so forth. We can’t afford to carry any dead weight. Anyone hording food or failing to contribute to the welfare of the resort will be considered an enemy of the resort.”

Conner does not elaborate what will happen to those considered “enemies of the resort.” The threat hangs in the air.

With any naysayers successfully intimidated, Conner softens his stance, “Look, I know this is hard and none of us expected to live like this. The only way we will survive is by working together.”

Working together, I immediately discover, means following Conner’s orders without question. Robby, Conner and a handful of their supporters dispense what counts as our morning meal. My share amounts to a cup of plain red beans and a cup of flat, warm ginger ale. Robby informs me that my duty is night patrol, dusk to dawn, along the lagoon.

“You’re the first line of defense,” Robby tells me. “Take two pots with you on patrol. You see anyone trying to come across the lagoon you bang the pots together. Got it?”

He does not wait for my response before he is onto the next person, doling out assignments. Conner tells Gwen that she is on fishing duty.

“But I don’t know how to fish?” Gwen says.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he hands her a bowl of beans that is twice the size as anyone else’s. I can tell that Gwen notices the difference, but she says nothing.

Curtis glances at his meager meal and balks. “This couldn’t feed a pygmy.”

Conner walks over, eyeing Curtis’s ample belly. “By the looks of it, Slim, you could stand to skip a meal or two. From now on, you’re on fishing duty. You and your… friend,” he glances derisively at Nelson.

Conner walks away and Nelson whine’s to Curtis. “But I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

It is going to be a long day.

Chapter Sixteen

At the far end of the shore, Curtis drapes his massive bulk over a low-legged beach chair. His thick calves splay out in front of him, toes buried in the sand. He wears a tropical print shirt, unbuttoned, exposing the enormity of his red belly and his droopy man breasts covered in white hair. There was a time when I would cringe at such a sight, but over the past several weeks, I have seen enough cellulite, varicose veins, and hairy potbellies that I am nonplussed. Curtis wears a ratty canvas hat, a strip of white zinc across the bridge of his nose and a sour expression.

He fans his face with his hand. I am shirtless, too, my shorts barely hanging onto my hips. Several yards out into the sea, Nelson awkwardly paddles about with flippers, goggles and a spear, searching for a fish. Nelson removes his goggles to check his position in relation to the shore and sees me observing him.

“Nelson, I would have thought after all this time you’d have gotten the hang of it,” I quip.

“What’re you talking about?” he hoists a mesh bag that appears to hold two or three fish. “This should make a fine supper tonight.”

“Yeah, except it took him all day just to catch that,” Curtis says, his voice low.

Nelson walks to shore as gracefully as possible considering the massive flippers he wears.

“Here, look at this,” he opens his bag of fish with pride.

“They’re a little puny,” Curtis teasingly lifts one by the tail for inspection. ‘Not exactly a feast fit for a king.”

“You’ll have to forgive my companion,” Nelson says to me with mock indignation. “His appetite exceeds his fishing ability.”

Curtis gives a melodramatic sigh. “It gets tiring swimming around out there, waves slapping me around, jabbing a spear at those little fish. And those buggers are fast! There must be an easier way to dine. I wish we could just order room service.”

“We are room service,” Nelson grins and helps Curtis to his feet. “We should get our prize haul to the kitchen. They’ll need it for tonight’s meal.”

The three of us, in no particular hurry, walk towards the restaurant.

Curtis shields his eyes against the setting sun and says, “I wonder what day it is.”

“I lost track of the calendar a long time ago,” I add. “It’s actually ironic if you stop to think about it.”

Nelson arches a dubious brow. “That you lost track?”

“That anyone bothers trying to keep track of time at all,” I answer. “I mean, what’s the point? Who cares? There are no hours, nor weeks or months. Hell, we don’t even have seasons here. The only thing we have is daylight and darkness.”

We take a few more steps, and then completely ignoring the point I just made, Nelson says, “Jonas has a calendar. He could tell us what day it is.”

“And if Jonas tells us that it’s Wednesday instead of Thursday will it make a damn bit of difference?” I retort a bit more sharply than needed. “It’s been what… a month since we lost all power?”

“Maybe a little under a month, I think,” Curtis reckons.

“OK, a little under a month, and since we lost power you know what?” I hold up my arm with the only working wrist watch at the resort. “I hardly look at this thing. There’s no reason. I get up, patrol till dawn, go to bed when the sun comes up, and do it all over again.”

Nelson looks thoughtful, and then says to me, “Young man, since you’ve lost all interest in time, can I have your watch?”

I pull my arm back. “Not a chance. Someday, I may need to trade this watch for a slice of bread.”

I am only half joking. Hunger is a constant companion; at least my cheekbones and jaw line look fantastic.

Our chuckles subside.

“The people who sailed for Barbados…” Curtis trails off. “Do you think they made it to Barbados?” He scans the sea as though anticipating their ship to appear at any moment. “We should have heard something from them by now. How long does it take for help to come back from Barbados?”

“Maybe things in Barbados are as bad as they are here,” Nelson suggests, though I detect a note in his voice that he does not believe it.

I think of Don and Amy, and then I recall Dawson Hartford’s warning about the radiation clouds hovering over the ocean. Grim thoughts fill my head, but I keep them to myself.

“So how is the night time patrol, anyway?” Nelson asks me, more to divert Curtis’s attention to something else than out of any real curiosity about my nightly vigil.

“Lonely,” I reply.

“But you have Bob and Dean to keep you company,” Curtis points out.

“I’d rather patrol alone.”

Bob, early fifties, as squat, heavy, and round as a cast iron chiminea, owns an Atlanta car dealership. Dean, late fifties, is similar in build to me—slim and not very tall—with coarse gray hair and a long roman nose. Dean is a systems analyst. I have no idea what that means.

“Come now,” Curtis chides. “They cannot be that bad.”

I roll my eyes. “Dean is an obsessive compulsive. He’ll fixate on something trivial that happened days ago, like why no one offered him salt with his noon meal, and talk about it incessantly. I suppose the stress of all that has happened to us causes him to find comfort by dwelling on little things. Whatever the cause, he’s a pain in the ass to be around. As for Bob, he’s annoying, too—constantly trying to suck up to Conner in the hopes that at his next feeding Conner will toss him an extra biscuit.”

“We have people like that on the day shift,” Nelson waves his hand before his face as though flicking away a fly. “So, during your lonely surveillance is there any sign of Action and his men?”

“Every once in a while I catch a glimpse of somebody on the other side of the lagoon. Island men, but once or twice, I think it was a woman. I can’t tell if they are one of Action’s gang or not. It’s hard to see unless it’s a full moon. It could be that they’re testing our defenses—seeing if we’re still on guard. Either way, after a while they wander off.”

The mood in the restaurant is as joyful as a child’s funeral. Men and women accustomed to a life of luxury hunch over their scrimpy meals or shuffle about with the enthusiasm of concentration camp prisoners. Robby doles out the first meal of my day: Less than half a cup of noodles, mixed with half a spoiled avocado and bits of some type of grilled sea creature. The noodles take the concept of al dente to a tooth-cracking extreme. In the kitchen, three sullen women prepare all the meals. Conner thrust the responsibility on them completely at random and it shows. Not all that long ago I would have dumped this food down the toilet; now I wolf it down.

Conner watches everything, seated on his rattan throne, making certain that no one gets more than the barest amount of food necessary for survival. Following Conner’s new rules, Nelson raps at the swinging door to the kitchen but does not enter. No one can enter the kitchen except the three cooks and Conner, who wears about his neck the only key to the storerooms.

One of the three women pops her head through the swinging door.

With misplaced pride, Nelson hands his skimpy catch of the day to the woman. “Dinner is served.”

Her expression is as sour as a bag of lemons. “I told you yesterday this type of fish is all bones. Considering what little meat we get, it is hardly worth the effort to clean and gut them.”

“A fisherman is only as good as what the sea provides,” Curtis wraps a supportive arm over Nelson’s shoulder.

The woman appears ready to say something else, but instead, shakes her head and takes the scrawny fish back to the kitchen. As Nelson and Curtis walk away, Curtis’s arm still affectionately upon Nelson’s shoulders, Conner watches with obvious distaste. Across the room, Gwen spoons some sort of broth into Alexandra’s mouth. Alexandra stares into space, her once long, sleek chestnut hair now a tangled mess.

I walk over. “Hey, Gwen.”

After seeing so little of her for the past three or more weeks due to our different schedules, it feels odd to strike up a nonchalant conversation with her.

Gwen smoothes her hair back from her face—a self-conscious gesture I find touching. “I must look like a mess.”

“You look like you always do. Beautiful,” I instinctively respond.

She touches the beard on my face and smiles. “I see you’re going for a rugged style.”

I blush. “Yeah, I’ve been meaning to shave.”

“Don’t bother. I like the whiskers on you.”

I glance at Alexandra. Gwen reads my questioning glance and explains, “Alexandra’s not well. She has good days and bad ones. This is not one of the better ones. I’m helping look after her.”

I nod to Conner. “Shouldn’t that be her husband’s job?”

She nervously glances at Conner and back to me. What is she afraid of? “Yes, well, Conner has his hands full keeping things together here.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s got to be on constant guard in case we mutiny for an extra can of soda,” not bothering to mask the contempt I feel.

“Phil,” Conner points to the exit. “Your patrol is starting.”

With heavy sarcasm, I hold my hands before my face, turning them over, and feigning amazement that I can see them. “Night patrol starts at dusk. It is still daylight.”

Conner grips the arms on his chair and leans forward, eyes squinting hard at me. Everyone else in the restaurant stop whatever they are doing. A pang of fear blossoms in my gut, but I swallow hard and stand my ground.

Gwen touches my hand.

“Phillip, please,” she softly says.

I scowl at Conner and mutter, “This is bullshit.”

I march out of the restaurant and head straight for the bungalow Gwen shares with Pamela. The back door is half-open.

I peek in. “Pamela?”

“In here,” she calls from the bathroom.

The bathroom door is open. I walk in. “You decent?”

Leaning over the sink counter, she looks in the mirror and slowly applies lipstick. “I don’t know if I’ve ever been decent, but you can come in all the same.”

I plop down on the edge of the marble bath, and then bolt up and pace the room. “I’m beginning to think we’d be better off taking our chances outside the resort. Conner is turning this place into a prison.”

“You just noticed that?” She daintily fixes a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, squinting to see in the fading daylight.

“I can’t believe this is happening to us. Conner uses his control of the supply room to keep everyone in line.”

I tell Pamela of the altercation in the restaurant.

“He’s trying to keep me away from Gwen,” I conclude.

She dabs a spot of perfume on her wrists and rubs them together. “Of course. I suspected it right away when he assigned you nighttime patrols and Gwen to the day shift. Conner has been turning to Gwen more and more, especially since Alexandra’s breakdown.”

“Yeah, I saw Gwen spoon feeding her.”

“Alexandra has a chemical imbalance. She had pills to regulate it, but when she heard her family died she had a fit and threw them into the nature preserve. We tried to find the pills but never did. I imagine right now there are some very happy crabs creeping about in those bushes.”

Pamela returns to the mirror and dusts a shimmery powder over her décolletage.

I pause in the middle of my tirade and sit on the edge of the tub again. “Can I ask you a question? What the hell are you doing?”

Inspecting her handiwork, she replies, “Keeping up appearances, dear boy.”

“Have you seen the haggard faced zombies wandering around this place? I don’t think anyone will care if you wear eye shadow or not.”

She turns to me with a slight smile. “I would care, Phillip. Let me tell you something. My mother lived in London during the Blitz. She was just a child then. She saw her father go off to fight the Nazis—never to return. Living in London during that time, my mother told me how suddenly the stillness of the night could change to sheer panic. Wailing air raid sirens. The thunder of exploding bombs. People screaming, grabbing whatever they could carry, and rushing to the streets. Spotlights sweeping the sky. Fires turning the night sky a bloody red. My mother huddled in air raid tunnels, her face buried in my grandmother’s arms. During those dark, terror filled hours, my mother learned what it meant to have courage and dignity. It is a valuable lesson she passed on to me. She taught me to bend, but never break. In short, she taught me how to be British.”

“Damn, Pamela, another speech like that and you’ll have me slapping on the lipstick,” I say with a deferential bow.

