Left on Paradise (53 page)

Seeing an opening, Lisa closed her eyes, and charged past an old woman—clumsily brushing the old woman’s arm with the sharp edge of her bloody ax as she passed by. The old woman fell to her knees with gasps too anguished to cry out. Though several natives already had returned to feast from Alan—once again lapping blood and chewing organs—their children swarmed the old woman: one slurping blood from the ground as the matriarch writhed in pain and others gnawing at stretched old breasts and tearing off mouthfuls of aged fat and loose skin as fast as they could. The old woman gave a blood-curdling scream when a girl poked a finger into the socket of her eye and popped out an eyeball—severing its cord of veins and nerves with a single bite before running into the woods to enjoy the delicacy. Now the old woman screamed until her voice went hoarse and even then groaned loud until her life finally drained away.

Panicked and sobbing with blurred vision and racing heart, Lisa ran for Mount Zion as fast as she could, making no effort to show caution. She cast aside the bloodied ax after a few steps and tore hair from her own head after a few more. Only when she heard shouting from a north-leading trail did she step into the shadows—stumbling into a ditch and hiding in brush. There, the bloodstained pacifist closed her eyes as she remembered the screaming, cannibalism, and a terrible coup de g
rậ
ce.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

The first three shots were too high. Donovan had pulled the trigger too quick to make adjustments and the bullets whizzed harmlessly over the crest of the hill. The northerners beside him weren’t pleased.

“Aim! Aim!” Jason screamed as he squared against four islanders wielding raised axes and pointed spears—who now charged toward the northern raiding party that had appeared on the north slope in the dim light of early dawn.

As Jason and the other northsman continued to advance from the forest, Donovan steadied himself against a tree and took aim at one of several islanders who now charged his compatriots—and were armed with six-foot lances tipped with razor-sharp shells.

Donovan squeezed the trigger until the gun jumped.

Crack.

Crack. Crack.

Following a miss, an islander was struck in the shoulder, spun into a tree, and collapsed.

Crack.

A second islander fell—this one from a bullet to the chest. Only two opponents remained. Both of them darted to the left flank of the northerners as Donovan fired at the closer target.

Crack. Crack.
The second shot struck the man only a few feet away and the man collapsed without a sound.

Now the last attacking islander retreated into the shadows of the trees as Donovan and his northsmen turned toward the refugee camp.

“Ahhhhhh.”

Someone to Donovan’s right screamed and the priest spun toward the cry. Jason had stepped into a spike-filled hole and now cried for help as blood spurted from gash to his thigh. When the wounded man tried to disimpale himself from the spike with a violent jerk of his body, he screamed out and then fainted from shock and pain. A northern raider reached to pull Jason from the trap until Father Donovan shouted that Jason was mortally wounded and must be abandoned to his fate.

Now Donovan—flanked by a single compatriot—hurried toward a ravine at the edge of the encampment, where he saw a dark-skinned woman shouting for help.

“Kill her,” Donovan ordered his associate as he himself scanned for other threats.

“Will do,” the northerner said as he charged his lance and ran straight at the woman, his weapon directed at her belly.

When the woman turned to run, she slipped in mud and fell to a knee, now screaming as the northsman closed the short distance between them at a dead run.

Ten steps ... eight ... six ...

The northsman never reached his target. The sound of running came from the woods and a terrible shriek sounded from the shadows. The lancer heard the yell and tried to turn his weapon, but moved a step too slow as an islander crashed into him. Both men staggered from the blow—the northsman’s lance knocked from his hand.

Thirty feet away, Father Donovan watched in horror as the attacking foe brought his weapon to bear against his northern target with a violent twist of his body: the ax swung shoulder-high. The northsman didn’t duck and the ax caught him across the back of the neck. His squeal was cut short as his head flung twenty feet into the forest and blood sprayed the earth. His foe killed, the attacking islander sprinted to the fallen woman—interposing his body between her and Donovan’s line of sight.

Crack. Crack.

At least one of Donovan’s shots struck the ax-swinging islander. The man fell to his knees, clutching his side.

