Last Resort (21 page)

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.