She chuckles and says, “Come. Walk with me back to the restaurant. I want to get there before the last of the gruel is gone.”

As we walk along the winding path back to the restaurant, the sun sinks even lower.

“Does Gwen ever talk about me?” I ask.

A slight smile crosses her lips. “I wondered when you were going to ask me that. She’s talked about you, yes. Of course, I asked why she came to live in my bungalow instead of staying with you. At the time, numerous people asked the same question.”

“So then everyone knows Gwen and I are separated.”

“Separated? When a husband and wife separate, there’s always the possibility that they may get back together. Gwen gave me the impression that you told her the marriage was finished.”

Unintentionally, my pace slows to a crawl. “I never said the marriage was completely over. We came here to try to work out our problems—”

“Yes, she said.”

“And instead of working them out, somehow things just fell apart. How much did Gwen tell you about what happened to our marriage?”

“I know about her affair. Gwen takes all the blame for why your marriage failed.”

I am torn between relief that I have someone else to talk to about my failed marriage and embarrassment that someone else knows that my wife preferred to have sex with another man instead of me.

Pamela assuages my sense of embarrassment. “Infidelity is not an easy thing for any marriage to survive. I have been in your shoes, so I know how difficult it is. Bill was not my first husband, you know.”

“So your first husband cheated on you?”

She sadly nods.

“And you left him because of it?”

She nods again.

“Did you ever regret it?’

“Maybe at first. I might have had second thoughts, questioning if I made the right decision but years later when I heard that my first husband also cheated on the woman he married after me, any misgivings I had vanished.”

I ponder this a moment, and then add, “Well, Gwen is not like your first husband. Of that, I am sure. She’s no serial cheater, hopping from bed to bed. Our problem is something that Gwen cannot help: She is physically drawn to a certain type of man and that man is not me. I’ve thought about this a lot, Pamela. Since we lost all power on the island, I have nothing but time to think about it. You say Gwen told you that I ended the marriage—that it was my decision. I disagree that it ended that way, but let’s say I fought to preserve our marriage; I would not have succeeded. Look at how she revolves around Conner ever since the E.M.P. blast.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘revolve’.”

I arch a brow. “Oh, no? That’s how it looks to me. I hardly see Gwen anymore and when I do, she’s dutifully tending to Conner’s catatonic wife and he sticks closer to Gwen than a barnacle on the hull of a ship. I am surprised, but I shouldn’t be. Gwen is only reverting to her true nature. She is young, beautiful, and fertile; Conner is the strong, virile warrior. He can protect her and provide food for her. It sounds primitive, I know, like something out of the Stone Age, but it makes sense. I couldn’t even keep Gwen faithful to me when we lived a block from a supermarket packed with food. Now, under these circumstances, with someone like Conner around, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Pamela gives an incredulous laugh and shakes her head. “Is that what you think life is all about? Who’s bigger? Stronger? The alpha male conquering the alpha females? I really thought you were smarter than this, Phillip.”

Flummoxed by her laughter, I stare back at her. She continues, “Granted, Conner is the strongest man in the resort, but for all his strength he is still afraid. The way he rules this place like some kind of police state is proof of just how afraid he is. The men who appear the toughest, the strongest, the quickest to fight are usually the most afraid. All their macho posturing is just an act to mask the fear that governs their lives. You should realize there are many ways to be strong, and many ways to be brave. If you realize this then I have no doubt that Gwen would be yours again.”

Stopping, I turn to her. “So then you are saying there is still a chance for me and Gwen?”

She purses her lips. “Not with your current mindset, there isn’t.”

We reach the restaurant. Before I can say anything else to Pamela, Bob trudges over to me, hands me a torch and I begin another lonesome patrol.

The trick to avoid becoming a feast for the mosquitoes is to keep moving. My patrol takes me deep into the nature preserve along the edge of the lagoon—prime mosquito breeding locations. A chorus of insects, frogs and the occasional warble of a nocturnal bird fill the night. At times, the cacophony is so loud that an elephant could sneak up on me and I would not hear it. I prefer to walk without a torch, slowly making my way along the packed dirt paths, relying on the dim light of the half moon to guide me. I find that while a torch illuminates everything directly around me, it blinds me to anything beyond the reach of the torch light. In addition, without a torch Bob and Dean do not know where I am and cannot meet up with me.

I make a sweep of the edge of the lagoon. Finding no sign of intruders, I head back to the row of bungalows along the shoreline. As I near the bungalows, I glimpse a long, lean figure moving like a wraith along the path. I quicken my pace to catch up to them, but they round the corner of a bungalow, heading towards the beach. Perhaps I should call out, but I hesitate, not wanting to awaken everyone for what probably is nothing more than one of the guests unable to sleep and taking a night stroll. I follow the slender figure to the beach, but there is no one there. Assuming whoever it was returned back to their bungalow, I return to the lagoon.

“Alexandra!”

Conner’s shout echoes across the resort. I return to the bungalows as swiftly as possible.

“Alexandra!”

Conner dashes between the bungalows, torch aloft, awakening everyone. Bleary-eyed guests step out of their homes, wondering why there is so much commotion. Pamela and Gwen leave their bungalow.

“What’s happening?” Gwen asks.

I answer by way of a confused shrug.

Conner runs towards us. “I can’t find Alexandra. She slipped out of our room when I dozed off. Has anyone seen her?”

I step forward. “I think I saw someone walking around the bungalows about an hour ago. Maybe less.”

Breathing heavily, Conner looms over me. “You did? Where’d she go?”

I point to the beach. Without waiting for us, Conner runs to the beach. The rest of us follow, scores of torches lighting the way. People call Alexandra’s name, fanning out from one end of the beach to the other. We find nothing.

Conner approaches me. “Are you sure it was her?”

“I didn’t get a good look.”

“Why didn’t you call out to them—see who it was?” Conner demands.

“I… I don’t know.”

I feel so incompetent. The guests on the beach—Gwen included—look at me like a jury delivering a guilty verdict. For a moment, it seems that Conner will throttle me, but he turns away and begins calling his wife’s name again.

Dawn. A cry from Dellas brings us running back to the beach. Alexandra sprawls on the shore, caressed by waves, and appears to be sleeping. She wears a long gown, now covered with wet sand and seaweed.

Dellas kneels beside her. “She wash up from de sea.”

Alexandra is dead. Conner strides towards us, staring at the body. Sitting on the sand, he rolls Alexandra’s head onto his lap. Mercifully, her eyes are closed. Head bowed, he brushes sand from her face. No one says a word.

Exhausted, I draw the heavy curtains in my bungalow to block the morning sun. The image of Alexandra’s body sprawled on the beach seems burned onto my retinas because I see nothing else. Collapsing onto the bed, I feel an odd lump beneath the pillow. It is a box of cookies with a note.

Phillip,

You’re awfully thin. I worry about you. Don’t tell anyone about this.

Gwen

Gwen must have pilfered the cookies from the supply room when Conner wasn’t looking. Perhaps Conner gave them to Gwen to win her favor. I devour every cookie in the box.

I sleep longer than necessary; maybe the cookies put me into a sugar coma. When I leave my bungalow, it is already the later half of the afternoon. I enter the restaurant to an argument already in process.

“We’re not going to stand for this!” Nelson slams a chair out of his way.

Robby stands opposite him behind a long table. “That’s the way it is, mate.”

Curtis stands beside Nelson with a helpless, confused expression. Pamela and Gwen sit at a nearby table.

“What’s going on?” I ask Curtis.

Before Curtis can reply, Nelson snaps, “They’re cutting off our meals—that’s what’s going on.”

“I don’t understand,” I reply. “Where’s Conner.”

“I’m right here,” Conner says from behind me. He walks to his rattan chair and takes a seat.

“You have no right!” Nelson rages.

For a man who just lost his wife, Conner seems remarkably at ease. “You and your boyfriend are a drain on this resort. We can’t afford to carry your dead weight anymore.”

“So this is how it’s going to be, is it?” Nelson glares at everyone in the restaurant, daring someone to speak up. “We’ve surrendered our freedom for Conner’s protection and now he lords over us like a tyrant. Go ahead. Sit there… all of you too petrified to speak, but mark my words, the next time he decides to starve someone into submission it will be one of you.”

“Conner, this doesn’t make sense,” I say, taking up their cause. “They’ve caught fish and provided food for the resort.”

Conner leans back in his chair. “They eat five times what they bring in… especially the fat one.”

“But what are we going to do for food?” Curtis says to no one in particular, sounding as though he was a child just informed that Santa died.

Conner gestures to the sunlit bay with an expansive sweep of his arm, like a game show host revealing a wonderful prize. “You’ve got an ocean filled with food. I suggest you get to it.”

“Wait, just hold on a minute,” I raise my hands to calm everyone down. “What’s happening here is part of a larger problem. We can’t keep relying on the food in the supply room.”

“We can if we supplement it with fish from the sea,” Robby interjects.

I shake my head. “Even then, you’re only prolonging the inevitable. Someday the supplies will run out. We’ve got to think beyond the storeroom. We’ve got to work with the islanders.”

Several people scoff at this. Conner smirks to Curtis, “It looks like you got your answer.”

I address everyone in the restaurant. “Not everyone on the island is a murdering thug. Just look at Dellas.”

Dellas, who leans against a pole nearby with her daughter in her arms, seems startled that I cited her as an example.

I stand before her. “Dellas, tell them that there is food on the island—there are farms, groves of tropical fruit. Tell them.”

Hesitantly, she nods.

“Of course she’d say that; she’s luring us out of the resort for her friends to kill us,” someone snipes from the back of the room.

Indignant, Dellas straightens up. “What Phillip says is true. Dere is food on de island. Maybe enough for all of us to survive. Papaya, mango, pineapple, and on and on. Dey got chickens and eggs and goat meat.”

“Then why aren’t you there eating this buffet?” Conner asks with a sly smile, and then answers his own question. “I’ll tell you why: Because you know those savages would cut you down the moment you stepped foot outside of this place. No, we remain here. We ration our supplies and catch what we can from the sea.”

Conner points at Nelson and Curtis. “You two knew the penalty for failing to contribute to the resort. From now on, you only eat what you catch. Robby will give you enough water each day to get by. No one is to give you any food, and anyone who does will face the same penalty as you.”

Nelson turns to everyone seated in the restaurant, searching for supporters and finding none.

“Cowards,” he sneers and leaves the room, Curtis close behind.

Conner stares at me, challenging me to say something more in their defense. To my shame, I fall silent.

Chapter Seventeen

Two days have passed since Conner denied Nelson and Curtis food from the storeroom, and they languish because of it. The pair spends most of their time in their bungalow, venturing forth when the sun is the weakest for a futile effort to catch fish. As before, Nelson does all of the fishing, snorkeling in the same patch of reef with the same limited results.

Nelson walks out of the water, back stooped, steps faltering.

“I don’t have the strength anymore,” he dejectedly slaps the empty net bag tied to his waist.

“Maybe Conner will see that we’re starving and he’ll ease up,” Curtis murmurs.

Nelson purses his lips with disgust. “We’ll get no pity from him.”

I take the spear and net bag from Nelson. “Let me give it a try.”

“But Conner said no one can help us,” Nelson counters.

I wag my finger. “No, he said no one can share food with you. I’m not sharing any of my food, but I will help you catch your own.”

Delivering on my intention is more difficult that I expected. The fish are swift and slippery. Only after considerable effort do I manage to spear one fish and bring it to shore.

“Thank you, Phillip,” Nelson gratefully takes the fish.

Leaving them, I find Gwen and Pamela at the opposite end of the beach, struggling mightily to knock a coconut from the top of a tree.

Arms crossed, grinning to myself, I stand off to the side.

Pamela thrust her hands on her hips. “A gentleman would assist a lady in need.”

“This is the best entertainment I’ve had in weeks,” I laugh, and then come up behind Gwen and grab the end of the pole.

Their pole is actually the remains of two pool skimmers tied end to end.

“I could probably do it easier alone,” I chuckle in Gwen’s ear.

She stands back with a flourish, as though to say, The floor is all yours.

I take several unsuccessful stabs at the coconut, never coming close, but my efforts produce a chorus of laughter from Pamela and Gwen.

“Phillip, you’re holding the pole like a knight at a joust,” Gwen teases, and then steps in front of me. “Here, it will be easier to steady the pole if two people grip it.”

