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'Isolation', Chapter Eighteen
SImon Gray
Isolation, Chapter 18
Samuel’s heavy footsteps sieved sand through cracks in the wooden steps. Ben was still on his shoulders and Leah limped close behind, holding the girl with one hand, the basket of provisions left by Mr. George, in the other.
They reached the balcony and Samuel swung Ben off his shoulders and set him gently on his feet, holding a finger to his lips. He glanced at Leah who gave him a curt nod before he edged open the screen door.
Samuel looked back at Leah and shrugged, opening the door fully so she could hear the snoring. ‘Man can’t take a few sups of beer.’
They all stepped into the living room and stared like the bears finding Goldilocks. His head was slumped forward on his chest, his arms and legs still bound to the chair.
‘That’s not daddy!’ Ben said loudly, pointing, then putting his finger in his mouth and stepping behind Leah’s legs.
Hudson jerked awake, eyes narrowing against the glare of sunlight behind them. A line of dribble hung over his beard.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ Leah said.
Samuel, having collected his spear gun from under the outside stairs, levelled it again at Hudson. ‘This’s Leah,’ he said gruffly.
Hudson smiled. ‘I’d get up…but as you can see…’ he looked at her dressing gown curiously.
You’re fine where you are,’ Leah said, cautiously moving into the room, keeping hold of Ben’s hand. They openly appraised each other until Leah became a little disconcerted about her lack of clothes. She set the basket down on the kitchen top to distract herself. There was friendliness together with the glint of amusement in his eyes, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that she could see through the unkempt beard and hair, bolstered the feeling. His toned arms and legs with pronounced muscles straining against the bonds and the matt of chest hair in the ‘v’ of his half-opened shirt, heightened her feelings of self-consciousness. She clutched at her dressing gown, making sure it was covering her. ‘I’m going to sort myself out.’
Hudson raised an eyebrow to Samuel. ‘That national dress on this island?’
Samuel scowled.
Hudson glanced up at Leah, slowly climbing the stairs. ‘Don’t suppose I could have some water?’
Samuel strode forward, putting the barbed point of the spear under Hudson’s chin. ‘Be careful, I still gaht’a good mind to tow you out for the sharks.’
Leah called down from the upstairs landing. ‘Sam bring the kids up,’ and when she saw the look on his face, ‘I don’t think our guest is going to do anything stupid, are you?’
Hudson looked away from the spear tip and craned his neck upwards, smiling, ‘nope.’
Samuel lowered the weapon and checked Hudson’s bonds before propping it against the side of the sofa and carrying Ben upstairs, the girl following close behind.
Leah was sitting on the edge of the bed studying her damaged feet.
‘I don’t trust him,’ Samuel said, putting Ben down.
‘Go play in your room,’ Leah said.
Ben stood stubbornly watching her stiffly walk to a set of drawers. ‘Sam go and set them up with something,’ she said irritably, selecting clean underwear and pulling up a pair of black panties under her dressing gown. She found a black and white t-shirt with a butterfly motif in reversed out colours and faded denim shorts, deciding not to wear the bra. She desperately wanted a shower or a swim in the ocean to cleanse herself of her ordeal at the Purple Suite. The thought made her shiver with revulsion. She checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess. She felt the urge to put on makeup. She frowned at her reflection. No amount of cover up was going to rid her of the dehumanising contact with Cyril and Purple Bob. She brushed her hair vigorously, acknowledged the grim set to her mouth and the uncompromising hardness from her green eyes. She hoped the sudden urge for make-up wasn’t to present a better image to the man downstairs? Angry with the thought, Leah threw the brush down and went to the bathroom to use the toilet, flushing with rainwater from a bucket, before finding the first aid box under the sink. She used wipes to clean, then applied antiseptic before bandaging both feet.
She glanced in on Ben’s room. Sam had emptied a box of stuffed toys and was making up a game with them. Samuel returned her smile.
Leah went downstairs ignoring Hudson. In the kitchen she poured rainwater, that had been boiled, into a plastic beaker. She went to him and held it to his lips. ‘I see you enjoyed my husband’s meal,’ she said tipping the beaker, forcing him to gulp.
He pulled his head back from the beaker. ‘I’m sorry…it was delicious,’ Hudson smiled. ‘I like the t-shirt.’
Leah tipped the beaker, so the rest of the water ran down his beard and onto his chest. ‘Mr Hudson, none of this is close to being humorous.’
‘It’s Bentley, Hudson Bentley,’ Hudson said.
Leah threw the beaker and it clattered across the floor hitting a stack of magazines. ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ she hissed, ‘all I care about is what’s happening to Mike?’
Samuel appeared at the landing above. Leah nodded that she was OK. ‘He wasn’t hurt?’
Hudson shook his head. ‘Not when I left him.’
Leah crossed her arms and sat opposite.
‘I guess he should’ve been back by now,’ Hudson said.
‘They have him locked up in a de-contamination building,’ Leah said, more to herself than in answer.
‘Oh,’ Hudson was thoughtful. ‘Unless that Muckenfuss guy said anything, Samuel guessed they would put him in quarantine as a precaution.’
‘Why would Muckenfuss keep quiet?’ Leah demanded, remembering the sight of him enjoying Cyril’s hospitality on the sofa in the Purple Suite.
‘He was wounded, hopefully that would occupy his thoughts, I think he was pretty scared of what they would do to him if he confessed there was a stranger on the plane.’
Leah studied Hudson. She got and fetched an orange from the basket, using her nails to slice through the skin. ‘I need to get a better handle on this, tell me the whole thing.’
Sam had rejoined her by the time Hudson finished. A banana skin had joined the orange peel on the armrest
‘Jesus Christ,’ Leah picked up bits of peel and started tearing them into smaller bits, thinking of Mike and what he must have gone through, the guilt mounting.
‘Do you think you could untie me?’ Hudson grimaced, ‘I’m losing circulation.’
‘No,’ Leah said.
Hudson sighed, his shoulders sagging. ‘You know I could have broken out of this if I’d wanted to.’
Leah glared at him. ‘Why didn’t you then?’
Hudson stared at her intently. ‘I need you to trust me.’
Leah’s mouth opened to respond and then closed slowly. She went back to shredding the orange peel. ‘Why?’
Hudson sighed, eventually looking away and down at the floor. ‘I’m on a very important mission.’
‘Jesus, listen to you, sounding like bloody Tom bloody Cruise!’ Leah studied him. ‘The people who shot up Mike’s plane, who are they? You didn’t explain?’
Hudson rolled his head, eyes closed. When he opened them there was a steeliness that had not been present before. ‘Leah I’m a good guy OK, trying to do something that’s really important, Mike trusted me enough to fly me here, isn’t that good enough for you?’
Leah jumped up, throwing bits of peel at him. ‘No, it isn’t! For all I know you had a gun to his head.’
‘I didn’t, OK,’ Hudson said calmly. ‘Trust me, let me out of this chair and I’ll trust you enough to tell you what’s really going on.’
Samuel shook his head at Leah. She looked back at Hudson. ‘How about I get hold of Island Security and trade you for Mike?’
Hudson shook his head. ‘Then you’ll be confirming he’s been lying, if he’s stuck to our story, he’ll be in deeper shit.’
‘Goddamit!’ Leah shouted.
‘Leah,’ Hudson said gently, forcing her to look at him. ‘Mike trusted me, so should you.’
‘Ahh,’ Leah threw up her hands and strode to the kitchen. She snatched a knife from the countertop and went back to Hudson, sawing at the duct tape with little regard that the knife could slip and slice into his skin.
Hudson looked on warily.
When he was free Leah jumped away and snatched up the spear gun. ‘I won’t hesitate,’ she said, as Hudson slowly got to his feet and stretched, flicking his wrists and stomping his feet.
‘I’m sure you wouldn’t,’ he said sincerely, ‘but I promise, you won’t need to.’
‘Sam, go get my gun from the bedside table. He gets by me, kill him.’
Samuel returned waving the pistol.
Hudson nodded with respect, cracking his knuckles. ‘What I haven’t told you is this. I’m a crap sailor and even worse navigator, I hit a reef on that island your husband found me on and it was in the opposite direction I should have been travelling. The guys shooting up Mike’s plane wanted back what I had taken from them….’ he arched his back then bent forward touching his toes.
Leah shrugged her shoulders impatiently. ‘Don’t tell me, more goddam cocaine!’
Hudson shook his head. ‘I headed up security that guarded a facility in Puerto Rico. They were working on a vaccine.’
Leah became still.
Hudson nodded. ‘Yep, there’s a vaccine for Airbola.’
Leah stared hard at Hudson, letting the words sink in, searching for any humour, any jest in his expression. He remained calm and sincere, his gaze never leaving her. A vaccine! The implications reverberated around her thoughts like rolling thunder. She slowly sat back on the sofa, the spear gun slipping from her grasp. ‘I…I don’t understand…why have you…why were they shooting…’
Hudson looked relieved. ‘They wanted to keep it for those they thought deserved to be kept alive,’ he bunched his fists, ‘I didn’t agree, so stole it, which they aren’t too happy about it.’
‘Doesn’t make sense, they could have destroyed it by shooting up the plane.’
Hudson nodded. ‘They were just trying to stop us take off, I think the volley that hit the fuselage was just out of frustration. I think they were amazed Mike managed to get the thing off the ground.’
‘A vaccine!’ Leah looked at Samuel. ‘Did you hear that?’
Sam nodded; the pistol visible in his waistband. ‘Sure did.’
Leah leant forward, ‘where is it?’
Hudson held up his hands. ‘Hold on Leah, before we go any further, I need your promise that you’re going to help me? I think when they figure out where I am, they’ll be here in such force that no one on this island will be safe.’
Leah frowned.
‘I’ve got to get it through to the right people, the World Health Organisation has this region covered from Miami, they have the resources to develop it in mass quantities and distribute it throughout the world.’
