Chapter Two
Lucky
Lucky
~~*~~
Sixty-four marks.
“Sixty-four,” he
muttered, staring at the latest knife mark on the dead palm tree that he’d
chosen for such a task.
He sheathed the
Bowie knife, which he discovered on day thirty-six. There it was, just lying
there on a rock next to the crashing surf in its fine leather sheath, like it
had been placed there by a helpful sea god. It gleamed brightly in the sun, and
instantly replaced the wooden sticks and flint rock he’d fashioned for the same
tasks.
His first use of it was to shave off the
beard he’d grown while living here. The blade was razor sharp and did a great
job.
He stared up at the
settling sky. He thought of how, just after waking up here—wherever “here”
was—that he’d not camp in caves ever again. Not after that giant spider.
Fuckin’ thing had to be a hundred pounds!
But after running
into even bigger ones and killing them—and eating them—he soon lost his fear of
them. Their freakish size made them somewhat sluggish.
(They didn’t taste
like chicken. More like chili rellenos. With extra green sauce.)
His cave was near
the lagoon, just a half-mile in or so. Two weeks after waking up here, he fell
in it. He was goddamn lucky: a deep pool of fresh water waited at the bottom, which
was at least thirty feet down. It flowed out a large hole into a tumbling creek
that found light a hundred or so feet later. The current dragged him there. He
was damn lucky he didn’t drown or impale himself on stalagmites.
The cave’s vertical
opening (as opposed to the horizontal one he fell into) was five meters in
diameter and well-camouflaged, and was completely dry next to the creek’s bank.
It was also spiderless and overhung with mangos and bananas. The creek tumbled
happily out of it towards the lagoon. In fact, towards the very falls he had
drunk from his first day here. This was its source.
He needed clothing.
He had these torn black servant’s pants and nothing else: not even a clean pair
of socks. His bare feet were covered in calluses when not bleeding or infected.
There were needles buried in the sand and dirt here and there. They were like
cactus needles, but thinner, about an inch in length, and hard as fuck to pull
out. If he stepped in a patch it was a sure bet he wasn’t going to step on
anything else for a week or more. His feet would swell up and then crack and
bleed. Fucking painful.
He marked trails he
knew were free of them. On this day, sixty-four days after being marooned here,
he went back to the beach via the least traversed one. Hell, if a Bowie knife
was just sittin’ there like a ready piece of tail, then why not clothes?
He was sunburned
and covered in mosquito and fly bites. His dark skin looked almost like it had
been dipped in coal dust, with red pustules here and there.
He got to the rock
where the Bowie knife had been, and sat.
Rain was coming. He
was damn grateful for it. The fucking sun was cooking him like a Christmas ham.
“All right,” he murmured.
“I find my life here. I find food and water and shelter here. I find this knife
right here on this rock. So why not give me some fucking clothes? Can’t you see
I’m suffering?”
Who was he speaking
to? He didn’t know.
He gazed seaward.
The incoming storm, a green-gray veil over the water, made him think of the Minnow.
Was he the only
survivor? Why? Why would anyone save his skinny ass? Why save it and then haul
it however goddamn thousands of miles from the scene of the crime and dump him
like a five-dollar hooker? Why?
Why?
The rain came in like
a tsunami. In seconds he was drenched. It felt like heaven.
Wind quickly made
everything horizontal. He struggled to his feet. The tree line was a hundred
yards off. He got to it and huddled against a large coconut palm.
Lightning. Very close.
That didn’t happen often here. He glanced up when hail began falling.
“Fucking A,” he
muttered.
It was turning into
a goddamn hurricane. He huddled even tighter and swore under his breath.
A gust caught him
and actually pushed him away from the tree, which was swaying dangerously and
threatening to snap. He rolled to his feet and lunged for a hold on the trunk
and just managed to get his arms around it just as another violent gust grabbed
him and lifted him off his fucking feet!
“Holy shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!”
he bellowed, hanging on for all he was worth.
Another gust tore
him away. He flew an unknown distance ass-backwards and smacked his head into
something and blacked out.
He woke on his back in a puddle. His head throbbed. He had
trouble uncrossing his eyes. Concussion.
The storm had
passed. Clouds raced overhead like those in a video game. An apocalyptic sun
peeked through them occasionally.
He tried lifting
himself up. He was one giant ache.
Any broken bones?
He inspected
himself while fighting dizziness and nausea.
Nothing but his
noggin seemed damaged.
He leaned right and
dry heaved. When the spasms abated, he tried standing.