“The problem is that the damn pole is bending. It’s like trying to hit something with a limp noodle,” I gripe.

“My, my, sounds like a personal problem,” Pamela jests, provoking another burst of laughter from Gwen. “You know, they have medication for that.”

We give the coconut another stab and succeed in dislodging it, however in the process we send it hurtling towards us. Gwen screams and tumbles backwards in my arms onto the sand.

Flat on my back with Gwen atop me, laughing, Pamela triumphantly holds the coconut aloft. We rise to our feet and dust sand from our skin. It feels great to laugh with Gwen the way we used to, or to laugh at all, for that matter. As I part company with Gwen and Pamela, I catch a glimpse of Conner standing on the deck of the restaurant, watching us with keen interest.

In the early evening, I take my usual post along the edge of the lagoon. Scanning the opposite side of the lagoon for intruders, my attention draws, instead, to the resort. Shouts erupt, followed by Rhodesia’s wails. I cannot tell who is causing all the commotion, but several torches converge on a spot near the resort fitness center. Hurrying to the scene, I find what appears to be the entire resort gathered around Nelson and Curtis.

Bob and Dean hold Dellas by both arms. She struggles against them, doing a good job of it, too, while Rhodesia cries. The crowd parts as Conner and Robby stride through. Conner holds his axe.

I stand in front of Bob and Dean and order them to let Dellas go.

“She broke the law,” Dean grunts as he wrestles Dellas.

Bob addresses Conner. “We caught her sneaking food to Nelson and Curtis.”

Muscles in Conner’s face ripple in the torch light as he clenches and unclenches his jaw.

“This is crazy!” Nelson exclaims.

“No,” Conner is emphatic. “This is survival. Ours versus yours. The time has come for you to leave the resort.”

“Oooooh, banishment. How dreadful,” Curtis says with heavy sarcasm and shirks free of Bob’s grip.

Conner seems on the verge of planting his axe in Curtis’s skull. I quickly step between them and face Conner. “Wait! Listen to me. You can’t send them from the resort. It’s a death sentence.”

Conner slaps the wooden axe hilt into his open palm. “Would you like to join them?”

“Conner, no,” Gwen rests a restraining hand on Conner’s arm.

He vacillates for a moment, then shrugs her hand aside and points at me, “Don’t interfere. The rules have got to be enforced. I told Dellas not to give food to these two queers; she did it anyway. Now she’s got to go, and her kid, too. They shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

Dean reaches for Rhodesia, but Pamela grabs her first, her eyes blazing with fury.

Nelson throws up his hands. “Fine. Fine. We will leave, but Dellas must stay. Don’t punish her. We pressured her into giving us food. The blame is entirely ours.”

I whisper in his ear. “What’re you doing? Don’t let them push you around like this. We can force them to allow you to stay.”

Nelson puts a hand on my shoulder as a father would when he is about to impart some wisdom to his son. “Yes, we could fight, Phillip, and we might prevail, but if we lose then Dellas loses, too. No, it’s better this way. We’ll go, without a fight, but only if Dellas stays.”

“You won’t survive out there,” I implore.

Nelson shrugs wearily. “We’re not surviving here, either. Maybe it’s just as well that we take our chances outside the resort.”

Nelson turns to Curtis who weeps by his side. “You understand why we have to do this?”

Curtis nods and Nelson takes Curtis’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“So do we have a deal, then?” Nelson addresses the whole resort. “We leave now—no further debate—but Dellas remains.”

Conner glances at Pamela. She will not release Rhodesia without a huge battle, but Pamela is not the deciding factor. Conner looks to Gwen, her eyes fraught with worry, and she gives the slightest nod telling Conner to accept the deal.

“Dellas stays; the queers go. Robby, row them across the lagoon,” Conner commands, and then speaking specifically to Curtis and Nelson. “If you try to return we will kill you on sight.”

Nelson leads Curtis towards the rowboat. “You needn’t worry about that. We won’t be coming back.”

Pamela places Rhodesia in her mother’s arms. Conner pulls Gwen to the side, whispering something to her to which she nods solemnly.

Nearly everyone in the resort gathers to see Bob row Curtis and Nelson across the lagoon. I remain behind. Jonas stands behind a large potted plant, probably trying to hide from view. Our eyes meet. He has the same expression as mine—the look of frightened men who see injustice and are helpless to prevent it.

It is midnight. On patrol, I complete a circuit that carries me from the bungalows lining the beach to the lagoon in the nature preserve and back again. A full moon lights my path.

“Phillip.”

It is Gwen, crouching in the bushes between two bungalows.

“I can’t sleep, and I wanted to see you,” she whispers. “Where can we talk?”

I think of the nature preserve, but dread the mosquitoes.

“Let’s use the beach,” I suggest. “Nobody patrols there. We can sit on the sand where it drops off near the water and no one will see us.”

Once there, she touches her fingers to her lips in silent prayer, and then says, “I hope those two men will be all right.”

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that, too. I’m so angry with myself for not putting a stop to it.”

She rests a hand on my wrist. “You did what you could. Conner was determined to get rid of them.”

“He wants to get rid of me, too.”

“I don’t know what I would do if you left. I couldn’t bear it.”

Her eyes search mine. In the moonlight, she seems impossibly fragile, like a delicate, porcelain figurine.

“I don’t understand, Gwen. We’re not together anymore. I know Conner wants you—”

“But I don’t want him,” she cuts me off. “You think just because Conner runs the resort and controls the food supply that I’d become his woman?”

She laughs ruefully. “Oh, Phillip. Sometimes I think you don’t know me at all. Look, I’m not mad at you. How could you know how much I have changed? Know this; I am not the same stupid woman who threw her marriage away for a fling. I had to lose everything to learn what I valued the most. Maybe the earlier Gwen would have met someone like Conner and been impressed, but not now. I know who I want to be with, and if I cannot have him then I’d just as soon have no one.”

At a loss for what to say, I tenderly brush a tendril of hair from her face. As she cups my hand to her face, her eyes search mine. It is difficult to breathe. My heart feels strangely giddy. Who is this woman standing before me? She is the Gwen I knew and loved, but now she is so much more. Hardship and loss has made her strong. There is a sense of self and a wisdom she did not have before.

I know who I want to be with, and if I cannot have him then I’d just as soon have no one.

Her words are a song echoing in my soul. Gwen loves only me. All bitterness has left my heart, replaced by a joyful curiosity. Even if it takes the rest of my life to do it, I must learn everything there is to know about this incredible woman standing before me.

I have a great idea.

“Stay here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I dash from the shoreline to my bungalow, stumble about my room in the dark, and at the back of my closet I find the long forgotten bottle of champagne given to us when we first arrived at the resort. I run back to Gwen and show her the bottle.

“But we don’t have glasses,” she says.

“That’s okay,” I pop the cork, swill from the foaming bottle, and pass it to her. “Warm champagne is better than none.”

“Phillip, I thought I’d never taste this again.”

Champagne dribbles over her chin and she wipes it with an embarrassed laugh. I laugh with her as we sit face to face, our bare feet entwined in the damp sand.

I hear the scratch of a match flaring to life, and turn to find Conner standing over us. He touches the match to ignite the torch he holds. My heart freezes.

“Robby!” Conner shouts, never removing his furious gaze from my face.

Gwen rises to her feet and steps in front of me. “Conner, now just calm dow—”

He pushes her to the side and snatches the half-empty bottle from my grasp.

He looks at the label on the bottle, then back at me. Several bobbing torches approach us. Bob, Dean, Robby and two other men encircle us. Robby carries Conner’s axe.

“We’re starving ourselves and Phillip hordes this,” he holds out the champagne bottle. “All food had to be brought to the storeroom. That is our law. Phillip knew he broke it. That’s why he snuck here to drink it.”

“I forgot I had it,” I explain.

Conner hands the bottle to Robby and takes his axe. “Gwen, get to your room.”

Gwen leaps in front of me. “Conner, what are you going to do?”

The other men trade wary glances, uncertain exactly what this is building to, but I know one thing for sure: They will not intervene or countenance their master. Conner seizes Gwen’s wrist and hurls her to the ground.

He advances towards me, raising the axe to strike. “We’ve got to enforce the law.”

“Phillip, run!” Gwen screams, and this jolts me from my paralysis.

Before the other men can react, I bolt towards the bungalows.

“Get him,” Conner yells.

Evading them is difficult in the bright moonlight, but white-hot adrenalin gives an added burst of speed to my gait. I am lean and agile. With the exception of Conner, they are old, out-of-shape, or a combination of both. A gap widens between us. My bungalow. I can barricade myself in there. No! They would have me trapped. I run past my bungalow and into the nature preserve. The tree canopy creates a dark refuge. Abandoning the path, I creep through the bushes and huddle near the base of a tree. Several yards away two men run down the path. I cannot see who they are, but light from their torches lances the underbrush.

“Are you sure he came this way?” It is Dean, out of breath and even more bewildered than usual.

The other man waves the torch into the darkness. I slink away from the light, holding my breath, not making a sound.

“I dunno,” says Bob. “I coulda swore I saw him come this way.”

“Maybe he’s trying to swim across the lagoon.”

“Let’s check it out.”

They continue down the path and I allow myself to exhale. Shouts come from the bungalows. More torches light the night. Where can I go? They might comb the nature preserve, foot by foot, and flush me from my hiding spot. It will be daylight in a few hours; there will be no hiding in the nature preserve, after that.

“Phillip,” Gwen calls, taking care to not to project her voice too far.

I peek from my hiding spot and creep towards her. “Over here.”

She leaves the path and we crouch near the ground. Even in the darkness, I can see her eyes are wide with terror.

“I think Conner’s going to kill you,” she pants. “We’ve got to go—leave the resort. It’s our only choice.”

I shake my head. “No, Gwen. It’s too dangerous for you out there.”

She grabs my hand. “Don’t leave me behind. Please, take me with you. Please, Phillip. I’ll take my chances out there with you.”

I cup her face, lean close, and kiss her— tender, and slow.

“He’s over here!” Bob yells, charging towards us through the shrubbery.

Holding Gwen’s hand, I run for the burnt out bridge, intending to run as far as I can down what remains of the bridge and swim the rest of the way across. Robby and two other men get there ahead of us, while Bob and Dean cut off any retreat to the nature preserve. With nowhere else to run, we dash through the restaurant to the sea, our pursuers close behind.

Gwen stumbles in the sand. I turn to help her up. Conner runs towards me, axe held over his head, eyes boiling with fury.

“Go, Phillip, go,” Gwen pushes me away. “He won’t hurt me. Go!”

I hesitate for a second, and then, with nowhere left to run, dive into the sea. Conner throws his axe to the sand, and along with Robby, dives after me. Gasping for breath, I paddle farther out, rolling with the incoming waves. I cannot touch the bottom anymore, but still Conner pursues me.

“Get back here, you little fucker!” Conner roars, and then gives a hoarse, cruel laugh.

He swims back to where he can stand and faces me.

“C’mon back, Phil,” he taunts. “C’mon. Stop being a pussy. We just want to talk to you.”

Treading water, I remain several yards away.

Conner’s men line up on the shore, watching me.

Conner waves to me. “C’mon, Phil. You’ve got to come back to shore eventually. I’m a patient man. I can wait a looong time.”

Damn it, he is right. I cannot tread water indefinitely. The longer I stay here the more exhausted I will become, but to return to shore means certain death. Robby and Conner chuckle together, knowing that all they have to do is wait. The moonlight reveals the dark line of the coast. Both ends of our shoreline end in rocky horns jutting into the sea. What lies around those rocky horns? I paddle in that direction, conserving my strength by flipping over on my back and staring up at the starry sky. God, I am so tired. I stop to check my progress in relation to landmarks on the shore, and it seems as if I have only moved a few feet. How deep is the water beneath me? What lurks down there in the inky depths, hearing my awkward thrashing, circling curiously just below me? Got to keep moving, I tell myself. Keep moving. Keep moving. With labored breath, I dare not stop—afraid I will not have the strength to start again.

Once more, I verify how close I am to rounding the rocky horn. I should be right on top of it by now. Something is wrong. The outline of the rocky horn, black against the star speckled sky, is even farther than before. What is happening? Have I been swimming the wrong way? I stop for a moment, and then, to my horror, I realize what is happening. A strong current pushes me away from the island.