‘They have sat phones on the island, if we got hold of one, we could get a message through and they’d come running,’ Leah said.
Hudson shook his head. ‘The guys with guns will be here long before that.’
‘I want to see it?’ Samuel said.
They both looked at him.
‘I want to see the vaccine,’ Samuel shrugged his shoulders. ‘He could be bullshitting you just to help him off this island.’
Leah raised her eyebrow. ‘Well? Sam has a point.’
Hudson took a step towards the door.
Samuel reached for the pistol.
Hudson held out his hands placatingly. ‘The vaccine’s in your boat shed.’
Leah held out her hand for the pistol. ‘Sam, go take a look. If this is a trick, don’t think for a moment I wouldn’t use this.’
Hudson bowed his head resignedly, ‘it looks like a cooler box, it’s in the boat under the seat.’
Sam left.
‘How long have they had a vaccine?’ Leah said.
‘A while, but it’s gone through various stages of development, it’s now seventy-five to eighty percent effective,’ Hudson sat back on the chair he had been tied to. ‘Do you think I could get some more water,’ Hudson said.
‘Mummy!’ a shrill cry from above.
Leah’s gaze darted up the stairway. ‘What is it Benjie?’
‘Mummy I need you!’
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ Leah said, watching Hudson.
‘Mummy!’
‘Shall I help myself?’ Hudson said.
Leah looked back from the landing.
‘Mummy!’ a scream this time.
‘Stay, right where you are,’ Leah said, climbing the stairs backwards, keeping the pistol pointing at Hudson. ‘What is it sweetheart?’ she said, glancing into his room.
‘Can’t open mummy,’ there were tears streaming down his face. It was the lid to his favourite tin of crayons.
‘Really!’ Leah said, with exasperation. She glanced down into the living room; Hudson was where she had left him.
She tucked the pistol into the back of her shorts and darted into the room and pried open the lid, spilling the brightly coloured crayons on the floor. The girl was sat in the corner on a bean bag, two fingers in her mouth. Eyes wide. ‘Why don’t you draw a picture together,’ Leah said.
‘I want you to help,’ Ben cried.
‘Not now Benjie, you start, and I’ll help in a little bit.’
Ben started crying.
‘Christ Benjie, do you have to do this now,’ Leah pulled over a colouring book, opening it at random. ‘Colour those in both of you and I’ll be back in a minute.’
Ben started to howl.
Leah controlled her anger, ‘come on Benjie, be a good boy.’
‘Leah?’
Leah rushed from the bedroom, swearing when she stubbed her toe against the railing upstand. Samuel was standing below, arms spread wide. ‘Where is he?’ he looked around. ‘There was no cooler box.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Leah said, glaring at Ben as he attempted to leave his bedroom. ‘Stay,’ she hobbled down the stairs, cursing the pain from her bandaged feet. ‘Bastard’s gone?’
‘Yep, why ya left him alone?’
‘I had no choice Sam, Ben was screaming the place down.’
‘Told ya not to trust him.’
‘He won’t last a minute out there! Damn it!’ Leah shouted and Ben howled louder.
‘You want to see if you can track him down?
Samuel suddenly looked past Leah, ‘no need,’ he growled.
Leah spun round and watched Hudson casually walk back into the building. ‘I told you not to move,’ she said, pulling out the pistol.
‘Sorry had to pee. Wasn’t sure where the facilities were, so went outside.’
‘There’s only one set of stairs, Sam would have seen you. You been snooping around?’
Hudson smiled apologetically. ‘Went over the railing at the back.’
‘Charming,’ Leah said. ‘Sit down,’ she motioned with the gun.
‘You don’t have to point that thing, I’m not going anywhere, not without your help anyway.’
‘Well I think I do because you were lying, there was no cooler box in the boatshed.
Hudson feigned surprise then slapped his forehead with his palm. ‘Sorry, with everything else, I forgot I brought it with me. It’s right there,’ he pointed to a cooler shaped box sitting in plain view on the floor by the bookcase.
Leah and Samuel exchanged puzzled looks.‘Thought it was yours,’ Samuel said.
‘Likewise, thought you’d brought it over from the boat,’ they were both looking down at the gunmetal coloured cooler shaped box. ‘That’s it?’
‘Yup, that’s all they need to start mass production.’
‘They don’t have more back at Puerto Rico?’ Leah said.
‘They have the formulas but out of chemicals. Until they get more, this is it,’ Hudson said.
‘So, they could always make more.’
‘Sure, and they will, probably doing it already but as I told you, they want to keep it for their new master race.’
‘The world’s salvation is sitting in that little box in the hands of a guy who can’t navigate the short distance between Puerto Rico and Miami!’ Leah said.
‘That’s why I need you and your boat.
Leah handed the pistol absently to Samuel. ‘I can’t think straight with him screaming the house down,’ she started towards the stairs. ‘Sam get him some water.’
Ben was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by crayons, wailing.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Leah said impatiently.
Ben held out his arms towards her and her anger evaporated, she scooped him up and with the thoughts of the vaccine, hugged him fiercely. ‘It’s all right, mummy’s here.’ She held out her hand for the girl who still sat on the bean bag sucking her fingers. ‘Come on, let’s go downstairs.’
Hudson and Samuel were sitting either end of the sofa, enjoying cans of beer.
Leah scowled.
‘Seemed like a good time to celebrate,’ Samuel said.
‘Get that play box down from up there,’ she said, snatching the can from his hand.
Leah tipped the box over, spilling the contents of a plastic kitchen set on the floor. She set Ben down and lifted a plastic cooker from the same shelf. ‘Why don’t you make your friend something to eat?’
Ben smiled, sweeping his hand through the plastic food. ‘Burger?’ he said, holding out the food that he had only ever seen in plastic.
‘The little girl?’ Hudson asked.
‘Not mine, Sam found her clinging to plane wreckage a week or so back, hasn’t said a word directly, only in nightmares. Don’t even know her name,’ Leah said, picking up the spear gun and disengaging the wishbones connected to the rubber bands that powered the spear as Ben crawled towards it.
‘Another orphan, there must be millions around the world,’ Hudson said.
Leah’s feet were killing her. She could feel a headache coming. She finished Sam’s beer. ‘So, open the box and prove that you have what you say you have?’
Hudson finished his can. ‘Can’t, hermetically sealed, once broken the vaccine has to be used or stored in a very cold place.’
Leah arched an eyebrow. ‘So, you’re asking us to help you without any proof that what you say is true?’
Hudson nodded.
Leah crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘You vaccinated?’
Hudson nodded. ‘At the lab…we all were.’
‘You could still be a carrier, what would you do if we became infected?’ Leah asked, looking towards Ben.
Hudson glanced down at his hands. ‘That would be a tough call. But you can’t get it from me, doesn’t work like that.’
‘We’ve been isolated since the beginning, news censored,’ Leah said irritably. ‘Enlighten me.’
Hudson grabbed a crayon from the floor and a scrap of paper. ‘Ok, I was lucky, I got tested early on, then we were locked down more securely than this island could ever be, so there was a very rare chance of me getting it. That’s important, because for a vaccine to work your body needs to be free of infection. Mine was, always has been.’ He started writing words in bubbles and connecting them as he spoke, ‘a vaccine imitates an infection, causing the immune system to produce T-lymphocytes and antibodies,’ he circled the two words and looked up at the two of them.
Leah waved him on.
‘Once the imitation infection goes away, the body is left with a supply of memory T-lymphocytes that will remember how to fight the disease in the future. When the familiar antigens are detected, B-lymphocytes produce antibodies to attack them. ‘I’ll need a booster in a few years’ time,’ Hudson dropped the crayon, ‘but right now I’m protected and if I’ve come in contact with anyone with it, the vaccine has sorted it out, there’s no chance of me passing it on.’
‘But you won’t help us?’
‘The whole world needs it Leah…in that box are different variants that treat people in slightly different conditions, ethnic backgrounds and with different blood types.’
Leah looked towards Ben.
‘Will you help me get it to Florida?’ Hudson said.
Leah blinked away her tears. ‘You’re kidding right?’ she looked at Samuel. ‘My son is lying right there and you’re asking me to put myself in a situation where I could catch the disease?’
‘Once I get it to the World Health Organisation, they can vaccinate you.’
Leah pinched the bridge of her nose, stood up and hobbled to the sliding doors, pushing them fully back, she went out onto the veranda and stared out to sea. Samuel arrived at her side. ‘I’ll go, you don’t have to risk anything.’
She didn’t respond for a while then squeezed his arm. ‘I know you would Sam but losing you would be the same as losing Ben, you’re family.’
Sam sighed deeply.
‘And anyway, Diving Belle would be missed and what would I tell them that wouldn’t put Ben in danger? After what happened at Kissimmee they’re going to be out to get me, I’m surprised they haven’t already turned up. You didn’t see what I saw at Purple Bob’s…he’s losing it and Mike…’ she put her hand to her mouth,’ Jesus Sam, I haven’t been thinking about him!’
‘Savin’ humanity’s a big deal,’ Sam said, ‘He’d forgive you,’ he smiled.
Leah slapped the top of the railing. ‘I’m not doing anything until he’s back with us.’ She walked back into the house. ‘How long you reckon this vaccine will keep?’
Hudson had slid to the floor and was helping the girl arrange a plastic food meal. ‘It’s already been ten days. Another twelve, tops.’
Leah nodded. ‘You help us get Mike back and then we’ll use the Belle to get you to Miami.’
Hudson studied Leah from the floor. ‘How long you think that’ll take.’
‘If we get going, four days.’
‘What happens if they don’t want to release him?’
‘They won’t. We’ll have to bust him out,’ Leah said.
‘That’s risky,’ Hudson levered himself off the floor.
Leah put her hands on her hips. ‘What he did for you was risky too!’
Hudson nodded, ‘I know, I know.’