“Bad idea,” he
murmured as he swayed uneasily on his feet.
He fainted.
He woke face down next to the puddle. If he’d face-planted
in it, he’d be dead now.
If he’d
face-planted in it during the storm, he’d be dead now.
“Fuck me,” he
groaned. “That’s twice now. How lucky a fucker can a guy get?”
He laughed at that.
Lucky?
He was stranded on
an island with no help on the way! No passing ships, no planes overhead ...
He’d given up on the signal fire weeks ago.
He had his pants, a
knife, and a cave for shelter! That was it!
He’d been here
sixty-four fucking days! He’d been struck at by giant snakes, poisoned by a
dozen varieties of plants, chased by boar, jaguars, and spiders, and, once, was
swarmed by three-inch-long wasps!
Lucky?
He chuckled. “Yeah,
bitch. Lucky.”
He remembered his
CO’s words:
“The difference between life and death often
comes down to the thin film of attitude. If it sucks, that film will be weak
and easily defeated, and you’ll die. If it’s positive and strong, you’ll have a
shot at getting to the next day with most of your skin. You listening,
Santayana?”
He pulled himself
to his hands and knees. “I’m listening. I’m listening.”
The dizziness and
headache were gone. So too the nausea.
He blinked and
looked around. He could just see the jungle around him.
The middle of the
night, then. Fuck.
Nighttime on this
island belonged to the many predatory species that called it home. He’d learned
that lesson almost from the off.
He reached for his
knife. Did he still have it?
Yes. Lucky yet
again.
He got to his feet,
taking his time. He started in a full crouch, pushing himself very slowly up.
When his knees finally locked, he gingerly fingered the back of his head. A dried
blood clot the size of his palm made him wince.
A concussion that
severe would not heal so quickly. But this island had shown him that regular
healing times anywhere else on Earth didn’t apply here. He healed much faster
than normal here. All those wasp stings—probably two hundred of them—would’ve
killed him anywhere else. But here? Here he screamed for two days straight with
a raging fever that probably topped a hundred five, then woke the morning of
the third with most of the welts gone or hugely diminished and the fever broken.
Lucky? Fuck yeah.
Even in the dark he
could see that the jungle had been decimated by the storm. He was surrounded by
downed trees. The air was still and, for once, cool.
How far had he
flown? The beach, he guessed, was just ahead and to the left a hundred yards.
He climbed over the
trees in a steady crouch, knife at the ready.
He gazed up.
The Milky Way was a
glowing silver-white paint-brush across a navy sky. He spied Venus, well down
to the west, and saw its reflection in the sea. He made his way towards it.
He laughed in
disbelief. He had flown at least six hundred feet! Two football fields! The beach was a fucking long way off!
He was hungry and
thirsty. He picked up a coconut—one of hundreds lying here and there, and sat
at a boulder and began the work to open it. He drank deeply from the opening he
drilled into its top, then stood with it in the crook of his arm and continued
towards the water.
Giant waves crashed
against the rocks, sending spray towards the stars. The continuous thunder they
made shook the boulder he mounted. He gazed out.
“So I guess asking
for clothes is a no-no?” he muttered. “Maybe next time you could think of a
better way of telling me? You nearly fucking killed me!”
He squinted. Was
there something out there?
It was impossible
to tell. It was far too dark. In Venus’ reflection he thought he spied a mast.
But he’d suffered
head trauma, and wasn’t at all certain that he wasn’t seeing things, so he
found shelter on the leeward side of a big boulder, then gathered up a decent
pile of palm fronds from the jungle line and brought them back in several trips.
Knife next to his
head, he got as comfortable as he could on his makeshift mattress (not very at
all) and eventually nodded off.
He woke sometime in the mid-morning, if the creeping glare
of sunlight next to his palm-leaf bed was any indication. He rose, peed, and
hopped atop the boulder that had provided him shelter. His hunger and thirst
had become ravenous.
He gazed out over
the water, and forgot both instantly.
A gleaming-white
luxury craft—a catamaran, maybe a sixty-footer—floated a thousand yards
offshore. Its sails were down.
It was a mast he’d seen!
“I’ll be a son of a bitch!” he laughed.
He shook his head violently to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, and continued
staring.
He drank coconut milk and peed again. He had left the beach
only to grab the coconut and get it open, then hurried back. The boat was still
out there.
He made up his
mind.