“No! No!” I hurl myself towards Isla Fin de la Tierra, kicking with all my might against the flow.

It is no use. The current propels me inexorably out to sea.

Chapter Eighteen

Do not panic. If I exhaust myself against the current, I will drown. I recall a safety tip: The way out of a riptide is to swim diagonally. I aim for the rocky horn, but instead of swimming directly for it I swim at an angle. Several minutes pass; I am even farther from the island than before. This is no ordinary riptide. No matter which angle I swim the current pushes me away from land.

For a moment I float, conserving my energy, wracking my brain for a way out of this predicament. Now I know how a fly trapped inside a pitcher plant feels, struggling in vain to escape a watery death. After Isla Fin de la Tierra the next land mass is Africa on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I might be able to stay afloat for a few more hours, but eventually I will weaken to a point where I will not be able to keep my head above water. Casting about, I see a black lump on the horizon. Goat Island! It is my only chance. On my current trajectory, I will miss the little rocky isle. Changing course, I take a deep breath, flip over, and swim towards my last hope for survival. Swimming diagonally, I must reach Goat Island before the current sweeps me past it. Hand over hand, feet kicking, I swim for salvation.

Despite my burning muscles and the fatigue that weighs on me, the dread certainty that my determination is the only thing keeping me alive propels me onward. Something brushes against my leg and my blood turns to ice. A moment later something else brushes against me, and this time I feel as though razors sliced my torso. Is it a barracuda? I cannot see a damn thing. How bad am I cut? I touch my skin and cannot find a cut, but the pain remains. It feels like someone worked me over with a box cutter. I hold up my hand to check how badly I am bleeding, but it is too dark to tell.

Gasping for breath, choking as the waves splash water up my nostrils, I focus on the dark outline of Goat Island. Almost there. My knees smacks into something jagged and rough—the outlying coral reef around Goat Island. The waves buffet me onto the reef, scraping my skin. I half-swim and half-crawl over the reef. I cry out from a sudden searing pain in my calf. Reaching down, I feel a hard spine sticking out of my leg. Sea urchins! With my last remaining strength, I drag myself onto the rocky edge of the island. My hand passes over the urchin spine. It pierces clean through the side of my calf. I groan in horror, but steady my trembling hand and slide the spine through. The pain is excruciating. Fortunately, the spine does not break inside me. The bloody hole that remains is relatively small. Crawling on my belly, I inch away from the splashing surf and flip over on my back. To my surprise, and despite my exhaustion, I laugh dementedly.

Sunrise brings a bleak assessment of my situation. What felt during my night swim as if teeth slashed my skin turns out to be the sting of a jellyfish. Pink, puffy scars entwine my torso—vestiges of where the jellyfish tentacles grazed my skin. The pain of the sting has faded, even if the marks remain. Dried blood clots the sea urchin wound. My calf is sore to the touch and painful to put my weight on. None of the wounds is fatal. I will live, though to what ends I am not sure.

Surveying my acre of rocky, sea battered isle, I look across the bay towards the resort. A few people walk about on the beach. From this distance, they are no bigger than dots. They probably cannot see me, but taking no chances; I keep low and out of sight. Right now, the only advantage I have is the fact that my enemies in the resort believe I am dead.

Gwen. What happened to her after Conner chased me into the sea? My imagination begins to run wild. I have to get back to her. But how? To say I am starving is an understatement. Hunger gnaws within my belly like a feral animal trying to claw its way free. Recalling that a goat lives on this island, there is some hope that something edible grows here. Maybe I can kill the goat and eat it. The uneven terrain taxes my strength. Goat Island seems like a collection of massive boulders fused into one. There is no vegetation or fresh water. As for the legendary goat that gave the island its name, a clump of sun-bleached fur and bones are all that remains. I would weep if my body had a drop of moisture to spare for tears.

With each passing hour, the sun becomes more oppressive. On the other hand, the ocean spray from the sea breeze leaves my half-naked body cold and damp. Trapped between shivering and roasting, I retreat to the only available shade at the base of the light tower. With my knees close to my chest, I stare across the bay to the resort. The expanse of water that separates me from the mainland is deceptively serene, betraying no hint of the deadly current just beneath the surface. As the sun shifts, I must move around the tower if I want to remain in the shade. How much longer can I last like this? A day. Two at the most. I escaped drowning only to dehydrate and die like the goat on this inhospitable rock. The wild urge seizes me to leap up and down to draw attention from someone at the resort. I immediately strike the notion from my mind. No one from the resort will sail to rescue me. At best, they will ignore me and leave me to a slow death. At worse, Conner will sail out and finish me off.

The sun sinks lower as the day wears on. I roam the isle again, more to occupy myself rather than any expectation I might find something useful to me. On a rock jutting out into the crashing waves, something shiny catches my eye. I scramble towards it. It is a dead fish, the silvery scales gleaming in the sunlight. Not much of the fish remains. Telltale white feathers and a sun baked, white streak of shit attest to the fact that a seagull found the fish before I did. Flies buzz upon the exposed bones.

Nearly delirious with hunger, I drop to my knees and do what a week before would have been unthinkable. I swish the flies away, pick up the dead fish and, ignoring the fetid smell, peel the skin from the bones. The skin flakes and crackles. I shove the skin into my mouth. Scales scrape my tongue. Fighting the urge to gag, I chew and struggle to swallow it down. The second it touches the back of my throat, my stomach heaves. I hunch over and spit it all out.

I collapse upon the rocks, my breathing shallow, my hands tracing the outline of my ribs. Dry sobs wrack my body. I roll over on the rock and stare into the sea. The white stern of Dawson Hartford’s wreck glows ghost-like under the turquoise waves on the side of the isle. The boat is approximately fifteen feet under. Crawling unsteadily back to my feet, I creep onto the rocks that ring the island. There are gaps in the rocks and the tide surges between them, bursting forth in geysers of white foam, drenching me. I wipe the water from my eyes and see part of the deck and the door behind the captain’s wheel that leads to the sleeping quarters. Perhaps there is canned food on the wreck. The open doorway leading below deck is forebodingly dark. A quick recollection of the ship layout proves I have the exact opposite of a photographic memory. Regardless of the risk that I will swim inside the wreck for nothing, exhausting what little strength I still have, there is no other choice.

Not wanting to lose another minute of daylight, I wade into the water between the rocks and dive for the wreck. The boat lies on its side. I grab hold of the captain’s wheel to propel myself through the doorway. My sudden entrance startles a school of fish hiding within. Because I have no goggles, everything is blurry. I open the nearest cabinet, my hands wandering everywhere since the visibility is so poor. It is empty. Aching for breath, I race for the surface. Growing weaker by the second, I dive again, proceeding farther than before. I open a partially closed closet and let loose a surprised burst of bubbles when a massive, purple moray eel slithers out. As I freeze, the eel—mouth agape and lined with fangs—snakes around my leg and up my torso. Done inspecting me, it swims off. The closet is too dark to reveal its contents, so I risk thrusting my hands in, praying another moray eel does not lurk within. I grab what feels like a steel can, and something rubbery and race to the surface for air.

I hold the can up to see what it is. Peaches, in heavy syrup, no less! My heart does a somersault. The other object I hold might be just as valuable in a different way: a single, black flipper. Quickly, I stash my prizes on Goat Island and hurry back to the sunken wreck. Rummaging blindly in the same dark closet, I grab what feels like the other flipper and a bulky object in bright orange. The object turns out to be a life vest. Back on the isle, I am so elated that I sit before my haul, rocking back and forth like a lunatic. With the assistance of a rock, I bash the can open, devour the peaches and slurp every ounce of the sweet, gooey syrup. The sugar rush refuels my flagging energy. I try the flippers on and stifle a thankful sob when they fit perfectly. I strap on the life vest and appraise the distance between Goat Island and the mainland.

The flippers and life vest should allow me to swim against the treacherous current. In another hour, the sun will be gone. Preferring to swim while I can still see, I leave at once.

I make landfall on Isla Fin de la Tierra just as night descends. I land on the opposite side of the mountainous ridge that encircles the resort. My heart aches with the knowledge that Gwen is on the other side of the ridge and I cannot immediately rush to her. Unlike the soft white sand on the resort beach, this side of the ridge has a coastline of slick, jagged rocks that lead to a wilderness of sharp edged grasses and scraggly trees. I stash my swimming gear and try to find a path away from the sea. Finding none, I push my way forth, but the tough terrain and darkness make progress too difficult to get very far. Complicating matters further, my injured calf throbs. I curl on the hard dirt at the base of a tree and sleep.

It is amazing how deeply I can sleep on hard soil with mosquitoes buzzing about when I am thoroughly exhausted. I awake at dawn, covered in bug bites and dusted with dirt and twigs. The jellyfish marks are no longer puffy and only the palest pink now, and my calf does not throb with every step, though I dare not put much pressure on it for long. I head inland, eventually finding a cracked and pitted road. A cacophony of birds fills the air. I cannot see them; a hedgerow separates us, but I can hear their excited calls and the dry rustling of their wings. I push through the hedge and hundreds of birds scatter. There are so many birds, flying in every direction that I cannot see for a moment. The birds clear away, and I realize what drew them all to this spot: a dead body. The bloody, shredded remnant of a garish tropical print shirt tells me this is Curtis’s body. Nelson is nowhere in sight. I pray he got away. I cover my mouth and gag. I assume Curtis is face up. I cannot be certain for his face is gone. Disemboweled, scraps of his innards litter the landscape. Dogs. I back away from the corpse, scanning for any sign of the loathsome hounds. I do not see the dogs, but they probably are not far from their kill. Remaining in the open countryside is far too dangerous. A two story dwelling sits atop a small hill about two hundred yards away. No doubt, Curtis tried to make it to the dwelling but could not outrun the pack.

The dwelling is too sturdy to classify as a shack, yet too derelict to classify as a house. I hobble over to the side door of the dwelling, making as little noise as possible. To my relief, the door is unlocked. The dusty wood floor of the dwelling creaks with every step. The interior reveals a large eat-in-kitchen. I slide the simple but sturdy rectangular table to the door to block it from opening. Cupboards and a chipped counter top line the outside wall. A manual water pump, like something from out of the Old West, stands next to the sink. A dusty, multi-paned window is over the sink. Looking out the window, I see a table set directly beneath the window outside the home, and beyond that a rusted car on cinderblocks, but no dogs. I work the pump. To my great joy, water pours out of the opening. I stick my face under it, mouth open, gulping the water down to the point that my belly starts to cramp.

Next, I turn my attention to scavenging food. The nearest cabinets hold plates and cups, but nothing edible. The owner of the house most likely did not live on the island, for the refrigerator is almost empty, and anything inside spoiled not long after the power went. There is a closet at the back of the room beneath the steps leading to the second floor. I open the closet and tumble to the floor as Nelson falls from the closet into my arms.

“Nelson!”

Several bite wounds mark Nelson’s arms and legs. I can tell from the brown, crusty blood that the wounds are old and likely not fatal, though he does appear to be in shock.

“Curtis, Curtis,” he gasps, eyes feverish and distant. “I tried to save him.”

I help him to his feet and he slumps onto a wooden chair

“Where are the dogs now?” I check him for further injuries and find none.

Dazed, Nelson does not answer me, so I shake him and call his name.

“The dogs? I don’t know,” he finally responds, his voice hoarse and frail. “They were everywhere. We ran. They got Curtis. I tried to beat them off. He kept screaming for me…”

Nelson closes his eyes and a shuddering sob hunches him over. Dirt and dried blood cakes a cut above his eye.

“Here, let me clean that cut,” I grab a dishrag lying on the counter and soak it with water from the sink.

I hear a deep growl and look up. The leader of the dog pack is right in front of me, face to face, standing atop the table on the other side of the kitchen window. I am close enough to see strands of saliva drip from its glistening fangs. Before I can react, the hound shatters the window and lunges for my throat.

Chapter Nineteen

Instinctively, as I fall to the floor I bring my hands up to protect my neck and thrust the thick, wet dishrag into the animal’s snapping jaws. In a blur of movement, the rest of the pack clambers onto the outside table and tries to follow the lead dog.

“The window!” I shout to Nelson.