Crack. Crack.

Donovan fired into the woman’s breast and belly and she fell backwards.

Click
.

When Donovan tried to finish off the wounded fighter (who already had staggered to his feet), he found the chamber empty and the gun’s slide locked to the rear. As his wounded enemy shouted a war cry and staggered forward with a raised ax, Donovan backpedaled into the forest—fumbling for bullets from his pants pocket, but managing only to drop several of them in tall grass during his panicked retreat. Only after he cleared the ravine did he dare stop to reload his weapon behind the cover of a tall tree.

After reloading, Donovan waited several minutes for a counterattack. When none came, he slipped down the hill and started for home: the sole survivor of the ill-fated raid. The path wasn’t as dark now and he made good time back to the north camp, arriving before dawn broke over the eastern horizon.

41

The Gulag Archipelago

The first hours of the new day were spent burying the dead and planning a stronger defense. It was decided to strengthen and extend the bermed walls around the camp’s entire perimeter, as well as to manufacture additional bows and arrows and more bundles of spears. More traps also were authorized and the General Will of the People even ordered women to man the walls, either to fight or pass weapons. The battle had been a close call and it was assessed matters might have ended in utter catastrophe if Donovan had successfully fired even one more bullet—knocking Sean completely out of action and giving himself a chance to reload. A motion was passed to keep more islanders on guard duty since too many fighters were sleeping when the enemy struck. Though the northerners lost two fighters and wasted numerous bullets, the islanders suffered three men and one woman killed and one man wounded. The odds in favor of the allied villages had been reduced and the absence even of three or four militia might cost them both a battle and their lives.

After defensive arrangements were decided, a trial was held of Jason (now pulled from the trap). It was a quick trial and judgment by the rump of the General Will of the People was summary and unforgiving—with Jason accused of treason, war crimes, conspiracy to commit murder, assault with intent to kill, and illegal possession of a firearm. He was convicted within minutes and executed without further adieu, being indulged neither final meal nor last word. Only two citizens voted to commute his sentence to life imprisonment and even his appeal for one last joint was refused before he was hanged from the lowest branch of a tree at the edge of camp. As he slowly strangled a few inches above the bloodstained soil of Paradise, all of his judges turned away, except Olivia—who spit in Jason’s face as the condemned man defecated down his own leg.

Kit wept and prayed from a distance.

Hilltop defenses were completed before dinner: bunkers were fortified with cut timber and shoveled earth and bundles of spears placed strategically along the walls—along with slingshots and rocks and bows and arrows. Provisions were stored too. Including the food and medicine brought to camp, it was assessed the camp contained enough supplies to endure a siege of several days at half rations, not counting fruit trees close enough to pick under cover of darkness. Cords of firewood were stacked as a final redoubt and a hundred gallons of fresh water were stockpiled in plastic jugs. Tents were repositioned at the center of camp—several of them pitched in shallow depressions and partially protected by walls composed of whatever rock, wood, and dirt was available.

Everyone agreed the day’s work was productive, though no one looked forward to the dangers of the night.

Lisa was spotted by a day patrol and returned to camp by midafternoon. Now she ate a handful of uncooked oatmeal as she listened to Kit describe the battle for Mount Zion. The former actress cradled the dark-skinned baby forsaken by the natives and held the hand of the light-skinned girl abandoned by the northsmen as she led Lisa to a shallow grave shared by Ursula and Sean—where Lisa lay a few wildflowers on the fresh dirt before stepping away, tears streaming down her face as she embraced Kit.

“Ryan told me Sean died for her,” Lisa said.

“That’s what she told us,” Kit said as she wiped tears from her eyes. “No one saw for sure.”

Lisa wept.

“His last words,” Kit said after a time, “were to name the baby.”

“What name did he give?”

“Only heaven knows. He whispered the name to her before he died. She held him until she passed away a few minutes later. I prayed with both of them as they slipped away.”

“I’m so sorry for speaking poorly of him.”

“He was very brave in the end.”

“And as good as any man.”

“Anyone else?”