From the edge of
his boulder, he took a deep breath and dove into the sea. The water was instantly
deep and, despite the storm, almost totally clear. He frantically kicked and
pulled to keep from being swept back into the rock. He was a good fifteen feet
down and so incoming swells pushed him back five or six feet each time, no more
than that, which he quickly made up. When he became desperate for air a minute
later, he fought for the surface. He broke it rasping.
The ocean had
calmed considerably since last night, else he wouldn’t have tried that stunt.
He stroked for the catamaran.
He wasn’t a fucking
All-American swimmer like Mennon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t very strong in
the water, which he was. Especially in seawater. He’d won his share of Ironman triathlons,
largely on the strength of his swimming.
A thousand
yards—three thousand feet. Even in calm seas that’s a lot of water to cross. If
you’re hungry and weak from getting your head smashed in a hurricane, three
thousand feet can feel like thirty thousand feet.
Eventually the boat
grew large in his watery vision. He breaststroked to the port hull. The blue
lettering on its side proclaimed the boat was named Lanie.
A woman screamed.
From inside the cabin.
“Get away from me!”
The muffled sound
of glass smashing, then sounds of footsteps and a struggle. She screamed again.
It sounded like someone was choking her.
He hurried to the
ladder and climbed it. He pulled his knife out and jumped to the deck in a
crouch.
Lanie was of ultra-modern design and
quite roomy. Her deck was littered with broken bottles and a downed sail, which
had snapped from the mast and fallen over the starboard hull.
“Get off me, you bastard! Off! Off!”
He hurried around
to the stern door and jerked it open.
“Help! Oh God, help me!” she screamed
from somewhere sightless. “HELP ME!”
The assailant was
suddenly there and lashed out with a fist, which just caught his jaw. His head
snapped about as he crashed spinning against the kitchen sink. His clot
throbbed and blood poured down the back of his neck.
The assailant
grabbed his chin and tried snapping his neck as he fought for consciousness. He
stabbed blindly at the asshole’s bare feet. The fuckhead screamed and released
him, his foot spurting blood. His pinkie toe had been amputated.
He glanced at his
attacker as he struggled to his feet.
Shit! It was the Argentinean fruit fly
with the Madonna tattoo. From the Minnow!
Teeth bared, sweat
pouring off his bow, the asshole snatched a butter knife from the kitchen table
and brought it about threateningly.
The woman had gone
silent. Was she dead?
“You fuck,
Santayana!” roared the fruit fly with his ridiculous accent. “You’re supposed
to be dead! DEAD! Fuck you!”
He lunged.
Gilligan had no
room to maneuver. He smashed back first into a closet door as the butter knife
came arcing down for his eye. He just got his head out of the way. The silver
blade sank into his neck where it met his shoulder, and that was bad enough.
The blade was out red and dripping an instant later and coming up for his
exposed gut.
It never got there.
His Bowie knife intercepted it in the next tenth of a second, blocking it out
of the way, then came up and down into the fruit fly’s forehead, going in to
the hilt.
The assailant gurgled,
eyes crossed. He dropped to his knees.
Gilligan held the
hilt with both hands, enjoying the shudder of death sinking through the knife
into the dipshit’s brain. With a single motion, he yanked the blade out and put
it back in the twat’s right ear. All the way in.
The fruit fly
collapsed. Blood arced from his head onto the kitchen table and the half-eaten
English muffin sitting partway on a small dish.
He pulled the knife
out, wiped it on the fruit fly’s ass, and straightened with a painful groan.
His head wound sent
streamers of blood down his back as he gawked at the muffin. He was so hungry
he thought he might wipe the blood off and stuff it into his mouth.
If there was a
muffin, there had to be more, right?
He looked around
for more food, and barked out in pain. The butter knife wound was doing its own
healthy share of leaking and hurt like a bitch with any turn of his head. He
grabbed dish towels from a rack and slapped it over the wound and wrapped the
other over his skull.
A moan. From down
the corridor.
“Hello? Hello? Are
you okay? Hello?”
He stumbled down it.
A young petite woman
lay face down on the bed in the bedroom at its end. She wore denim short-shorts
and a yellow knit halter top, which was torn up the back, exposing her pink
bra.
“Hello? Miss? Are
you okay? Miss?”
He pulled her over.
The kitchen towels were already soaked. He was feeling faint again. Everything
throbbed.
“Miss? Miss? Are
you all right? Miss?”
She rolled on to
her back. His blood dripped on her.
“Son of a bitch
...”
It was Mary Ann
Summers ...
... from the Minnow!
Chapter Three
~~*~~
No comments:
Post a Comment