Grabbing the nearest object—the chair on which he sat—Nelson jams it in the window frame, trying to keep the rest of the pack at bay like a lion tamer wielding a stool. I hit the floor, the ravenous beast atop me, and tuck my legs under it and kick it to the side. In a flash, the hound attacks again before I regain my feet. It catches me in my left buttock. I yelp in pain and grab a ceramic lamp from a nearby table. Turning, I smash the lamp over the hound’s spine. It has no effect. The hound releases my buttock and aims once more for my throat. Everything is a blur of snapping jaws and furious motion. Nelson yells something unintelligible. I hear what sounds like a thousand snarling dogs, and feel the hot breath and spittle of the hound on my face. I cry out. Wrestling the hound from my neck, it bites my shoulder, instead. If I lose my hold on the dog, I will die. I snaked the electric cord from the shattered lamp around the hound’s thick neck. I roll from beneath the hound, but instead of trying to escape, I immediately return and grapple the beast from behind. It snaps at my face, and I pull back on the cord, like a cowboy yanking the reins on a horse. The hound whips back and forth, snapping furiously, trying desperately to free itself as the cord clamps tight on its throat.

I lean back, digging my knees into the animal’s spine, using all of my weight to tighten the noose. “Die… you… mother… fucker!”

A hacking cough, and then a rattling gurgle emit from the hound. The head drops—the tongue lolls out. I realize I have not been breathing, and with a gasp, I laugh triumphantly. I grab the rolls of skin on the back of the dog’s neck, lift its head up, and slam it down.

“Help!” Nelson struggles to keep the other dogs from entering the kitchen.

I grab the square end table and jam it into the window frame, wedging it tight. The snouts and snapping jaws of the other dogs poke around the sides of the small table, but they cannot break through. The rest of the pack lacks the determination of their fallen leader. Realizing they cannot enter the kitchen via the window, they retreat, howling and barking.

I climb off the dog. Nelson kicks it, shrieking “Ha!”

I peer around the table wedged in the window. “They’ve encircled the building.”

“My God, your back,” Nelson exclaims.

I touch my backside and my hand comes back covered with blood. I feel faint. Nelson steadies me.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly. Drop your pants,” Nelson says.

I manage a woozy smile. “This is hardly the time or place.”

Nelson unbuckles my shorts and drop them down. The grimace on his face alarms me.

“What? How bad is it?” I demand.

“Let me get a wet cloth,” he says. “It’s hard to tell with so much blood.”

Nelson finds a clean washcloth and wets it with pump water. He dabs at my wounded buttock. To try to distract me from the pain he quips, “And here I was thinking I’d never have a young man’s ass in my face again.”

Nelson presses a dry cloth against my rear. “Here. Hold this in place. The good news is the punctures are not that deep. The bad news is you’ll probably have a scar. I’m afraid your career as a butt double in movies is over. My biggest concern is infection.”

He rummages through the lower cabinets.

“Aha,” he exclaims, and holds up a large bottle of light rum. “It seems a shame to waste this on your rear end, but this is 100 proof. We’ll use it to disinfect the wound. I’m not going to lie to you; this will probably hurt a little bit.”

He pours the rum on my injury. The pain is so sharp that I grip the counter and hiss through clenched teeth.

He reapplies the dry cloth to my wound. “That should do the trick. While I’m at it, let me put some on that hole on your leg. How’d you get that anyway?”

“Sea urchin.”

He dabs rum on the calf wound and offers me a swig from the bottle.

I pull up my pants and shake my head, declining the rum. “Not on an empty stomach. Let’s find some food.”

In the same cabinet where Nelson found the rum we discover cans of chili, boxes of dried cereal, and jars of jelly. We devour it all, mixing it into a horrendous new recipe and scooping it into our maws with our hands. I finish eating and take a deep gulp of the rum. All the while, the wild dogs outside serenade us with frenzied barking.

“How are we going to get out of here?” Nelson asks.

I stare at the dog carcass on the floor. “Help me carry that upstairs.”

I grab the thick folds of skin on the dead dog’s neck and Nelson lifts the back end.

“Now I know what they mean by the term ‘dead weight’,” Nelson grunts as we struggle to lift the dog.

Upstairs there are two small, sparsely furnished bedrooms. The room ceilings angle with the steep pitch of the roof. Before I entered the dwelling, I noticed a small upper balcony. Now, I open the window and climb onto it. Instantly, the encircling pack regroups beneath me. Oddly, even as they bark and pace back and forth, many of the dogs wag their tails, as though they cannot decide if they want to play or maul somebody.

I turn to Nelson. “It seems without their leader they don’t know what to do.”

I drag the dead dog over the windowsill and heave it onto the balcony railing. The moment the pack sees their leader they freeze, watching us with tense expectation. I clench my first and beat the dead dog’s ribs, shouting with each blow.

Pointing at the pack below, I holler, “Your leader is dead! I killed him, and I’ll do the same to you.”

I push the carcass off the balcony and it lands with a thud on the dusty, hard packed ground. Three of the dogs bolt fifty yards away, stopping to look back with their tails between their legs. Other dogs tentatively sniff the body of their fallen leader. The stunned silence from the pack is in stark contrast to their previous frenetic barks and growls. They look back up at me and I refuse to break eye contact, staring them down until each one of them looks away.

I climb back into the bedroom. “I believe I got my point across.”

We slide the table from the entrance and venture outside. Half the dogs have vanished, while the remainders keep a wary distance from us, heads bowed, tails between their legs.

“They seem almost tame without the lead dog,” Nelson notes.

I nod in agreement, and then pat the kitchen knife I tucked in the belt loop of my pants. “I’m glad we have this, all the same.”

There is a small, rusted shed not far from the main building. The sliding doors grate loudly as we push them open. The shed contains numerous useful items such as a gas canister filled with gasoline, a long spool of thick, nylon rope, pick axes, saws, hammers and other tools. We find a shovel and a pitchfork and begin digging a grave for Curtis. I am injured; Nelson is old; the noon sun blazes above. Those three facts slow, but do not halt, our progress. As we dig, we relay what happened to one another after Conner banished Nelson from the resort. Nelson explains how he wandered with Curtis; staying off the paved roads for fear that Action and his thugs would see them. As night fell, they spotted the home we are now in, but as they approached the building, the dogs attacked. I tell Nelson of Conner’s attempt to kill me, how I fled into the sea, landed on Goat Island and swam back.

Nelson shakes his head in disgust. “Conner is insane. Curtis would still be alive if it weren’t for him.”

“I have to go back there.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Not if he doesn’t know I’m there. I can’t leave Gwen. I’ll sneak her out. We can stay here, in this home. It’s got access to fresh water and we can figure out how to grow our own food. This island has tropical fruit farms. If we work with the islanders, we can maintain them. Between fish from the sea and crops that we grow we will have enough food to survive.”

Nelson pauses from digging to catch his breath and consider my proposal.

“It could work, but what about the thugs?” Nelson asks. “They don’t want to work with us. They want to kill us.”

I lean on my shovel and with the back of my hand wipe a trickle of sweat from my eye. I wish I had an answer to Nelson’s question, but I have none. He is right. There is no chance of forming a community with the islanders as long as Action and his thugs run amok. The dwelling could protect us from the dogs should they decide to attack again, but it would not keep the thugs out. The safest place from Action and his men is the resort, and Conner ensures the resort is not safe at all.

I take an old sheet from the dwelling to throw over Curtis’s remains to spare Nelson from the gruesome sight. After a day in the heat, covered in flies, the putrid smell nearly makes me wretch. Dragging Curtis’s body to the grave is awful, grisly work—the kind of thing that causes someone to involuntarily shudder later on when they think about it. Gently placing him in the grave is impossible—he is too heavy—so we unceremoniously drop him in. Nelson looks traumatized by the crude treatment of his beloved.

“Sorry,” I say, and then grab the shovel to cover the body with dirt.

Afterwards, in the rusted shed, I loop the nylon rope from the shed around my shoulder.

“I can use this to lower myself over the cliff surrounding the resort,” I explain in response to Nelson’s questioning stare.

Skeptical, he says, “You don’t strike me as the mountain climbing type.”

“There’s no other way—not if I want to rescue Gwen. The night patrol will catch me if I try to swim across the lagoon, and because of the treacherous sea current, swimming along the coast and sneaking onto the resort via the beach is not an option. Lowering myself down the side of the cliff could work because they won’t expect it. They won’t see me after the sun goes down, and I can descend to the nature preserve.”

Nelson appears unconvinced. “Getting out of the resort will be much harder than getting in. I don’t see Gwen being able to climb up the side of a cliff.”

“I’ll climb ahead of her and pull her up on the rope,” I say with rising irritation, annoyed that Nelson finds flaws in my plan. “It’s a chance I have to take.”

“And how’s your backside?”

“Scabbing over nicely. Will you be here when we return?”

Nelson gives a mournful nod. “This is where Curtis is. I’m not going to leave him. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I reply and head off to rescue my wife.

Sunset is still a few hours away, so I am in no hurry as I walk along the road to the resort. Around the bend, I hear men talking—coming my way. I hide amidst the scraggly shrubs and tall grass along the roadside. Two tall island men walk past me, shirtless, their dark skin shining with perspiration. Gleaming machetes dangle from their belts.

“I get de tall skinny one,” one of the men says to the other.

“Which one is dat?”

“De one wit de long brown hair,” his comrade, who I recognize as Owen, replies. “Remembuh, I pointed her to you when she first arrived. De one wit de husband wit de blonde hair.”

They must be talking about Alexandra, not knowing she is dead.

The other man chortles. “I cannot wait for de night to come.”

Tonight? What do they mean? Discreetly, I follow them through the shrubbery to find out. The road forks and the men follow the branch leading to the sea. I stay far enough way to prevent the men from hearing my footsteps, but close enough so that the men are always in my sight. The land slopes as we reach the sea. The road ends at a boathouse and a bus sized wooden sailboat moored to a dock. Scores of thugs mill about the scene, all of them armed and seeming to have no purpose other than to kill time. Action strolls into view on the deck of the sailboat. This is no sleek rich man’s toy. It is a working boat with obvious signs of wear.

It appears the entire gang of thugs is here. I spot the two young women from the other destroyed resort, Piper and Willow, who shared my plane to Isla Fin de la Tierra. They sit in their bra and panties on the ground, back to back, their wrists bound together with rope. Even from afar, I see how bedraggled and forlorn they are. Two of the marauders hoist one of the young women to her feet. Head bowed in defeat, she makes no effort to resist as they lead her out of sight to the back of the boathouse.

Those poor women. The thugs must have been raping them for weeks, sparing their lives only to keep them as compliant sex slaves. That is exactly what they will do to Gwen, given the chance. Now I know what the thugs are waiting for: nightfall. They plan to use the sailboat to attack the resort from the sea, which is the one direction Conner would least expect. No doubt, Action’s familiarity with the ocean has him aware of the treacherous currents just off shore. Action would know that swimming to the resort for a surprise night attack is impossible. However, sailing a boat into the resort bay is a clever way to circumvent the problem with the currents. There is no way the resort could withstand an assault from the sea. Everyone would die, save for the unlucky few, like my Gwen, who would suffer a fate worse than death.

I think of my wife, on the other side of the ridge, unsuspecting what horror is about to unfold. I must stop this attack.

Back at the house where I took refuge from the dogs, I rummage in the rusted shed.

“You’re back?” Nelson enters the shed.

“Action and his men are about a mile from here.”

The blood drains from Nelson’s face. “We’ve got to hide!”

“Relax,” I take the gasoline canister and empty some of the contents into an empty, flask-shaped glass bottle. “They found a sailboat and they’re waiting till dark to sail around the cape and attack the resort from the sea.”

“The resort will be wiped out,” Nelson exclaims. “As much as I’d like to see Conner gutted like a fish, we need to warn them.”

Using the dirt encrusted edge of a spade I carve a section of foam from inside the orange life vest I retrieved on my way back to the house. After some minor alterations, the glass bottle filled with gasoline fits snugly inside the vest.

I turn to Nelson. “First, it’s doubtful if we warn the resort that they’d even believe us. If they tried to face the marauders on the beach, they’d be overrun. The best option for them is to evacuate, and where would that leave them? Wandering the island? Vulnerable to attacks from Action? No, Gwen and the others will never be safe so long as Action and his men roam the island.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“You’re going to stay here. I’ll try to stop the thugs,” I step outside to gauge how much time I have left before sunset. “We can’t outfight Action and his men, but I might be able to outsmart them. If I’m not back by tomorrow, it will mean I failed and I’m probably dead and you should try to hide as best you can.”