Kit shook her head.

“Not from our village,” Kit said, “except Steve was killed outright and two easterners wounded. One died a few hours ago and the other has a shattered arm. He’s out of the fight.”

“How many of them?”

“They say one dead and Jason was left on a pongee stick. Donovan and his gun escaped. Our defenses weren’t complete.”

“Jason fought us?” Lisa asked with a subdued voice.

Kit nodded.

“He’s a bastard,” Lisa said.

“He atoned his crime.”

“How could he ever atone for all the evil he’s done?”

“They hanged him outside camp.”

“This is all too much,” Lisa said as her shoulders sagged and tears formed in her eyes. “What have we done to Paradise?”

Kit looked into the forest for a long while.

“He gave us their plans,” Kit eventually said. “They intend to kill Ryan and John and anyone who fights for them. Apparently, they’re afraid of facing war crimes charges.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Lisa whispered, “kill lots of people to escape punishment for killing a few.”

“None of this makes sense to me,” Kit said with a shrug.

Lisa agreed.

“They hope,” Kit continued, “to portray themselves as good men and heroes.”

“They couldn’t.”

“They could if evidence is burned and witnesses buried.”

“They’d have to kill us all.”

“They will,” Kit swallowed hard as she spoke, “if we don’t swear loyalty.”

“Let’s swear it and stop the killing.”

“There’s a hitch.”

Lisa waited for the older woman to speak.

“They’ll require a blood oath,” Kit said. “Everyone who wishes to live must murder a prisoner: one of the natives. Every northsmen has—except a couple holdouts already sacrificed as victims.”

“You don’t mean,” Lisa said after a long pause, “those nice people who broke away?”

“Jason,” Kit said as she nodded her head, “told us the northsmen are bound by blood and will fight to the death.”

Lisa dropped to her knees short of breath and fell face first upon the fresh grave, wailing from grief. Her sobs were so loud that Kit left Lisa to grieve alone when the latter’s crying woke the cannibal’s son from his nap and made Brittany cling in distress to her foster mother.

Streaks of flame shot from the forest soon after dusk. Viet watched from his foxhole when he saw a flash of light to his left. Three additional arrows followed the first: the burning missiles striking the bermed wall within twenty feet of each other. The flames were dark-smoked and thick and showed the presence of petroleum. Now a flaming ball arched from the dark and landed within the fort; it was a fuel-filled coconut husk that split on impact and sprayed a southern woman with flaming gasoline. Her first scream was from surprise and her second from searing pain as her leg burned. Two men rolled her into the dirt to smother the flames, but were too late to prevent at least some third-degree burns. The woman cried and screamed until Doctor Graves sedated her with morphine.

Several minutes later, a voice cried from the dark—the voice of Father Donovan. John told him to approach under truce and Donovan came near enough to be heard.

“We’ll bring a hundred more tomorrow,” Father Donovan shouted loud enough for the entire camp to hear. “We can burn your fort or we can burn you. Those who side with us will live; those who don’t will die. Choose tomorrow which side you’ll take.”

“We’ve,” Ryan shouted his reply, “already decided.”

“Then you’re going to die for the moralizing of Godson and Smith.”

“Our morality will kill you too,” Viet shouted.

“And what will that get you?”

“A good conscience, at least.”

“You may have principles, but we have fifty gallons of gasoline and thirty bullets.”

“Liar.”

“Send someone to look,” Donovan said. “I have the bullets with me and the fuel’s in our camp.”

“So,” View scowled, “you can kill our delegate under a flag of truce. Go to hell.”

“Send a woman or a child for all I care. You have to know you can’t win this fight.”

“We’ll take some of you down with us.”

“That’s why we’re giving you this chance,” Father Donovan shouted. “We’re realists. If we start this battle, it’ll be to the death. We’ll burn you out and shoot you down. But you’ll get a couple of us too. Give us your oath you’ll cooperate in our fact-finding investigation of recent events and we’ll spare you. No one gets hurt. Not even John or Ryan. Not even Steve.”