‘We’ll need to be ready to go in a hurry,’ she looked at Samuel, a frown creasing her brow. ‘you get Belle ready, we find Mike, bring him straight there and leave.’
Samuel looked doubtful.
‘You’ll have the vaccine with you, he’ll behave, won’t you?’ Leah stared hard at Hudson.
‘You come back without them, you won’t be leaving this island,’ Samuel said darkly.
Hudson shrugged, grinning. ‘Looks like I have no choice.’
Leah studied him. ‘Would be nice if you were doing it from the goodness of your heart.’
Hudson looked pointedly at the vaccine case.
Leah felt her stomach tightening, the headache bloom. She desperately wanted Mike back but was equally desperate for the vaccine to be safely handed to the correct authorities. ‘We’ll need a vehicle.’
‘Nearest one will be the army jeep at the hotel,’ Samuel said.
Leah shook her head. ‘No way, they could already be getting ready to come here and pick me up.’
‘George’s pickup, he’s still got gas in it I think,’ Samuel said.
‘Go see if he’s willing to lend it,’ Leah said, ‘if not, persuade him it’s in the world’s interest.’
Hudson held up his hand.
Leah looked at him impatiently.
‘I have weapons…’ he gestured out the door, ‘the boatshed, black canvass bag.’
‘Samuel go with him. I’ll pack some stuff and meet you at the Belle.’
Samuel looked troubled but left without comment, carrying the spear gun and the pistol still in his waist band.
Ben held up a frying pan with a plastic fried egg. ‘Yum, yum, that for me?’ Leah said, picking out he egg and pretending to eat it.’
‘I’m hungry mummy, when’s daddy coming home?’
‘Soon,’ she knelt next to him and squeezed. ‘Soon, we’re going to pack a few things and then meet him at the boat and go on a trip. Would you like that?’
Ben traced a finger over her lips and then looked at the girl. ‘Will she come?’ Ben asked.
‘Ahuh,’ Leah said, settling her son on his feet and stroking the girl’s arm.
The girl flinched and pulled her knees to her chest, rocking, staring at the plastic food around her.
‘She’s not my friend,’ Ben said.
‘Come on, upstairs, we need to quickly sort out what we’re taking.’
Mike leapt awake from a klaxon blaring, hurrying figures slammed into him in the semi darkness, his fatigued mind slow to respond, slow to put the pieces together. He threw off his sheet, sweat on his body, the movement re-igniting the pain in his groin, which in turn fired synapses in his memory helping him remember the sequences leading to him falling asleep in Island Defender’s crew quarters. Groaning, he gingerly levered himself out of the commandeered bunk, feeling nauseous, trying to focus on the light coming through the door to the crew’s mess beyond. The klaxon still sounded. He could hear the occasional thump of feet running across the deck above. Mike had showered and crashed, naked. He peered for his clothes in the gloom before remembering he had thrown them in a trash can. He used the edge of the bunk to push himself to stand, hitting his head on cabling duct running across the low ceiling. Swearing, the klaxon filling him with urgency, he started searching the lockers for anything to wear. He located the switch, the light making him squint but his search easier. A pair of shorts, a size to big but providing the required looseness around his groin. A belt, to stop them slipping and a white t-shirt with an outline of Island Defender across one breast and a pair of blue Crocs, too small. Leaving the bunk room, he grabbed a banana and an un-touched square of toast, which he stuffed in his mouth so he could hold a mug of undrunk coffee. Island Defender began a hard turn to starboard and Mike slopped hot coffee over his hand as he clung to a rail for support. Cursing, he weaved down a short corridor before negotiating flights of stairs to the main deck. He could hear angry shouts from the bridge. He swallowed the last of the toast while looking in on a small airless cabin, crammed with communication systems and Island Defender’s limited armaments controls. An operator was listening in on the radio, another watching a radar screen. Mike crossed the connecting corridor between decks and onto the bridge, sipping his coffee. Moses unruly ginger hair, shone like an amber light above the back of the Captain’s chair, Cyril was standing behind him, crouched, looking forward through the windscreen, shouting instructions to Moses and via the handheld radio to men out on deck. Dwayne was standing near the engine controls. Mike went over to him. ‘What’s happening?’ he said quietly. Dwayne looked pensive and thrust his chin towards the bow. Island Defender was at full throttle, sending spray cascading along the foredeck. Mike could see the outline of a boat on the horizon. ‘Can’t make her out,’ he said. ‘ Looks like a cutter Mike. Pure crazy to be charging up like this, we don’t mess with cutter’s Mike,’ Dwayne said. Mike looked over at Moses. ‘He’s scared of young Roberts. Samuel in command, would be a different t’ing,’ Dwayne said. ‘A cutter? As in the US Coastguard?’ Dwayne nodded. Mike had a sudden premonition, the toast feeling heavy in his stomach. ‘Why’re we charging up to it Dwayne? Why’re we not being friendly?’ Dwayne shrugged, ‘he’s not answering the radio and Robert’s fired up wit powder.’ Island Defender was pitching through the swell making it impossible to stand without holding on. Mike handed his mug to Dwayne and staggered over to Moses and Cyril, his nausea increasing. ‘These could be the same people I met on Crooked Island?’ ‘Who invited you on dis damn bridge,’ Cyril snarled. ‘Intercepting an unidentified vessel, we’re within our rights,’ Moses said, glancing nervously at Mike. ‘Dwayne said it’s a cutter,’ Mike ignored the glare from Cyril. Moses nodded. ‘You don’t think we should be a bit more cautious?’ Mike said. ‘This an airplane?’ Cyril stood over Mike, nostrils flared, eyes fierce. Mike thought he could see a trace of white residue around the edge of his nostrils. ‘The men on the island that shot up my plane, they came off a boat that looked like that,’ Mike said grabbing a pair of binoculars and steadying himself against the side of Moses’ chair, ‘bloody hell,’ he whispered, ‘that’s gotta’ be her,’ he turned the focus wheel, ‘it’s US Coast Guard, can’t see her number because of the rust stains but I could swear it’s the same one and I know that gun on the foredeck works! I don’t think you should be steaming at it with men on deck ready for action.’ Cyril ripped the binoculars from him. ‘I said, is this a p..l…a..n..e?’ ‘You know it’s not,’ Mike said. ‘Well I’fraid,’ Cyril smiled unpleasantly,’ ‘uwah not the captain and you have no say, now fly away,’ and he shoved Mike on the shoulder. A roll from Island Defender helped carry Mike across the bridge where he crashed into a console for the bow thruster. ‘Moses,’ Mike said, rubbing his elbow, ‘have you tried getting them on the radio?’ ‘No reply,’ Moses said tightly. ‘Moses!’ Mike said urgently, forcing him to look at him. When he did, Mike shook his head. Cyril caught the action and his hand went to his holstered pistol. ‘Get!’ he shouted. ‘You’re mad!’ Mike pointed, the windscreen wipers clearing the spray, allowing them to see clearly the cutter alter course, in a contemptuous, unphased turn. ‘You should be heading away as fast as this thing will go!’ ‘I swear…,’ Cyril unbuckled his holster. Mike felt Dwayne beside him. ‘Come Mike, it’s no good.’ Mike allowed Dwayne to lead him off the bridge. ‘We’ve got to overpower him, take back control,’ Mike said urgently. ‘Thah idiot and half dah crew been shovelling powder, errybody pass any reasoning.’ Mike stepped into the comms cabin. ‘You trying them on Channel 16?’ The operator nodded. ‘Who were you speaking to earlier?’ Mike said. The operator’s look became sullen. ‘Base.’ ‘Purple Bob…I mean Commander Roberts, you spoke to him?’ Mike said. The operator shook his head. ‘Ms Suckoo.’ ‘What did she say?’ ‘If Defence Chief tinks we should intercept, we should intercept, Coast Guard or no Coast Guard, these uwah waters … she said they wuz Commander Roberts words.’ Mike looked at Dwayne. ‘That gun can get us well before we’re in range. One hit and we’ll be taken out of the water.’ Dwayne nodded. ‘I could shut down the engines.’ Mike rubbed his elbow, panic beginning to take hold. He forced it down. ‘No, we should be using all the speed we have to run away. Get out,’ he said, turning to the radio and weapons radar operators, Dwayne helping to pull them from their seats. He picked up the microphone and depressed the button. ‘Coastguard Cutter this is Island Defender off your bow, what is your intention, over.’ Static. Mike looked at Dwayne, ‘lock that door.’ Dwayne hesitated. ‘Now!’ he pressed the button on the handset. ‘Coastguard Cutter, Coastguard Cutter, this is Island Defender out of Petit Brac, you are in our territorial waters and we are concerned that you may be carrying the virus, can you please state your intentions, over.’ More static, the roar of the diesels drowned out any other sound, the deck vibrated through the steel frame of the chair. ‘Island Defender this is Coast Guard Cutter niner zero four, stand down your men, heave-to and prepare for boarding, over.’ Mike shot a look at Dwayne. Suddenly there was banging on the door. ‘Ahhh, Coast Guard Cutter niner zero four, good…good to hear your voice, we haven’t seen anyone for years…what…what brings you out this way…ahhh …over,’ Mike released the button looking nervously at the door which was beginning to move in its frame as something heavy had been brought to break it open. ‘Island Defender, we’re carrying out a quarantine sweep, heave to immediately and prepare for boarding, over.’ Mike clenched the microphone, sweat dripping onto the desktop. ‘Cutter nine zero four, Island Defender, we’ll heave to, over,’ he said, glancing up at Dwayne. ‘Open the door.’ Dwayne hesitated. ‘We have no choice, they’ll break it down in minutes anyway.’ A crewman fell over the threshold in mid swing with a fire axe. Cyril stepped over him and yanked Mike from the chair. ‘They’re doing a quarantine check, asking us to heave to,’ Mike shouted. ‘I told you,’ Cyril threw Mike against the wall, ‘uwah not in charge on this boat.’ ‘Island Defender, heave to immediately over?’ Cyril glared at the radio then back at Mike on the floor. He gestured to the recovering crewman. ‘Lock him up, he’s used ta that,’ he swung his foot aiming for Mike’s crotch, but Mike rolled his leg over and caught the blow on his thigh. The crewman still holding the axe, scrambled from the floor and pulled Mike up by his hair, wrapping an arm around his throat, arching his back. Cyril took another swing but again Mike managed to turn and took the blow on his thigh. In frustration Cyril stepped forward and swung a lazy round-arm punch, landing on the side of Mike’s head. Mike went slack in the crewman’s hold. Cyril was about to take another swing with his foot when Dwyane stepped in front of him. ‘Sir! Dah cutter Sir?’ Cyril took a few seconds to register Dwayne then yanked him from the cabin by his shirt front, ‘don’t mess wit me again boy,’ he growled, shoving him towards the bridge. ‘Island Defender this is your last warning,’ a voice through the overhead speaker stated. Cyril snatched the axe from the struggling crewman and swung it viciously, it’s metal point slicing into the speaker, sparks fizzed from the back of the box and electrical smoke started to fill the small space. ‘Git him from my sight.’ Mike weakly got to his feet. Island Defender was still at full throttle, the bow smacking away the swell, each impact sending a shudder through her hull. They both made their way by clutching at handholds. Mike pulled himself over the storm sill and out onto the side deck. He shaded his eyes against the spray. He could clearly see men running to action stations on the cutter’s deck. She was not at speed, with the wind behind her and a following sea, her bow cut through the water effortlessly and with little spray.. He felt a shove from behind. The crewman was trying to get through the door. Cyril was mad, Mike thought. Island Defender swooped down the back of a wave, he instinctively knew the impact of the following wave was going to be bigger than the rest. It hit Island Defender with a shuddering blow, almost stopping her dead. Mike clung desperately to a stanchion as sea water cascaded down the deck. His guard had been less prepared. One leg over the sill, one still inside, the force of water took his exposed leg out from under him, slamming him down the middle of the door frame. He yelled with pain. Mike stepped over him and pulled him inside. The crewman groaned with the movement. ‘I’ll go find help,’ Mike said, stepping back outside. An eruption of seawater close beside the hull sent another deluge down the deck. Mike picked himself up in time to see smoke curl away from the front gun on the Cutter. The contest was only going to go one way. Unbelievably he heard the clatter of Islands Defender front mounted machine gun. He could see bodies scattering on the deck of the Cutter and then the big gun began to move, its barrel aiming directly at them. Mike ran, skidded and slid down the deck to the aft of Island Defender, reaching the stern just as he heard above the crash of surf the boom from the cutter’s OTO Melara 76mm naval gun. Another eruption of water, this time a few feet off Island Defender’s bow. The gunner was just demonstrating his accuracy, Mike knew he could put a shell down wherever he fancied. He couldn’t believe he could still hear Island Defender’s machine gun. He ducked around the structure housing the engines and raced across the open cargo deck before sliding down the steps to the rear platform. Mike yanked open a storage locker and tumbled inside just as the third shell from Cutter Nine Zero Four hit Island Defender’s starboard deck where the injured crewman had been lying. Island Defender healed to port from the punch, the force tearing through the open door, down the passageway that spanned the width of the boat sending a sheet of flame from the torn away port door, like a cannon going off from a galleon. The radio room was destroyed and the glass in the bridge was blown outwards from its mountings. Moses was protected by his high-back steel chair. Shrapnel had taken out both of Cyril’s legs and splinters of wood and debris peppered his back. He had collapsed behind Moses’ chair. Dwayne lay dead next to him, his neck partly severed from a shard of metal, blood streaming from his carotid artery. The shell had blown a hole in the side of Island Defender. Mike, in his coffin like hiding place, surrounded by buoys, chain and anchor spares, all started sliding to starboard and he knew Island Defender was taking on water. Another explosion followed by the screech of buckling metal and the crash of debris falling to the deck behind him. They had hit the communication tower that sat on top of the bridge. From the vibration through his back the engines were still operating but they were no longer pounding into the swell, as he envisaged this had been no fair contest. Island Defender was going down and he didn’t want to stay where he was. Mike manoeuvred over to the locker door and pushed it open, a slither of light into the dark. He peered through the crack. He was looking starboard and could immediately see how much closer the surface of the sea was to deck level. Then the bow of the Cutter slid into view. It was very close and towered over their sinking boat. He could see a man on the bow of the Cutter looking back towards the bridge of Island Defender. He had an automatic rifle trained over the deck. He could hear muffled shouts. The guy on the bow seemed relaxed, he had the posture of any man relieved from immediate action, wary but confident that he was no longer in danger. Waves began to slop over the gunnels. He had to do something before she capsized. The decision was made for him. A pair of army boots appeared and the door was yanked open. A man in grey battle fatigues stood back levelling a pistol. ‘Out!’ he shouted. Mike rolled from his hiding place and the man put a boot in the middle of his back, preventing him from going any further. ‘We got the one we saw running,’ he shouted. ‘Pat him down and bring him over,’ came a distant shout. ‘Come on buster,’ the boot left his back and Mike was yanked to his feet. They both stood against the slanting deck, Mike’s arms spread wide as the man patted him down briefly. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Mike Huntley,’ Mike reached out for support as Island Defender slipped another degree. ‘Come on, before she goes.’ The man grabbed Mike’s arm and helped him up the stairs and then along the slanting cargo deck to where a RIB was tethered, just behind the hole the shell had made. Island Defender was barely recognisable. Fire was consuming the bridge, thick black smoke billowed from the smashed windows and doorways, debris lay everywhere and he could see a body buried under the satellite dish that had once stood high in the communication tower. There were five of the twenty-three Island Defender crew on the RIB, Moses and Cyril were among them. He was hauled aboard and sandwiched between them. Moses managed a weak grin, Cyril was unconscious, blood pooling around his legs. Mike hoped it would be terminal. ‘That’s it I reckon,’ the man who had found him, called the Cutter on his radio. ‘Too bad if it ain’t, she’s going any minute.’ They cast off and the RIB’s outboard swiftly opened up the distance, Mike was jostled and thumped against the rubber sided hull as it bounced over the swell, the driver making a wide arc around the far side of the cutter before nosing up to a ladder let down from the lee deck. Moses, Mike and two crew were hustled up the ladder, Cyril hauled up in a stretcher. He was immediately taken below while they were allowed to cross the deck to watch Island Defender make her farewell to the sunlit side of the sea. She had already rolled when they arrived. Her hull was facing the sun, the scars from skirmishes with reefs clearly showing in her black paint. Around her floated debris, each explosion of air as she settled deeper sending more stuff up to the surface like vomit. Waves started to lap over her but still she stayed, just below the surface, then with a final explosion of bubbles she disappeared her twin bronze propellers catching a few rays of sunlight, a final wink goodbye. A body swirled in the vortex left by her sinking. He wondered if it was Dwayne. Mike didn’t know whether he felt saddened or relieved at seeing Island Defender go. She had represented security for their haven and had been crewed by good guys, Dwayne in particular was a sad loss. Cyril should have been the one sinking down into the depths. ‘Come on, Captain wants to talk to you.’ Mike and Moses were shoved forward, his captor still held his pistol. Mike noticed the crew weren’t wearing uniform. ‘This how you normally go about quarantine checks?’ Mike asked, as he was pushed through a door into the interior. ‘Self-defence my friend.’ ‘You’re not worried we might be contaminated?’ ‘Nope.’ Mike glanced back at the man. There was no expression on his face that he could see through the tangle of beard, least one of concern. Mike frowned. ‘Why not?’ ‘Quit asking questions Mike, that’ll be the Captain’s privilege when he gets round to you.’