I bid him farewell and set off to confront Action.

Bold and purposeful, I walk towards the boathouse and all the thugs gathered there. Astounded or bemused, they stop whatever they are doing and watch my approach. I am barefoot and shirtless, with the black, rubber flippers that aided my escape from Goat Island dangling from a string at my waist. I carry the orange life vest in a sack. My legs are rubbery. I am about to hyperventilate, but it is too late to turn back now. Some of the thugs snigger and point at me. Three tall men saunter towards me.

I take a shuddering breath so that my voice will not squeak. “I want to see Acti—.”

Owen punches me in the side of the head. The world goes white like a camera flash in my eyes, and the asphalt rushes towards me. I am falling. Hands grab me just before I hit the ground. Through the fog in my head comes the sound of harsh, cruel laughter. The men drag me down the road, scraping the top of my feet on the asphalt.

“I want to see Action!” I manage to yell, though my words sound slurred.

The mental fog clears. I struggle but the men on both sides hold my arms in a vice grip. Lifting my head, I see other thugs forming a half circle before me. I repeat my demand to see Action, but no one listens to me. Someone shoves me to the ground. On my knees, they pull my hands behind my back, forcing my head forward and exposing my neck. Owen steps forth twirling a machete. It spins like a fan. Light glints off the blade.

I am a fool. My big plan is a complete failure. Facing my imminent decapitation, my mind races for someone to come forth and save me. Please, do not let me die like this! The man stops in front of me and raises the machete.

Chapter Twenty

“I know where they hid the liquor!” I shout.

I shut my eyes tight, tensing against that awful chop and the few seconds of horror I expect to follow as my head rolls, and I am still aware to what has happened. Hot urine floods the front of my shorts as I involuntarily piss myself.

It was not supposed to end like this. For once in my life, instead of shrinking from adversity, I tried to be brave. Some people are just not cut out to be the hero.

The blow does not come. I dare to open my eyes and see four legs standing before me instead of two. I look up. Action grips Owen’s wrist, staying the blade from descending.

“What dat, you say?” Action demands.

“The… the liquor,” I stammer. “Conner… the big man with the axe… he controls the resort and hid all the liquor. I know where he hid it.”

Action nods to the men holding me down, and they raise me to my feet.

Action takes a knife, presses it to my throat, and leans in close enough for me to smell his sour breath. “Where is de liquor?”

“I won’t tell you,” I swallow hard. “But I will show you. You are attacking tonight, yes?”

Action does not answer. Everything I said is a lie. Conner never hid the liquor; it remains locked in the supply room. Conner has the only key. When Action and his thugs overrun the resort and break into the supply room, they will realize this right away. His baleful stare scrutinizes my face for any sign of trickery.

Fearful that something in my silence will reveal my bluff, I press on. “Conner took my wife from me and drove me from the resort. I want to see him dead as much as you do. Take me with you when you sail tonight. I will show you where Conner hid the liquor. Without me, you could search the resort for days and not find it. In return, you will not harm me or my wife. You will let us go. I don’t care what you do to the others at the resort, but you will not touch my wife.”

The remaining captive young woman glares at me, disgusted by my craven treachery. I turn away from her.

“He lyin’,” Owen says.

I shake my head. “Bring me along when you sail. If I am lying, you can kill me at the resort as easily as you can kill me here. You have nothing to lose.”

I glance at the other thugs. They gathered to watch a man’s head roll and they do not want to be disappointed, but Action weighs my words and removes the blade from my throat.

“For de liquor, we let you live,” he says.

“And my wife, too,” I insist.

Action gives me a nonchalant nod. His assurance of our safety is worthless. Just as I lie to him, I know he lies to me. As far as Action is concerned, I am as good as dead—whether it is now or later tonight is irrelevant.

“He comes wit us,” Action announces. “But first, dunk him in de sea. I don wan him pissin’ up de boat.”

The thugs hoot and clap as two men drag me to the dock that runs alongside the ship and hold me under the water, nearly drowning me in the process of rinsing the urine off me. Finished with their sport, they haul me to the boat but I resist.

“Wait!” I pull back, and point to the bag I dropped on the road when the men struck me. “I need my life preserver in the bag.”

Action crosses his arms, clearly losing patience.

“I can’t swim,” I lie, praying Action did not see me snorkeling around the resort prior to the E.M.P. blast. “This boat is too deep to sail right to shore. You’ll have to anchor off the reef and swim the rest of the way to the resort. Without that vest I won’t be able to come with you.”

Action considers my words.

“Which means I won’t be able to show you where the liquor is,” I seal the deal.

Action tosses the vest to one of his men who toss it to me. Clutching the vest, with my flippers still tied to my waist, I huddle on the bow of the deck and wait for nightfall.

Night comes with a new moon. Thousands of stars sparkle in the sky like crushed glass sprinkled on black velvet. Still damp from my dousing, I don the life vest—both for added warmth and to ensure I will not part from it again. One of the thugs lights a lantern. Anxiously, I wait to see if the two captive women will join us on the boat. To my relief, a man stays behind to guard them. Every member of the gang—save the one left behind to guard the sex slaves—crams onboard. Action sits across from me, our knees close enough to touch. No one speaks to me. Packing tightly together, arm to arm and leg to leg, I smell the stale sweat from their unwashed bodies.

The thugs lift anchor and unfurl the sails on the creaking vessel. Slowly, we gather speed and cruise into open water. I peer over the railing, gauging our distance from land and how much time I have left to enact my plan. Other than the sound of the water slapping against the hull and the occasional flutter of the sails, there is no other sound. My heart beats faster. I gulp air, trying to steady my nerves. We approach the halfway point between the mainland and Goat Island. Soon, we will round the cape that separates the resort from the rest of the coastline. I have to act now.

“I have to piss,” I stand up, preparing to walk to the bow in the hopes I can be alone.

Action shoves me back down. “You already did dat in your pants.”

The rest of the gang laughs.

“Hey, Action, did you ever see his woman?” Owen asks.

“She de one with de tight ass, right?”

“Aye, she de one,” Owen nods.

Action chuckles knowingly. “I remember dat one. I remember dat one well.”

My face grows hot. I look at the floor.

Action taps me on the head. “You say the Yankee man wants your woman. Whatcha tink he is doin’ to her right now? I bet I know,” Action leaps up and, with his hands in the air grabbing what are meant to be my wife’s ankles, thrust his hips obscenely. In a high pitched voice he coos, “Oh, dat’s it, Yankee man. Give it to me. Harder! Harder!”

Owen and the rest of the thugs convulse with hooting laughter. With my jaw clenched in silent fury, I glare at Action. Seeing my rage, Action’s smile slides away. He sits across from me once again. Sensing the tension, the others quiet down.

“Hey, tough guy, why didn’t you kill de Yankee man when you had de chance?” Action asks.

I swallow hard. “I should have.”

“You should have,” Action repeats and nods his head. “But you didn’t. “You tink I don’t know you. You were at de Jacuzzi. I remember. You scorned me.”

“No I didn—”

“Don bother lyin’, mon. I seen it in your eyes,” Action continues. “Maybe you thought you were better than Action. Not better than me now, are you? No, not now when you need me to get your woman back. You thought Action was your enemy and Yankee man was your friend. Now maybe you tink different. Maybe now you see de true lay of de land. Listen and understand me now. It is not white person or black person, islander or visitor. It is who has this,” he holds up a machete. “And what you’re willing to do with it.”

One of the men working the sails tells Action they are about to round the cape into the bay. Before I can blink, Action nods to the men around me—a signal they must have worked out in advance—and the men seize me.

“What are you do—” I try to holler, but one of the men clamps a hand over my mouth. They lift me off my feet and pass me along the side of the boat and below the deck. Light from the lantern swings erratically, allowing me only a brief glimpse of where they are taking me. I see the cramped quarters of a fisherman’s boat: counter tops, navigation charts, and non-working electric equipment. They open a narrow closet—not much bigger than a telephone booth—and shove me inside.

“Let me out!” I kick the door, but there is hardly enough room to lift my leg.

“You come out after we take de resort,” one of the men says.

Groping about blindly in the darkness, I feel wires and bits of insulation. I open the life vest, pull out the bottle of gasoline, and flick the lighter hidden inside the vest so that I can see. Fittingly for my predicament, the closet is as narrow and dark as the interior of a coffin.

My plan is simple: Get on the boat, sail it to the point where the current is strongest, and use my gasoline and lighter to set the boat on fire. Of the murdering thugs, those not burned in the fire will leap into the sea. The deadly current will sweep them away to Goat Island where they will starve to death, unable to swim back to the mainland, or the current will pull them past Goat Island to drown far out in the ocean. As for me, using the flippers and vest, I will swim back to the mainland as I had before. In one shot, I will wipe out the thugs, save the resort and protect Gwen. Up to this point, my plan worked perfectly, and it still can… if I am willing to sacrifice myself.

I start to hyperventilate, horrified at the choice that fate leads me to. Time! Time! I wish for more time, but there is none. Every second that passes brings us closer to the resort. Soon we will sail inside the bay, safely beyond the pull of the current. No matter what, I am a dead man, but if I set the boat aflame now my death will not be in vain. I want to be brave, head high in the face of death, but I cannot. I start to weep.

Gwen. I will never see her face again. She does love me, and she does want to be with me, above all others. I know that now. She proved that the night Conner drove me from the resort. Conner—so masculine and strong—offers her food and protection, but still she chose me. Gwen will never know what really happened to me. She will never know I died trying to protect her.

I yank one of the dangling wires out of the wall and fasten it around the doorknob so that no one will be able to open the door and extinguish the fire until it is beyond control. Fighting back the tears, I wear a rueful smile, realizing Action unwittingly put me in the best spot on the boat to enact my plan. The old wood and insulation that surround me will act as excellent tinder for the fire.

I pour the gasoline around the closet, grip the lighter in my trembling hand and pray that I will swiftly lose consciousness as the flames engulf me.

Chapter Twenty-One

In the pitch black of the closet, I give myself a moment for any last thoughts and as I do so, I press my back against the wall. The wall buckles behind me. That is odd. It is difficult to turn in the narrow closet, but I face the back wall and press on it. It is no more than thin plywood wedged in place. I rip it from the wall and feel what must be a layer of insulation. I tear it and put my hand into the opening, expecting to feel a hard wall, but instead I feel… nothing. Air. Open space. I tear the remaining insulation away and shine the lighter inside the opening. It is a crawl space running the length of the deck to the bow. The crawl space is exceedingly narrow, but I see right away that I am slender enough to squeeze into it. Does it even lead anywhere? For all I know it could take me to a dead end. There is only one way to find out.

I touch the open flame from the lighter to the closet wall. Whoosh, the flames spring to life, nearly singeing my eyebrows off. The heat is ferocious. I wriggle blindly into the crawl space, pushing the life vest before me. The clatter I make is horrendous, but there is no need for stealth. I hear shouts and sudden stamping feet above me. The thugs focus on the sudden fire raging below deck, ignoring the scuttling sound of my movement beneath their feet. Above the roar of the flames, I hear men pounding on the closet door, but they cannot open it and the fire spreads. Smoke pours into the crawl space. I look back to what appears to be an open furnace, flames curling into the opening near my feet. Moving in the tight space is hard. I wriggle like a worm. The shouts grow louder as the smoke thickens. Coughing furiously, I reach a wall and can go no further. I must get out of here. Holding my breath, my hands roam everywhere until I feel what seems like a hatch above my head. It will not open. I pound on it, once, twice and finally it flies open. Fresh air blasts my face, which I inhale greedily as I climb out of the crawl space and emerge at the bow.

A column of smoke, flecked with curling wisps of fire and red sparks, rises from below deck. The sparks dust the sails, smolder on the white fabric, and then catch fire. The thugs—having packed the boat in unsafe numbers—have nowhere to go in their haste to flee. They tumble over the rails into the ocean. The inferno casts a blood red glow upon the sea. Many men bob in the water, shouting to their comrades. Amidst the panic and commotion, I don the life vest and begin to untie the flippers from my belt.

“You!” Action points at me. He launches himself over the heads of his terrified gang, knocking several into the sea.

He crashes into me, knocking me down before I can dive overboard.

“I fuckin’ kill you,” he punches my face, but I tilt to the side and only catch a glancing blow.