The northern chief was answered by the firing of two arrows that flew harmlessly over his head and Donovan responded by aiming his pistol and firing once. His bullet struck a bunker, splintering the wood.

An islander yelped.

“Damn,” the man shouted, “he hit me.”

The wounded man ducked behind the wall and wiped away blood from his face while two women tended his wounds.

“Just splinters,” Kit told him. “Not too bad.”

“Well, they don’t feel all that good,” the man said with a wince. “Enough is enough. I’m changing my vote. I’d fight even up, but this is a massacre. As soon as he shows enough sense to climb into a tree to fire down, we won’t be able to hide. And that’s besides the threat of being burned up and burned out.”

“We’d be at their mercy,” Kit said.

“We’re at their mercy now,” the man snapped. “I always said better red than dead.”

“They’ll kill us all.”

“We can make a fair peace.”

“They’ll make us murder each other.”

“That’s what we’re doing now,” the wounded man said, “and maybe it will stop if we just cooperate. They need peace too. It’s in everyone’s self-interest.”

“They’ll break it.”

“We can ask for guarantees.”

Now John joined the conversation from several feet away. “How?”

The man shrugged.

“A truce,” John shouted toward the forest, “till morning—to decide how good your word is.”

Donovan’s voice sounded from a different location. “Fair enough, but no raids tonight from you either.”

Soon, the sound of the northsmen retreating downhill made it evident hostilities had ended for the day—though the islanders called a council only after patrols confirmed the enemy had departed. The perimeter was drawn tight so sentries could participate in the public assembly—with a single delegate from every village deployed into the woods for security (after passing voting rights to loved ones who shared the guard’s opinions). Then the General Will of the People was called into emergency session, though the oath of allegiance was skipped for the sake of brevity.

“We must choose,” John said as he began the meeting, “whether to defend ourselves or hope for mercy from the merciless. They’ve slaughtered non-combatants, murdered men who came to help us, and ignited a civil war. I won’t depend upon their good graces.”

“Then why,” a soft-voiced man interrupted, “did we accept a truce?”

“To buy time,” John answered, “to test their good will, but also to finish our defenses.”

“That’s dishonest.”

“Prudent is a better word.”

Now a middle-aged southerner with shoulder-length hair stepped into the center of the assembly.

“The choice,” the southern man declared, “is between war and peace. I believe in peace.”

Several neighbors clapped.

Others hooted.

“We don’t need to depend on mere promises,” the long-haired southerner continued, “we can verify the peace.”

“Let them give up that gun if they want peace.”

“Would you?”

“Not to those barbarians.”

“And,” the long-haired man said as he nodded, “neither will they, so we have to decide whether peace and coexistence are worth trying. If we don’t, every man will die on this hill and northsmen will take our women and children for their pleasure. That’s the ancient law of war; once walls are breached, no quarter is given.”

“At least we’d die like men,” John said, “and maybe, just maybe, we can drive them away. That’s the honorable path.”

“Honor?” the long-haired man sneered. “Just who do you suppose will raise a monument to wasted valor? It’s our lives we need to save, not our honor.”

“I’ve lost my husband,” a southern woman spoke up, “my home, and my friends, but I’m not going to lose my daughter. Not for some tribe of gods-forsaken heathen. Has anyone considered the cannibals are set loose—and by our own hand? They’ll roam this island like wild animals until we’re all gnawed to the bone. We have to settle this civil war because, unfortunately, the real war is still ahead.”

Half the neighborhood nodded and clapped as the woman sat down and a friend near her stood.

“And I’ll say something,” the woman’s friend said, “that came to me while I was lying with my face in the dirt. I’m glad we killed the natives. Otherwise there’d be even more of them to fight.”

“I fought them like anyone else,” John said, “but they aren’t the enemy at our gate.”

“They will be,” the woman said, “if we don’t make peace with the northerners so we can hunt them down.”

“We’ll deal,” John said with a shake of his head, “with the natives as we have to. For now, we’re safe in these walls and, hopefully, we’ll be delivered from this island before long. The task is to keep the northerners at a distance for a few days.”