His hands wrap around my throat, squeezing tight. My feet tuck underneath him, and with all my strength, I kick back, sending him flying. Before he regains his balance I strike him in the jaw, once, twice, and he reels. He stumbles back and crashes against the fire-weakened wall, and it splinters from his weight, collapsing behind him. With an expression frozen in panic, Action falls backward into the inferno, screaming and reaching for me as the flames swallow him.

The stern is a massive fireball now, blowing smoke and debris into my face. Clutching the flippers, I leap into the sea and hurriedly put them on. Some of the men in the water spot me and swim towards me, but with the flippers and life vest, I easily elude them. Those who survived the fire paddle helplessly, struggling in vain against the current. I swim for the mainland and leave them to their fate.

I reach the mainland at the same spot as before, and head straight for Nelson. The door to the house will not open. He must have propped the table against it. I knock.

“Is that you, Phillip?” Nelson practically yelps.

“Yeah, I’m back.”

I hear the table slide across the floor and the door opens. The light of a small votive candle falls on me.

“What happened?”

“Action and his men are all dead,” I step inside. “I killed them all. If they haven’t drowned or starved yet they soon will.”

I detail exactly how I disposed of the gang. Nelson listens in astonishment.

“Phillip! You’re amazing,” he embraces me. “In one stroke you eliminated the worst bunch of murderers on the island.”

I nod with pride. “Exactly. And you know what this means? No more skulking about in terror. We have to meet with the remaining islanders. They’ve probably been as afraid of Action’s gang as we were. Now we can work together, grow crops, work the seas, and survive. First thing tomorrow morning we’ll walk into town and explain to the remaining islanders what has happened. I can’t stay here tonight, though. I’ve got to get Gwen out of the resort, but first, there’s something I need your help with.”

Nelson agrees to accompany me back to the boathouse, though not without some trepidation. A lantern glows within the boathouse. I creep towards it and see the two young women lying together on a crude cot in their filthy bra and panties. Their sole guardian lounges in a nearby chair with a machete in his lap. I linger around the side of the boathouse and motion for Nelson to perform his part of my plan.

“Hello? Is anyone inside?” Nelson loudly calls and steps into the open space.

I hear movement within and motion for Nelson to repeat himself. The door opens and the lone thug steps out.

“Uh, hi,” Nelson stands his ground, forcing the man to come to him.

As the thug approaches Nelson—machete in hand—I creep behind him. The thug hears my steps and turns to confront me, but by then I am already upon him. I smash a rock to the side of his head and he crumples to the ground.

Nelson claps his hands and leaps into the air. “We did it! My God, we really did it!”

I nudge the fallen man with my foot; he is out cold.

“Let’s get a rope to tie him up,” I advise.

I turn to see the two bedraggled women standing in the doorway, saying nothing, absorbing the scene. Hand-in-hand, they slowly walk over, their faces drained off emotion, as lifeless as rag dolls.

“You’re safe now,” I say to them. “We’re going to tie him up.”

They ignore me as if I am not there. One of the women, drops to her knees, picks up the rock I used in my attack and slams it down on the thug’s face. I jump back in shock, as the woman slams the rock repeatedly, shrieking in rage, pulverizing his skull to a bloody pulp. The other woman watches dispassionately, hardly blinking.

Finally, the woman drops the rock. Her chests heaves from the sudden rage that overwhelmed her and her breath comes in ragged pants. I help her to her feet.

Nelson whispers in my ear, “I guess we won’t need to tie him up after all.”

We lead the young women to the home where we buried Curtis. Nelson hovers about them like a nervous mother, wiping their dirty faces with a wet cloth, wrapping them in blankets and hastily creating a meal for them. Assured they will be well looked after, I head to the shed.

Nelson joins me there.

“You think they’ll be ok?” He asks.

I place the rope around my shoulders. “They’ve got to be. I’m off to get my wife.”

“Good luck,” he shakes my hand.

“I’ll be back before dawn,” I reply, surprised by my own confidence.

It is after midnight. The climb up the backside of the cliff is gradual and made easier by well-worn goat paths leading to the top. Along with the rope coiled around my shoulder, I carry a lantern to see and a hatchet tucked in my pants. I look across the bay to where I last saw the burning sailboat, but nothing remains but black, endless sea. The fact that I—scrawny Phillip Crane—single handedly eliminated a small army of murderous thugs, still amazes me. I clench my jaw and re-focus on the task. Near the top of the cliff, I extinguish the lantern so that no one patrolling the resort will see the light. Proceeding without the lantern, however, is extremely dangerous. Without a moon in the sky, the stars yield hardly any light to help me see where I am walking. On the other hand, the added darkness will undoubtedly help me sneak into the resort. I move with extreme caution, grabbing hold of every scraggly bush or tree I can. Flat on my belly, I peer over the edge of the cliff down on the resort. From this vantage everything looks like a miniature set. Tiny spots of light indicate where torches burn. A few of the spots of light move from time to time. That would probably be Bob and Dean on their nightly patrol.

I tie one end of the rope around the base of a tree and tug on it several times to ensure it will support my weight and that the knot in the rope will hold. Lying flat on my belly, I inch to the edge. It is not a sheer drop, but rather an uneven precipice, with rocks and trees that jut into the void, and parts where the cliff pulls back like a man sucking in his gut. Gingerly, I turn around and crawl backwards down the cliff face, clinging to every tree, shrub, or stone along the way. Shirtless, sweat covers me. I cannot tell if it is from the strain of my exertion or my terror of falling. I uncoil the rope and climb down another few feet, dangling freely in the air for the first time. Taking a deep breath, I continue on, hand over hand, clinging to the cliff face when I can and hanging from the rope the rest of the time. Progress is slow and arduous. My hands ache. I reach a tree protruding from the cliff face. The tree trunk curves upward to catch the sun. The tree roots form a gnarled web fastening it to this precarious perch. I balance on the tree trunk, testing it first to ensure it will hold me, and gauge how far I descended. There is still so far to go. I am not even halfway down. I rest for a few minutes, and then resume the descent. I squint at my watch. An hour has gone by. This is taking much longer than I expected. Considering how difficult it is to descend the cliff, will I be able to climb back up? Furthermore, will Gwen be able to? I have serious doubts. What to do?

I am not turning back. Not now. Not with Gwen within shouting distance. I keep going until I come, quite literally, to the end of my rope. Dropping to the ground is out of the question. I am still at least forty feet off the ground. Fuck. What now? The cliff face draws away from me. I dangle in midair. The only way down (besides simply dropping to my death) is to climb down the remaining section of the cliff without the security of the rope. I reach for some of the shrubbery jutting out from the side of the cliff. It is too far. Grunting with effort, I spin aimlessly in space. My heart spasms at the thought that at any second the rope will snap. When the spinning subsides, I swing myself like a pendulum towards the face of the cliff. On several passes, I grab for whatever few shrubs and grasses grow from the cliff, but I cannot grip anything and swing back away. Finally, I grab the base of a shrub and hug the cliff face, breathing heavily.

Now I attempt to untie the rope from my waist, but as I do so, the shrub I hold onto suddenly tears free. I swing wildly from the cliff face, while the shrub and a torrent of dirt and stones, falls into the nature preserve below.

Petrified by how close I came to falling, I swing back and forth, arms flailing.

“Over here!” Someone yells. I recognize the voice as Dean’s.

I freeze above the canopy of trees and watch two torches weave through the nature preserve, coming my way. Bob and Dean stop directly below me. I look down on the tops of their heads. If they look up, they will see me.

“It came from over here,” Dean says with that baffled tone of voice he always has.

“I don’t see anything,” Bob gripes, slightly winded, and probably annoyed that Dean made him hustle to the site.

Dean waves his torch around, searching for an intruder in the undergrowth.

“I know I heard something…” Dean mumbles.

Please do not look up. Please do not look up.

Bob waves his torch in the other direction. “I don’t see anything here. Maybe you heard a bird.”

“That would have to be an awfully big bird.”

“I’m sure this island has all kinds of weird creatures,” Bob concludes, the tone of his voice making it obvious he has lost any interest in investigating the matter any further. “I’m heading back.”

Bob walks away. Dean wanders about a while longer, but finding nothing, and probably scared to be alone, he hurries after Bob. I am safe. They did not see me, but I still need to find a way down to the ground. Across from me is the top of a tree. Maybe I can climb down the tree, but first I have to reach it. I swing to the cliff face, and kick off, propelling towards the tree. It takes several tries of swinging back and forth, but I finally grab the top tree branches and hold on tight. The branches bend beneath my weight, but they hold. Hurriedly, I untie the rope and immediately race to the lower, sturdier branches of the tree. In minutes, I touch down on the ground.

The darkness covers me, allowing me to move without any risk of detection. With the stealth of a jaguar, I make my way to Gwen’s bungalow, tiptoe up the back steps and slip inside. Pausing near the entrance, I strain to hear any sound within the bungalow. It is silent. Gwen must be asleep. An image comes unbidden to my mind—that of Gwen, just down the short hall, nude, sleeping peacefully in Conner’s arms. No, I must not think that has happened. But what if it has? What if I find Conner and Gwen in bed together? Will I take the hatchet and split his skull open, or will I slowly retreat, leaving the resort never to return?

Have some faith, Phillip. Don’t succumb to the old doubts and insecurities. Not now. Gwen loves you. She believes Conner killed you. She would not leap into bed with him the very next day.

I pad towards the bed. It is empty. Neither Gwen nor Pamela is here. Where are they? I pray Conner has not killed them. No, he would not do that… at least not Gwen. So where is she?

I leave the bungalow as quietly as I entered it and make my way for Conner’s. On the way to Conner’s bungalow, keeping off the path and moving through the foliage, I pass the open restaurant area. A handful of torches glow in the restaurant. Peering under the wooden rail that encloses the area, I see a pair of slender, very shapely legs I immediately recognize as Gwen’s. She wears a one-piece dress and sits on the floor, hands behind her waist. She is bound to a pole. I cannot see her upper half. I crawl under the railing and under a long table covered by a tablecloth. I see Gwen fully now—head bowed, appearing to be asleep in that uncomfortable position. It enrages me to see her so mistreated.

Just as I am about to venture from beneath the table, I hear the sound of someone’s approach. A pair of well-muscled, hairy legs stands directly before me.

“Wake up,” Conner says, and removes something from the table above me.

He walks over to her holding a pitcher of water. With exaggerated motion, he pours it into a glass. She does not stir. He splashes the water in her face, startling her awake. My hand tenses around the hilt of the hatchet. Gwen blinks and coughs.

“You gotta be thirsty,” Conner pours another glass, takes a deep gulp, and emits a satisfied sigh. “It doesn’t have to be like this, Gwen. I can be good for you, if you’d let me.”

“Get away from me,” she rasps, her eyes smoldering with hatred.

He shrugs. “A little gratitude would go a long way—”

“Gratitude?” She laughs bitterly. “You killed my husband.”

“He was a lead weight tied to your ankle… dragging you down. Now with me—look what you get: food… protection. I don’t ask for much in return. Just for you to be a bit nicer towards me.”

Her lips twist into a contemptuous smile, an expression unlike anything I ever saw on her before. “And until I am, you’re going to starve me into submission. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” she sneers.

He kneels down so that they are face to face and cups her chin with his hand. “I have all the time in the world. Something tells me you’ll be seeing things my way before long.”

He stands up and places the pitcher back on the table above me.

“See you in the morning,” he breezily says as he leaves.

When I am sure they are gone, I lift the table cover and poke my head out. “Gwen.”

She looks at me in a daze. “Phillip?”

I hurry to her. “Yes, baby, it’s me.”

“Phillip! You’re here! I thought… they said…”

“Shhh,” I press a finger to her smiling lips and quickly kiss her. “I am not dead. We’ve got to hurry before they come back.”

I untie her and help her to her feet. She immediately embraces me, squeezing me as tight as an anaconda, and despite our danger, I find myself laughing.

“Oh, Phillip,” she repeats over and over, weeping now.

I kiss her again, longer this time, and lead her to the water pitcher. She swallows half the pitcher in the blink of an eye. Holding her hand, we sneak towards the cocktail lounge where there are fewer torches and we can blend into the shadows. I need a moment to figure out my next move. We take refuge in the gift shop. Conner removed whatever edible items the gift shop held, but stacks of towels, t-shirts, and assorted trinkets remain. At the back of the shop, we kneel behind a shelf of conch shells.

Breathlessly, we touch each other, almost afraid to accept that this is real—that we are together once more. In a rush of words, I tell her of my escape from Goat Island, of battling the dog pack and sabotaging Action’s sneak attack. She tells me how Conner separated her from Pamela by locking Pamela in my empty bungalow, and then how he shackled Gwen in the restaurant, forbidding anyone to feed or even speak to her—all in an effort to break her will.

It seems we cannot get the words out fast enough, and as we speak our hands caress one another, lovingly lingering over every piece of exposed skin. Our words falter, trail off, because nothing is as important as the way we feel right now. She touches my thigh and my body responds. Our lips collide, hungrily devouring each other, hands clawing off what little clothing we have. Deep inside me, a tiny voice cries that we should not be doing this, we are in too great a danger, and we must flee. The roar of my passion obliterates any restraint. No thoughts of danger or death. Not now.

She draws me on top of her, needing me as much as I need her. In one push, I am deep inside her, and she grips my back, pulling me close, arching her back with animal lust.

Pulsing within her, I cradle her face in my hands. I need her to look at me. I need her to look into my eyes when I speak.

“I love you,” my words are thick with emotion. “I love you, I love… oh, Gwen, I love you.”

Light blossoms in the depth of her beautiful eyes as if a firecracker bursts into sparks, and I know, in that instant, she reaches ecstasy. I am not far behind her. She touches the stubble on my jaw and coos, “My Phillip. My love,” and with that I explode inside her.

Chapter Twenty-Two

We lay side by side, gasping for breath, hands entwined. Gwen bolts upright and grabs her dress. “Phillip, we’ve got to go. If they catch us…”

I hurriedly put my shorts back on and peek through the glass entrance door. “It’s daybreak. I don’t see anyone, but they’ll all be awake soon. We cannot climb the cliff wall, so we’ll have to make a dash for the lagoon.”

“But they’ll hear us,” she shimmies into her dress.

“By the time they realize what we’re doing we’ll be long gone.”

“Conner will follow me.”

I furrow my brows. She is right. Conner will never let Gwen get away.

“Then let him follow,” I grimly reply, and extend my hand to her. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

We start to run for the burnt out lagoon bridge, but Gwen stops me. “We can’t leave without Pamela.”

Her face is anguished. As sorely as I want to get away from the resort, I know that Pamela would be in a terrible position if we leave her behind. Bereft of Gwen, her only ally and friend, Pamela would be at Conner’s mercy.

“Okay,” I agree. “We’ll make it quick.”

We take twenty steps in Pamela’s direction, round the corner of a bungalow and run right into Robby. He is outside his bungalow, smoking a cigarette, and is as shocked to see me as I am to see him. The cigarette falls from his mouth. Before he can yell for help, I pounce on him, knocking him backwards. I try to cover his mouth, but he uses the advantage of his bulk to flip me over, pressing his forearm down on my throat. My face turns red and my eyes bulge.

Rob heaves his weight onto his forearm, bringing his ruddy, leering face close to mine. Whap! Something wet sprays on my brow. Robby’s mouth hangs open, as though he was about to say something important but then completely forgot what it was. He rolls off me with my hatchet sticking out of the back of his skull.

“I… I had to. He was killing you,” Gwen stands back in shock over what she just did.

I wipe the blood from my brow and rest my hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay, baby. You had no choice.”

Someone makes a little gasp. We turn to see Robby’s girlfriend. She wears a rumpled nightie and her hair is flat on one side. She sees Robby lying face down on the ground and screams.

We run. No time for Pamela. Robby’s girlfriend continues to scream. People shout from their bungalows. Doors swing open as people stomp outside. Torches flare to life. If we can make it to the lagoon bridge, we can run to the point where it ends and swim the short distance that remains to the other side. Bob and Dean get there ahead of us. We skid to a halt. Dean looks at me as though seeing a ghost. Bob wields a crow bar and viciously swings it at me, driving me back from the bridge. We dash the other way, but by now numerous people stream in our direction, their torches bobbing in the darkness.

I grab Gwen’s hand and stop her. “It’s no use. We can’t get away.”

Frantic, she pulls on my arm. “Yes we can! C’mon!”

“No, Gwen,” I refuse to budge. “It’s got to end now—tonight.”

Her shoulders sag and her lips trembles. I lead her up the stairs to the restaurant, pause at the top of the steps, look into her eyes and say, “Whatever happens, know that I love you… that I have always loved you, even when I thought I didn’t.”

She bites her lower lip and seems on the verge of tears.

“Over here!” I shout, summoning everyone to us.

One by one, the remaining inhabitants of the resort file into the restaurant and stare at me in wonder.

“Action and his gang are all dead. I killed them,” I announce. “You don’t have to live under Conner’s rule anymore.”

“It’s true,” Gwen vigorously nods. “The fire we saw tonight—Action and his gang were on that boat. It went down and took his whole gang with it. Phillip’s the only one who made it back to shore.”

The people around us murmur amongst themselves. Seizing the momentum, I press on. “The time has come to work with the islanders—to grow crops and catch fish. If we all work together there should be enough food for everyone.”

My words sink in, and several people seem inclined to hear me out. More encouraging, no one makes a move to apprehend me. Conner bounds up the stairs with murder in his eyes and his axe clenched in both fists.

To my surprise, Jonas Dunlap protectively steps in front of me and faces Conner.

“It is over, Conner. We are taking back control of our resort,” Jonas holds out his hand. “Give me the keys.”

Conner snorts incredulously. “Have you all lost your minds? Look at him,” he jabs a finger in my direction. “This runt tells you he killed all the thugs and you fall all over yourselves, believing every word of it.”

Jonas exhales slowly. “We all saw the boat burn tonight, and wondered what happened. Now we know,” he points out the chain around Conner’s neck and beckons with his open palm. “The keys,” he repeats.

Conner yanks the chain from his neck, reaches to hand them to Jonas, but then drops them on the wooden floor. “You want them… come take them,” his mouth freezes into the semblance of a smile.

Jonas moves to retrieve the keys. “Not you,” Conner levels the axe at Jonas, and then points to me, “Him. Let him come and get them.”

I step forth from the crowd. Gwen clings to my arm. I raise her hand to my lips, kiss it softly, and then say to Conner, “Drop the axe.”

Conner smirks and tosses the axe to the floor. He steps back from the keys and waves for me to come forward. I scoop to pick them up, but we both know the keys are just a pretext for the final battle. Conner springs at me before I reach the keys. I am ready. Skirting to the side, I catch him solidly in the chest with my knee. I try to leap on him from behind, but Conner lands a solid right hook to my eye. I stagger backwards and crash against one of the square, wooden poles that support the roof. As I fall back, Conner grabs his axe, and raises it overhead, swinging with all his strength for my skull.

At the last second, I drop to the floor and his axe lodges in the wooden pole with such force that the timbers vibrate. I charge Conner from below, slamming into his waist, intending to push him back. It is impossible. He outweighs me by too much. I would have better luck pushing a tree. He grabs a fistful of my hair, jerks my head up, and slams his fist into my nose. I have the sensation of stumbling back, and in the next instant, my back hits the thick rope that cordons the deck from the beach below. I somersault over the rope and crash flat on my belly on the sand. Blood pours out of my nose. It must be broken. My face feels as though an elephant stepped on it.

Everything tilts. From my disoriented perspective, I see Conner tromp triumphantly down the steps towards me. I struggle to push up, but my elbows wobble and I sink to the sand. He raises the axe for the final blow.

“No!” Gwen leaps on his back, scratching and clawing. He yanks her off and slaps her hard enough to send her spinning. The sight of Conner striking Gwen sends scalding venom coursing through my veins. My vision clears. I rise to a crouch.

Conner turns to me and gets a handful of sand in his eyes. He cries in frustration, blinking furiously. I regain my feet. Blinded by the sand, Conner swings his axe wildly, missing me by several feet. I look for an opening, but from the corner of my eye, I detect sudden movement. It is Bob, clutching his crowbar, intending to tackle me. I drop to all fours and Bob crashes into me, his momentum sending him hurtling directly into the path of Conner’s axe. The axe hacks deep into the side of Bob’s neck, nearly severing his head. Several women scream at the sight. Not wasting a second, I grab Bob’s crowbar and smash Conner’s right knee, shattering the bone. He howls in pain and swings for my head. I grip the crowbar from both ends and block the axe. The impact on the crowbar sends a numbing jolt down my arms. I stumble back and we square off against each other.

Conner limps towards me and wipes sand from his eyes. His face is a pinched mask of pain, but he manages a wolfish grin. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

Blood trickles into my mouth from my busted nose. My breath is ragged and I circle him warily. As the rising sun illuminates the beach, Conner limps towards me, each step causing him to grit his teeth from the excruciating pain. I back closer to the crashing surf. The foaming seawater hits my feet. I cannot retreat any farther.

We attack simultaneously, neither weapon making contact, but that is not Conner’s plan. He wrestles me to the ground, and uses his size advantage to pin me on my back. I beat at his face, but the blows fail to connect with any impact. An ocean wave surges over my head, and he holds me down. I buck and writhe, desperate to breathe, hearing only the roar of the wave and feeling his thick wrists with his hands pressing down on my head.

The wave pulls back, giving me a precious moment to gasp for breath. His face is near to mine, lips pulled back in a canine snarl and he rasps, “…kill you… fucker.” Another wave rushes over me, cutting off my air. I thrash desperately, but Conner is too big to throw off. The knee! Hit the knee! I kick with more precision, and slam my knee into his broken one. Conner releases my head and I immediately roll away.

I crawl on my belly back towards the wooden deck. Conner seizes my legs, pulling me back to the water. My hands claw at the sand, and touch something hard. The axe. Summoning every ounce of my strength, I swing it and cleave Conner’s head from his ear to his jaw. In death, Conner spasms as if electrocuted. He flops over on his back. A large wave rolls in, scoops up his body like a parent to a dozing child, and carries him away.

Epilogue

A year has gone by—maybe more. It is hard to tell. I sit on the sand near the spot where I fought Conner to the death. We continually tried to reach someone on the ham radio we salvaged from the sinking sailboat, but we never did. Eventually, the battery died, and thus passed into history the last working piece of electronic equipment known to man. As for those who sailed to Barbados—that was the last we ever saw of them. The poisonous, radioactive storms that we feared did not come to Isla Fin de la Tierra. They are out there still, I am sure, just beyond the protective stream of clean air that funnels past our isle.

Our supplies are gone, save for the hard liquor, which we only drink on special occasions. Working with the islanders, we have food for us all. We grow tropical fruit, and hunt the wild goats that roam the hills. Each day, men from the resort and men from the island paddle together out to sea on handmade rafts. They catch fish or dive for conch and spiny lobsters. On the few times that it rains, we catch and conserve as much water as we can. It is a harsh existence, but manageable so long as we work together.

I rise to my feet and walk towards my bungalow. A flock of chickens scampers ahead of me. Pamela, Dellas and Rhodesia wave sticks at them in a comical attempt to shepherd the errant fowl.

“You missed one,” I grin and point to a chicken making a run for freedom.

Pamela, looking tan and bemused, laughs. “I liked them so much better when they came skinned, deboned, and wrapped in plastic.”

I laugh in agreement. Gwen waits for me at the backdoor of our bungalow, and in her arms, our son: Phillip Jr. He has my eyes and my hair, and as he watches my approach, he smiles.

I hold my arms out to take him.

“You want to go to Daddy?” Gwen asks him excitedly, to which he squeals with delight. She gives me a quick kiss and gently places him in my arms. “Don’t shake him, Phillip. I just breast fed him and I don’t want him to spit up.”

I look him square in the eye. “You don’t want me to shake you?” I playfully bark, giving him a teasing jiggle. “Huh, no shaking de baby! Okay, no problem. Come with me,” I tell him, not that he has any choice. “There’s something I want to show you.”

I hold him under a palm tree and point at the sea. “Look at that. Do you see all of them? Aren’t they pretty?”

In front of us, cascading like a shower of white confetti, a stream of butterflies flutter by.

Copyright

Copyright © 2013 by Richard DuBois

First Edition, 2013

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Content

Richard DuBois
LAST RESORT

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Copyright