Mr George’s 90’s Nissan pick-up had a strong engine but a decrepit body. Leah and Hudson clung on grimly as the truck banged and rattled over the surface, Mr George’s cushion seat replacements, doing little to protect their spines. Hudson glanced anxiously through the dirt of the rear window at his bag sliding around the scarred bed. Leah glanced over, her hands tight on the erratic wheel movements. ‘What you got in there?’ Hudson swore as his head hit the ceiling with the jolt from an unseen drainage channel. ‘Nothing that’ll explode if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he grimaced. 'Would you kill someone if you had to?’ Leah said, concentrating on trying to find the least potholed route. ‘As a last resort Leah,’ Hudson wound up his window, stopping the dust and accepting the suffocating heat as a better option. ‘Have you?’ Leah said. Hudson glanced at her. ‘What?’ ‘You know… killed anyone?’ Hudson stared ahead. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not directly.’ ‘You get others to do your dirty work?’ Leah said. Hudson scowled. ‘It’s just… there’s this guy called Thompson, a nasty prick, and to get Mike, we might have to deal with him… and I’m definitely not great with guns.’ Hudson lifted a hand from the dashboard to push it through his sweat matted hair. ‘You didn’t have a problem pointing one at me earlier,’ he grinned. The corners of Leah’s mouth lifted but her eyes remained serious. ‘You were tied up and I had Sam with me.’ ‘Mike mentioned this Thompson guy too. Many good people have died, so taking out a bad’n shouldn’t mean I’ll be thrown in hell,’ Hudson said. Leah risked taking her eyes off the road. Hudson’s grin broadened. ‘You don’t strike me as superstitious… and I don’t think it’s funny.’ ‘I’m not… not really… and trust me, nor do I,’ Hudson said, holding her gaze, ‘but humour is the only thing that’ll see us through all this.’ Leah was silent as she changed gears to manoeuvre the Nissan around a detour put in place to avoid a fallen tree. ‘Were you married before all this?’ Hudson shook his head. ‘Family?’ ‘I had a boy but he died from a car accident a year before the pandemic,’ he pointed ahead and Leah glanced back in time to swerve around a man walking a bike along the side of the road. ‘The rest of my family I don’t know... we weren’t on great terms.’ They were passing beach front property and the road surface became better cared for. Stone chippings from patched potholes clattered off the underside of the truck. ‘I’m sorry about your son,’ Leah said. Hudson stared ahead. ‘Never really knew my mother but lost my Dad before this happened. Don’t know if I could’ve hung out here all this time if he’d still been alive,’ Leah said. ‘You’d’ve abandoned Mike and Ben to go look for him?’ Hudson said. Leah looked off to her right as a view of the sea suddenly appeared. ‘You like saving people Leah?’ Hudson said. Leah had a sudden vision of her boat captain, Ricardo, dying trying to save a kid from drowning in the river they had navigated to fulfil a contract, paying her enough to keep Diving Belle afloat for another year. He had been family, like Samuel, and she had been as responsible for his death as the bullets that had torn into his body. ‘I’m not very good at it, which is why you’re helping me get Mike back,’ she said tightly. ‘He’s a lucky man,’ Hudson said. Leah involuntarily looked down at herself. Her shorts had ridden high from the bucking ride. Her tanned legs were defined by muscle as she worked the pedals. She could feel him looking and her anger came, not from his attention but that she didn’t mind. ‘We’re here,’ she said, slowing. ‘The fort out there on the promontory, the old prison is part of it.’ ‘Pull up,’ Hudson said, indicating a lay-by that jutted out into the water and was protected by a barrier of dumped boulders colonised by mangrove trees. ‘Pretend you have to go pee,’ he saw her look, ‘in case they’ve got a lookout.’ Leah glared at him, her shoulder pushing open the door. ‘What’re you going to do?’ Hudson had to hit his door several times before it opened. He retrieved his bag and pulled out his Seeker 8 x 42 binoculars. ‘Recce of my own.’ Crouched over, he ran to the nearest boulder and squeezed into a gap screened by mangrove branches. He looked back to see where Leah was. She was hesitating by the back of the pick-up. ‘Make yourself obvious,’ he grinned seeing her discomfort. She walked to a gap in the mangrove screen. ‘Hey, it’s no big deal, I have to go anyway.’ ‘Don’t let them see you talking,’ Hudson said. He swept his gaze along the concrete pier, the abandoned containers on the hard and then up over the old fort, following it’s ruined outline and then down to the newer buildings that were the old prison. After several minutes, his frown deepened. ‘I can’t stay here forever,’ Leah hissed. Hudson squirmed out of the gap and rested his back against a boulder. Through the scraggy foliage he could just make out Leah, squatting but using a rock so that only her head and knees were visible from anyone looking from the direction of the fort. ‘You can pull up your shorts now,’ Hudson said. Leah stood and Hudson had a brief view of her lightly tanned buttocks. His instant reaction caught him by surprise. He dropped his gaze, relishing the shiver that ran up his spine. ‘Damn,’ he whispered. He arrived back at the pick-up at the same time as Leah. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘Looks too quiet.’ ‘What do you mean,’ Leah frowned. ‘Didn’t see anyone. No guards. No sign of life.’ ‘Any vehicles out front?’ Hudson shook his head.’ ‘Get in.’ Leah said. They drove in silence around the bay, glancing anxiously at the Fort every time it appeared through gaps in vegetation or between industrial storage sheds and broken shacks. There was no one about. They reached the turn off and Leah indicated, realised how unnecessary it was, and irritably clicked the stalk back to neutral. They crept up the gravel drive, the pick-up throwing their bodies against the side and one another as it dipped in and out of run-off channels. She stopped just before the guard hut came into view. ‘We’ll walk from here,’ she said, frowning as the door opened with a dry screech. ‘Grab your bag.’ ‘Hang on, I don’t want to take the whole thing,’ he went to the bed. ‘Ever used one of these?’ Hudson held out a Colt Lightweight 45mm Commander Pistol. Leah took it from him without hesitation. ‘Loaded?’ Hudson nodded. She pulled back the slider enabling the first cartridge to enter the barrel. ‘I may not have shot anyone, but I know how they work. Ready?’ she tucked the pistol in the back of her shorts. Hudson looked impressed, then pulled out an M4 carbine. ‘You serious!’ Leah said. ‘Isn’t that a bit overkill?’ Hudson shook his head as he found two magazines, slotting one into the M4 the other into his back pocket. ‘Not from your description of this Thompson guy, sounds like this is the only thing he understands,’ Hudson patted the stock of the assault rifle. ‘You ready?’ he smiled pleasantly. Leah nodded nervously. Hudson jogged up the track until the bend and then knelt behind a crumbling wall. Leah scrambled in beside him. He looked through a gap where bricks had fallen away. ‘Anything?’ Leah whispered. Hudson frowned, shaking his head. ‘The door’s open, take a look.’ He moved away to give Leah room. ‘As I said, looks deserted,’ Hudson said. Leah nodded for him to get going. ‘Wait here.’ Hudson checked once more, then darted across the track to the guard hut. He glanced inside. No sleeping man. He hurried across the gravel parking area to the main entrance, flattening himself against the outside wall. He cautiously peered around the door frame into the darker interior. Satisfied, he slipped inside. Half a minute later he reappeared. ‘Nothing,’ he said as Leah stood up from behind the wall. Leah ran across the gravel, ‘Godammit, he was definitely here,’ she went inside, turning left, she passed the changing area through an open steel barred door and into a dead end corridor with cells running down the left wall. All empty, square repellent spaces conjuring images of suffering. Leah cried out in frustration. ‘They must have taken him somewhere else,’ she said, emerging back into the heat and sunlight. Hudson shrugged. ‘Any guesses?’ ‘He’s out of quarantine so they should have let him go home but we didn’t pass anyone on the road.’ Hudson shook his head. ‘They must have taken him to Plymouth,’ Leah clenched her fists, ‘maybe they’ve transferred him to the new prison.’ ‘Why?’ Hudson said. ‘Because Muckenfuss confessed,’ she glared at him. ‘What about the airport?’ Hudson suggested. Leah shook her head. ‘We passed it on the way, there was no one around.’ ‘Is there anyone you could ask who might know?’ Leah frowned. ‘No one I trust.’ ‘Ok, if he’s in the other prison there’s no chance of us getting him out, so let’s get back to your boat,’ Hudson said. ‘We’re not leaving without him!’ Leah shouted. Hudson pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘We can’t run around waving guns looking for him without someone noticing.’ ‘Agreed,’ Leah strode off. ‘You’re a stranger here and will attract attention, I’ll go on my own,’ she looked back, walking backwards, ‘I’ll keep this,’ she waved the pistol above her then turned and ran out passed the guard hut. ‘Wait up!’ Hudson shouted, running after her. He caught up with her as she was getting into the Nissan. ‘Walk back,’ she said starting the engine. ‘Samuel won’t go anywhere without me.’ ‘That’s crazy, you don’t think that’ll attract attention?’ Leah crunched the pick-up into reverse. ‘Let me come with you! You might need my help,’ Hudson held up his rifle. Leah squeezed her eyes shut; knuckles white on the wheel. ‘Get in,’ she said. Hudson ran around the front of the pickup and scrambled into the passenger seat. ‘You see anyone, duck into the footwell,’ she said, not looking at him but through the back window as she backed the Nissan down the track, the gearbox whining from the speed. ‘What’s your plan?’ Hudson asked as they reached the road. Leah selected first and gunned the engine. Throwing gravel up from the tyres, she accelerated forward. ‘The prison. I’ll ask one of the guards. I’ll know if he’s there even if they lie to me. Then, it’ll be Kissimmee, Purple Bob’s headquarters.’ She crunched through the gears, the truck swaying and sliding over the loose surface, fishtailing as she braked hard for the Middle Island Road, Hudson was thrown against his door which flew open, he snatched at the grab rail, thankful it held his weight and hauled himself back in, moments before the door smacked through a roadside fruit stall, the glass in the window shattering, wood and debris careening off the bodywork. Hudson attempted to bang the door shut but it was too badly damaged. He held onto it, looking wide eyed at Leah, ‘who’s Purple Bob?’ Leah was biting her lower lip as she wrestled control back into the weaving pick-up, ‘our cock-sucking corrupt self-proclaimed leader who I’d gladly put a bullet between the eyes of.’ ‘Bloody hell,’ was all Hudson could say, trying to brush broken glass and other debris off his seat. ‘Goddamit!’ he exclaimed as a sliver of glass sliced his finger, he sucked it and then held it out to her. Leah pulled a ‘whatever’ expression and concentrated on the road ahead. ‘You don’t slow down, this thing won’t make it,’ Hudson shouted above the roar of the engine. They raced through a deserted village, Leah realising it was about here that she first encountered Jerimiah and Joe pulling the cart stacked with melons. When was that? She thought, realising she had lost track of time. Their speed bled away as they started to climb up onto the plateau, the great expanse of limestone that gave the island its name. They passed pockets of cultivated land amid the harsh bare outcrops of rock, where scraggy vegetation and stunted trees clung to life. The road switched-backed through the harsh terrain, linking the areas where the soil collected in valleys and basins, the greenery, and trees more vivid after the grey, bare rock. Another village, poorer than the last, a few ramshackle buildings, in faded primary colours, empty stalls by the roadside which Leah avoided hitting but not the sarcastic comments from Hudson. They reached one of the highest points on the island. From here the size of Petite Brac could be seen in stark perspective to the magnitude of sea surrounding them. Leah braked hard, causing the Nissan to slew across the road. She stared ahead, eyes slitted. To their left was a driveway, its entrance marked by a leaning post box. The house could be seen through foliage. An old colonial style wooden dwelling sitting on ironwood piles, painted pale blue with a pink stripe from the veranda like a ship’s plimsole line. Ahead, the road reappearing at intervals as brown scars through the vegetation, disappearing completely before the rooftops of Plymouth in the distance. An iguana appeared on the driveway, stopping to gaze unblinking at the Nissan, one leg raised, before hurrying on. ‘Why’ve we stopped?’ Hudson said, still hanging on to his door. ‘Need to borrow your binoculars,’ Leah said, getting out. Hudson let his door swing open and joined her, handing the binoculars from his bag up to her as she stood in the back of the pick-up. She took them without comment and used the roof of the cab to steady her gaze. ‘What’s up?’ Hudson said. ‘Get up here,’ she said, holding out the binoculars. ‘About ten degrees to the right of the harbour wall, what do you see?’ Hudson crouched next to her, using the roof to steady his hands like she had done. She could tell when he had found it because his fingers tightened their grip. ‘A patrol boat…can’t make out any identification…. smaller than the one chasing me…heading away from the island so can’t be the same guys,’ he straightened. ‘It’s Island Defender,’ Leah said thoughtfully. ‘Samuel’s the captain but he’s not on board, so it’s either an emergency or a mission they didn’t want him on.’ ‘Is that bad news for us?’ Hudson asked. Leah’s frown deepened, her fingers drumming on the hot cab roof. ‘Dunno, lets go,’ she said, clambering out and getting back in behind the wheel. ‘Hey, hang on before you charge off again,’ Hudson shouted, jumping down his side and shouldering his door shut. He went round to her door. ‘I’m not risking you throwing me out again,’ he smiled, gesturing for her to get out so he could scoot across the bench seat. Leah swung her legs out from under the wheel and started to step out. Her right foot snagged on the webbing of the buckle seat belt lying uselessly on the floor and she stumbled forward, falling against Hudson who had been holding on to the open door. Their bodies remained pressed together as she tried to free her foot. Hudson felt the same spike of excitement as earlier, the first physical contact and her warm skin with the firmness of muscle beneath was like an electric shock to his fingertips. She freed herself with a cry of exasperation and looked up at him, her nostrils flared and pupils dilated as she caught his look, the smell of him, the press of his chest against her. She pushed herself free, and stood with hands on hips before gesturing impatiently for him to get in. Hudson gazed at her a second longer than necessary before ducking into the cab and sliding across to his side. Leah stared at the space he had occupied. She threw up her arms with frustration and slid in behind the wheel, making a point of not looking at him. She rammed in first gear and raced away, going faster than she would normally dare, taking the corners with the back end sliding, correcting then over correcting, making the driving as dangerous as she could to take her mind off anything else. They raced into Plymouth forty minutes later, maintaining their silence. She abandoned thoughts of Kissimmee. Memories of Purple Bob and what she endured were an open wound and in her current state with a loaded weapon; she knew she’d be hard pushed to contain herself. She headed into town, weaving through the sparsely peopled streets, Hudson ducking down whenever someone came into view, until they came out on Harbour Road. They were the only vehicle moving and got attention as the Nissan’s blown exhaust echoed off the buildings. Leah gasped as they swept into the parking area. Their old Land Rover was parked next to the empty quay side, bonnet up and its front tyres in a puddle of water. ‘No, no, no,’ Leah hit the wheel with her fist as they skidded to a halt alongside. An old man with a stained vest, tatty shorts and bare feet was sitting on a mooring bollard, coiling rope. Leah strode over to him and Hudson watched her lithe body gesticulate to the berth and out to sea, her posture impatient as she waited for his replies. ‘Mike’s gone out on her,’ she said, returning with tears in her eyes. ‘He didn’t know where they were going or why.’ Leah put her hands either side of the door frame and breathed deeply. ‘The old man’s sure it’s Mike?’ Leah nodded. ‘Anyone we can ask who’ll know where they might be heading?’ Hudson said. ‘Purple Bob for sure, but after what they’ve done to him I’d just blow his fucking balls off,’ Leah looked up, tears on her cheeks. Hudson nodded, the urge to reach out, almost irresistible. Leah took another deep breath. ‘We’ll go back to Diving Belle, I know what frequency they operate on, we can listen and maybe get an idea from that. Then shadow her and wait for our chance.’ She got into the Nissan. Hudson couldn’t keep the scepticism from his eyes. ‘They…could be heading in the wrong direction…’ ‘So?’ Leah snapped. ‘Miami,’ Hudson said quietly. ‘I told you. We’re not going anywhere without him!’ she started the engine. ‘If you don’t like it, get out and charter your own boat, see how well that goes.’ Hudson held out his hands, palm up. ‘You know how important it is to get to Miami?’ ‘Of course I fucking do,’ Leah reversed away from the berth. ‘As important as getting Mike back.’ ‘I know, I know,’ Hudson ducked down as they passed a group of men standing idly by a closed shop front. ‘It’s just the vaccine has a shelf life… Mike… doesn’t.’ ‘Fuck you. Who knows how long he’s got! That damn cocaine he brought back is making everyone unpredictable.’ Hudson reached for a water canteen that had spent the journey rolling around the footwell. He unscrewed the cap and wiped the top, holding it out for her. She took it without taking her eyes off the road and gulped half the contents before handing it back. Hudson finished the rest. They got back to Diving Bell at dusk, the horizon a fusion of gold and purple, silhouetting a formation of pelicans, wingtips brushing the surface, the rustle of warm evening breeze in the palms melding with the lap of water around the pilings. Leah stopped suddenly, taking in the normal world around her, appreciating again it was only the human stratum that was screwed up. Hudson was a few metres behind having retrieved his bag. She stared at the horizon, trying to calm her inner self, thinking of her yoga routine, one she had been practising dawn and dusk since they had got back to the Petit Brac, since the time she had met Mike in Central America, since the time she had allowed someone to get close to her after her father had died. She felt Hudson stop behind her. She shivered. ‘Look how beautiful that is,’ she said. ‘Sure is,’ Hudson replied, ignoring the view. Leah rolled her head, groaning as she felt the tension. She stretched her arms above her, ignoring him and absorbing the serenity and beauty of what had become her home. Maybe the first home she had ever had. She looked over her shoulder and as she suspected, caught him looking at her. ‘Get on board,’ she said quietly.
Mike’s head collided with the Land Rover’s window as Thomson sped over the rutted surface of Middle Island Road from Trunk Bay to Plymouth. His left hand handcuffed to the grab rail, made it difficult to balance. The Land Rover, his Land Rover, was taking a battering. Thompson occasionally looked in the rear-view mirror and grinned at his obvious discomfort. ‘Tell me how you got hold of my vehicle?’ he shouted for the third time, ‘you son of a bitch,’ he cursed more quietly, bracing himself to ease the pressure on his groin, cringing as the suspension crashed through a series of deep ruts. ‘Did Leah try to see me? What have you done with her?’ Thompson adjusted the rear-view mirror that wouldn’t stay in place with the vehicle’s vibration. ‘Vehicle’s only fah people who’re useful to island security,’ Thompson’s eyes were hidden behind reflector shades. Something red rolled across the footwell catching Mike’s attention. A toy dinosaur, one of Ben’s. His vision blurred. He tried to trap it with his foot, but it rolled out of sight. They rattled through a village, two old men sitting on a bench under trees outside a small, weather worn church, used their hats to wave as they sped by. Mike strained to look behind but they had already been lost in a cloud of dust. They slowed slightly to pass an old tractor pulling a trailer of hay, the corrugated surface, threatening to shake the Land Rover’s windows from their frames. They crossed over the summit and raced down through a series of hair pins before bumping up onto the made-up section of road as it entered the back end of Plymouth. Thompson overtook a woman on a bike, frightening her into the curb; Mike could hear her scream through his open window. They skidded to a halt at Brac Prison roundabout, allowing two cautious men on scooters to pass in front. In the centre of the roundabout was a well-maintained garden, red and gold tropical flowers in stark contrast to the austere concrete building beyond. There were guards at the gates and army jeeps parked in bays. Thompson was looking at him, enjoying his fear. There was a sudden banging on the roof of the Land Rover. ‘Wah yih doin’ yih damn fool, ya could’ve killed me,’ the woman on the bike shouted about to get off, when she recognised Thompson. Her angry, sweat glistening face miraculously changing into a beatific smile. ‘Ohh, I’m pure stoopid for nah seein’ you General, pure stoopid fah sure, but I did not recognise this car.’ Thompson wound down his window and beckoned her closer. The woman’s smile wavered. She was of dual heritage, with Latino skin and attractive dark, oval eyes. She awkwardly manoeuvred her bike closer. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her young confidence vanishing. ‘Wah’s yah name?’ Thompson said. ‘Coral.’ ‘Goin’ see yah boyfriend Coral?’ Thompson said, pointing at the prison. Coral shook her head. Thompson slowly took off his glasses. ‘Two choices gyal, this government vehicle which uwah messed with, means you can cool out there for a few days,’ he gestured towards the prison again, ‘or come with me, and discuss da options.’ Coral looked fearfully from the intimidating building back to Thompson. ‘General, I gah a boyfriend.’ Thompson drummed his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel. ‘Wah’s his name?’ Coral looked uncomfortably to the ground. ‘Thomas… Tom… works… used to work at tyre shop on Easy Street.’ Mike used his free hand to push himself off the seat, easing his discomfort and slackening the strain on his other hand. He noticed the paler band on his wrist from his father’s watch. He frowned wondering when he had last seen it. Had they taken it off him at the old prison? Or had he left it on the plane? Was he wearing it when he left the house last? The only connection to his family and anger bloomed that he may have lost it. ‘I thought we had some place to go,’ he said. Thompson stopped looking at Coral and turned in his seat. ‘Wah’s at? ‘You taken me somewhere or we just out for a drive?’ Mike said. ‘Maybe we’re here,’ Thompson grinned. ‘Well get the fuck on with it,’ Mike said. Thompson looked as though he was about to hit him but thought better of it. He dropped back in his seat, crunched the Land Rover into gear. ‘Get outta my way gyal,’ he commanded, and accelerated forward, passing the exit to the prison. They sped through the back streets. People bolting from their path, so used to moving about without vehicles. Mike wanted to shout from the window about the existence of a vaccine. No more fear of the future, the dread of dying in agony. He could be their salvation, maybe a hero rather than handcuffed off to God knows where. Mike’s anger quickly faded. The fate of his family increasing the weight on his fragile, despairing mind. Would they act responsibly? Or, perhaps like him, they liked the way island life had become? The slower pace, no pressure to earn a living. But, sooner or later the disease would find them, the agonising deaths, a handful of naturally immune survivors, scraping a living from this rock in the Caribbean. The truly hopeless thing he realised, even with the trauma from such unimaginable loss of life, those that survived, would be drawn back to the world before. The need to get back to normal. Someone would emerge as a want-to-be leader, like Purple Bob, then the fighting, killing, struggling for power, greed, corruption… all the crap would come flooding back and the sorry history of mankind would stumble on, this tragedy fading from memory and becoming folk law, like… like the Black Death and Spanish Flu. Mike swayed and thudded against the battered frame, his mood suicidal, not daring to think about Leah and Ben. Mercifully, they skidded to a halt in front of the Kissimmee Resort. Thompson unlocked Mike’s handcuff and hauled him out. ‘What are we doing here?’ ‘Speak when spoken to,’ Thompson said, pushing Mike forward. Mike stumbled, his flipflops slapping against the smooth surface, only able to take pigeon steps because of his injuries. Impatiently shoved from behind, Mike became aware of the luxurious surroundings, the stark contrast to the Old Prison, stunning. The air conditioning, the clean surfaces, a man in uniform using a machine to polish the marble floor, another watering the tropical floor to ceiling plants; the only thing missing was groups of well-dressed tourists. He was acutely aware of his smell and the state of his clothes. Shoved onwards, they passed closed boutiques, a bar, a coffee shop, meeting areas with excessive tropical coloured sofas and chairs, all neatly arranged with puffed up cushions, ready for guests that had been banished over two years ago. Beyond, through walls of glass, was a vast infinity pool. They entered a walkway that led across the surface to an atrium and a guard standing in front of a door with a crudely painted sign, ‘Purple Suite’. The guard made a lethargic motion to come to attention when he recognised Thompson, who gave an impatient wave of his hand indicating for him to open the door. The guard looked undecided. Thompson scowled. ‘Wah’s problem?’ ‘No clothes allowed,’ the guard said, uncomfortably. Thompson stepped closer and grinned wickedly. ‘You whan my phone number?’ The guard shook his head. ‘Cause any time my clothes come off, a gyal whan’s my phone number, yah know what I’m saying?’ The guard reached for the handle. ‘What ‘bout him.’ ‘Truss me, yah don’t wanna see this white boy naked.’ Down a corridor Mike witnessed staff cleaning a bathroom and then from a balcony he looked down on a ransacked living area that a gang of cleaners was desperately trying to repair. A naked woman lay on one sofa, oblivious to the activity and a man was stretched out on the floor, his buttocks pale against a black and purple swirled rug. Thompson took a twist of his shirt and dragged him to a door, knocking impatiently. There was a gruff reply and Thompson went first. ‘I’ve got the pilot, boss.’ He allowed Mike to walk into the room without a shove. Purple Bob had his back to them, sitting at a writing desk, his ample backside flowing over the edges of the chair. He was naked. He looked over his shoulder and studied Mike though hooded eyes. Mike wrenched his gaze from the overflowing flesh to the bed, its purple sheets hanging off one side. Cushions were scattered everywhere; empty bottles and glasses covered most surfaces. Cyril walked in from the bathroom, patting his face with a towel. He was dressed in jeans and open necked polo shirt. He looked at Mike with disgust. ‘Ya should’ve hosed him?’ Thompson shrugged apologetically. ‘Damn, I can smell him from here,’ Cyril said. ‘You understand, we had to make sure,’ Purple Bob said, turning back to whatever was occupying him on the desktop. ‘Your fucking people tortured me, so no, I don’t understand’ Mike said, shifting uncomfortably as the memories flooded back. Thompson made a move, but Cyril held up his hand, stopping him. ‘Desperate times require desperate measures,’ Purple Bob rumbled, before leaning forward and snorting loudly. His body slumped in the chair, his shaved head back, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. ‘Man, you sure found the best damn coke I’ve ever known,’ he said, holding his hands out as if praising God. ‘You’ve got a shit way of showing appreciation,’ Mike said, ‘why am I here? I want to go home and see my family.’ Purple Bob stood and faced him, hands on hips, his bulging stomach and hanging genitalia making him look like some grotesque cave drawing or child’s horror picture. Mike looked away. ‘All in good time,’ Purple Bob smiled but it looked more like a leer as he hooked a purple silk dressing gown off the back of the chair and wrapped it around him. ‘Cause I require your services again.’ Mike looked back at the big man and resolutely focused on his face. ‘If you mean flying, I don’t think the King Air will be taking to the skies again…sadly.’ Purple Bob nodded. ‘You really fucked her up, didn’t you? Some might say you owe this island… a recompense.’ Mike clenched his fists but said nothing. ‘Maybe, like you finding another plane to fly.' Purple Bob walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, his legs splayed, the dressing gown hanging open exposing himself again. Mike was beyond tired. His hatred of the men standing with him in the room was not enough to give him the energy he needed to think clearly. He swayed and without asking, staggered to a nearby chair and sat carefully. ‘Y’want something to eat? Drink?’ Purple Bob said. Cyril threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Get on wit da plan, father.’ Purple Bob studied Mike. ‘You understand I think, uwah position on this island?’ ‘I just want to get back to my family. I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. It wasn’t my fault what happened.’ ‘Dat’s the only reason uwah still here,’ Cyril growled. ‘An why uwah woman still breathin.’ Purple Bob held up his hand. ‘Son, we agreed. I was doin’ the talking.’ Cyril threw his towel onto the floor. ‘I’m goin’ to get sumthing to eat,’ he strode towards the door, ‘come wit me,’ he looked at Thompson and then he hesitated, ‘he’s nah got the balls to do anything stoopid,’ he laughed harshly, ‘and the door’s locked, so nothing gonna happen like it did wit his woman,’ he laughed again, slamming the door behind them. Mike tried to concentrate. ‘Was Leah here?’ Purple Bob almost looked apologetic. ‘Ahuh, she paid me a visit. Wanted to know you were okay.’ ‘Here! In this room!’ Mike said aghast. ‘She’s fine,’ Purple Bob said. ‘I want to go home,’ Mike said, getting unsteadily to his feet. Purple Bob motioned for him to sit back down while getting up and pouring a glass of water from a carafe on the bedside table. He handed it to Mike. ‘Uwah position Mike, here on the island,’ he stood looking down at him, ‘it’s fragile, and that of your family…Cyril’s angry with uwah woman…he’s…he’s getting difficult to control.’ Mike finished the glass. ‘Is my family in danger?’ Purple Bob went back to his chair at the desk. No, no, no ,no, Mike…’ he smiled, ‘provided you are,’ he searched for the right word, ‘compliant,’ his smile broadened, ‘then I can personally guarantee their safety,’ Purple Bob finished in his best Sandhurst accent. Mike could feel the water filtering through his body, returning some lucidity. ‘So, unless I do what you say, they are in danger?’ ‘Precisely. That’s why I’m sending you on Island Defender to find another aircraft. We need to keep our security intact. It’s vital business Mike.’ Mike put his head in his hands. ‘I’m not leaving this island again,’ he looked up feeling tearful. ‘I’m not having you bastards interrogate me again.’ Purple Bob’s face clouded over but then regained its smile. ‘I guarantee dat will never happen again.’ ‘It didn’t have to happen then! I’m not leaving this island.’ Purple Bob’s face suddenly became serious. ‘You fucked up my plane Mike, uwah duty is to find me another.’ Desperation returned with full force. ‘What about Mr. Pete? Why can’t he go?’ Mike said. ‘He does not have the same skills as you and anyway, I decide what’s happening on this island and who does what,’ Purple Bob said. There was no humour in his expression now. ‘I need…I need to go home and tell my family I’m OK,’ Mike pleaded. Purple Bob turned back to the table and poured cocaine from a bag. ‘No time Mike, Island Defender’s waiting for you right now. We need a plane for our defence, this is urgent business.’ ‘No. I need to see my family.’ Purple Bob swivelled round in his chair. ‘Now!’ he suddenly boomed, ‘Or you’ll be buried out there,’ he pointed out of the window, ‘along with your family!’ Mike crossed his arms, willing himself to remain calm. ‘You need a pilot, I’m the only one good enough. All I’m asking, is to see my family before I go, it’ll take a few hours.’ Purple Bob jabbed a finger at him. ‘My first choice is you, but Mr Pete will do,’ he said darkly. ‘Please, I just need to let them know I’m OK.’ ‘Don’t push me,’ Purple Bob snorted loudly. ‘I’ll get a message to your family you’re on a vital mission for the security of the island.’ Mike felt hopeless. ‘I have to see them,’ he said. Purple Bob waved him towards the door. ‘You will. When you fly back. Now go.’ Mike slid off the chair and kneeled on the floor. ‘Please, just let me see them. What if I can’t find a plane?’ ‘Then you won’t be coming back,’ and Mike shuddered from the sudden malevolence on Purple Bob’s face. Mike listened to him snort up two fat lines. ‘Will you guarantee Leah and Ben’s safety until I return,’ he said, using the chair to pull himself to standing. Purple Bob turned to face him, a trace of white powder on his upper lip. ‘When you return with a plane, you will be allowed to leave this island with your family.’ His charm had returned along with his smile. Mike had a sudden thought. Samuel was captain of Island Defender. He would know how Leah and Ben were. He was an ally and more importantly a friend. A glimmer of hope. At the door he turned, emboldened he said, ‘when I return, if anything has happened to them I will bury you in that stuff,’ he left before Purple Bob could reply. Thompson was waiting outside the door. A naked woman climbed the stairs towards them, her breasts bouncing as she used the handrail to pull herself upwards. She looked half asleep. When she reached their level she stood uncertainly. She glanced at Purple Bob’s door and her shoulders sagged as she let out a deep sigh. Thompson chuckled beside him. She was a slim girl and didn’t look capable of handling what he had seen swinging between Purple Bob’s legs. A look of defiance hardened her dazed expression and she took a step forward, forcing herself to the door. She pushed it open with her shoulder, the muscles in her buttocks tensing from the effort, and disappeared inside. If he hadn’t flown to the Crooked Island, hadn’t found the stash of cocaine then none of this would be happening. Was it all his fault? Mike asked himself. Mike was relieved that Thompson no longer prodded or shoved him along, he was not sure he could have taken it. Without asking, he climbed into the passenger seat of the Land Rover, feeling the heat from the sun burn through the thin cotton of his shorts. The air was still and heavy, a few puffs of white cloud but otherwise a beautiful day in paradise. Two armed guards lounged on plastic chairs under palm trees, red hibiscus and tropical flowers festooned a well-kept border, full of buzzing insects and the occasional hummingbird. Across the cut grass, a cat was stalking. Mike felt the suspension give as Thompson got in beside him but he didn’t look away from the cat. The engine started with a clatter and Thompson gunned the engine, racing away from the front of the hotel, the tyres squealing over the polished paving slabs, the old Land Rover roared up and over the headland that separated Kissimmee from the main town of Plymouth. Braking sharply, something rolled from under his seat and nudged his foot. Mike bent forward and retrieved the red dinosaur. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply, ignoring the looks from Thompson. Mike’s eyes misted over, and he clenched the soft toy fiercely in his fist. The exchange shop and designated restaurant were closed. A gang of workers toiled under the sun, weeding the gardens that separated the road and the promenade. Beyond, a man was rowing out into the bay. A man and woman on a bench, a plume of smoke escaped from the man’s mouth as he looked with alarm at the speeding Land Rover. The harbour wall came into view supporting figures with fishing rods. They raced under an open barrier and skidded to a halt alongside Island Defender. Crewmen were already standing by to cast off. Mike got out without looking at Thompson. As he approached his heart sank as Cyril Roberts stepped from the bridge. ‘Where’s Samuel?’ he said, shading his eyes from the glare. Cyril Roberts had the same smile as his father, slow and menacing. ‘Not on this trip.’ Mike didn’t make a move to go on board. ‘But he’s the captain.’ Cyril shrugged. ‘Not on this trip.’ Mike spotted a familiar ginger haired face coming from the rear deck. ‘What’s happened to Samuel, Moses?’ They had drunk beer together with Samuel and the rest of the crew. Mike wasn’t sure he trusted him. ‘Told me they hadn’t gah time to fetch him, so I’m captain fah this trip.’ Mike walked awkwardly up the gangway, glad that it seemed Thompson was staying behind, and onto Island Defender’s deck, still clutching the dinosaur. ‘That’s not right is it?’ Mike said, fist bumping Moses’ and ignoring his puzzled look at the dinosaur and the state of his clothes. Moses avoided eye contact. ‘They say he charge up, but I never seen Sam drink too much, ain’t right anymore Mike, best say nuttin an keep heads down and do as we’re told. Be cool and juss stay away from him. I ‘fraid if Sam was here things would’ve been bad, you know his feelings for him.’ ‘Get going Moses,’ Cyril shouted. ‘Yes boss,’ Moses said. Mike looked up at the bridge and Cyril pointed at him. ‘Up here.’ Mike rested a hand on Moses’ arm. ‘Is Samuel with my family?’ 'I guess Mike. He usually hangs out on da Belle.’ ‘You haven’t heard from him?’ ‘No way to.’ ‘Moses!’ Cyril snapped. Mike followed him along the deck and up to the bridge, stuffing the toy in the back of his shorts. Cyril was standing arms folded, pistol holstered around his waist and had changed to blue, camouflaged combat shorts, black t-shirt and cap with a faded insignia of indeterminant origin. ‘Get this boat going Moses,’ he said, while glaring at Mike. Mike felt the deck vibrate through the thin plastic of his flip flops and a cloud of black smoke drifted across the harbour. ‘Where’re we going?’ ‘Find you another plane,’ Cyril said. ‘None of the local islands will have anything big enough,’ Mike said. ‘Go get cleaned up, you smell like piss, stay outta the way till I call fah you.’ Cyril turned away to stand behind Moses now in the captain’s chair. Island Defender moved from the quay side and Mike felt as if something was being torn inside, a terrible foreboding, a sudden desperate urge to run and jump for the harbour wall. A cruel hand was tearing his life in two, as Island Defender gathered speed, the tear became wider, with jagged edges, him on one side, Leah, Ben on the other, their sanctuary, their home and two years of happiness ripped down the middle. He wished the old coastal defence boat would break down and he could go back to how it was, their isolation, but the vessel continued to gather speed, the harbour wall slipped by. Moses looked over his shoulder. ‘Spare uniforms down in da crew’s quarters. A shower too.’ Mike did not acknowledge him, feeling numb he left through a door at the back of the bridge and down two flights of stairs to the crew’s quarters. His life had come full circle. A quest to save people he loved by means that was out of his control.
Physical pain heightens mental anguish. Mike could have coped with his despair if he wasn’t in agony but the fact the most vulnerable part of his body had been physically abused only focused his mind on his entire life’s vulnerability; how narrow the road. One moment moving along comfortably on a solid surface, the next, pushed off and rolling down an embankment to a fiery death. His fire, dragged him back from unconsciousness. Not a gasoline type fire but a smouldering, creeping grass fire, that started in his genitals and burnt up through his belly, his spine and then flared fiercely in his brain before starting all over again. There was no relief that his torture had been a dream. The horror didn’t fade as he opened his eyes, instead it ballooned as his grim surroundings came into focus. He was on one of the metal cots, still naked and shivering uncontrollably. Earl was hunched forward, looking at him anxiously. Mike gingerly cupped himself, trying to prevent contact with his thighs or the cots surface. ‘How l…l…long?’ Mike shivered. Earl knelt next to him. ‘Y’been in and out for hours, dark now.’ ‘So cold.’ ‘Wah they do ta you Mike?’ the old man’s eyes were full of concern. Mike tried to smile. ‘I…I don’t think they need me anymore.’ ‘I ‘fraid duppy gah ketch you Mike,’ truly ‘fraid.’ Mike shivered violently, as if the duppy, a shadow or spirit of a dead person had indeed entered his being. Earl got up from the floor and started banging on the door for attention. After ten minutes a gruff voice on the other side said, ‘juss cool out old man, yih get out soon enough.’ ‘My boy here, he needs help now,’ Earl shouted, banging on the door. ‘Hey!’ The bolts crashed back, the door flew open knocking Earl backwards. A guard stood in the door haloed by a naked bulb hanging in the corridor, dressed in orange overalls and protective face gear. ‘Why yah all charged up Earl, be cool,’ he said. Earl pointed at Mike. ‘Get him a blanket and clothes, otherwise I’fraid duppy gah ketch him.’ The guard studied Mike then laughed. ‘Duppy is pure stoopidness Earl, he juss chillin’.’ He left laughing at his own humour, clanging the bolts home. Earl swore at him before sliding onto Mike’s cot. ‘What y’doing,’ Mike mumbled. ‘Got to get yih warm son,’ Earl put his arms around him, pressing his body against his, ‘yih feel like a dead snapper.’ Mike concentrated his thoughts on Leah and Ben, but only succeeded in heightening his anxiety. A bout of shivering, his teeth chattering, he could feel Earl’s wiry body pressed against him, a vague impression of warmth through the numbness of his skin. He forced the pain away, pushing his mind to think of something less provocative, his childhood. The adventures with his older brother around the Surrey village they lived in. Craig always trying to find a story, some local scandal or gossip, honing what was to become his love for journalism. A passion that Mike never found in his career choices, fame that he could never have achieved, yet when his brother’s ego stretched too far, putting his life in peril, it was Mike’s actions that saved him in a far more news worthy way, than his brother’s reporting had ever achieved. But it had come too late to effect how his father thought of him. His parent’s attention had always been drawn to the shining star that was his brother’s career. He had never had a chance to see them again before the pandemic hit and now, they could all be dead. Mike groaned and tried to roll on his other side without putting any strain on his battered groin, but Earl had him clamped in a bear hug. The old man’s warmth was finally permeating his body. The bolts suddenly clanged back and the guard stood a moment, his eyes widening behind the mask as he took in the two of them lying there and then burst into laughter. He dropped the bundle of clothing he was carrying on the floor and left, still laughing as he rammed the bolts home. ‘Mike, they’ve given us clothes,’ Earl said, releasing him and slowly standing, viewing what they had been given from the dull glow of electric light that filtered through the barred opening above the door. ‘I’ fraid smell nah too good but these’ll help,’ Earl held up a set of stained sweatpants and a hoodie. Mike slowly pushed himself to the edge of the cot, then swung his legs carefully to the floor. Earl found a pair of shorts and a polo shirt with a faded Ralph Lauren logo. ‘They mess you bad Mike, you wah me to take a look?’ Mike squinted up at him. ‘Nuttin funny in it Mike,’ he said attempting a smile, ‘just thinkin' you’d be happier knowin' Leah still gah plenty to play wit when you get outta here.’ Mike shook his head, ‘kind of you, but I’ll pass,’ he indicted for Earl to feed the sweatpants over his ankles. Every time he moved a fresh wave of pain shot through his battered nervous system. Eventually he managed to get them up to his waist, bagging them around his groin as much as he could. He pulled on the hoody, ignoring the smell of stale sweat and pulled up the hood, pulling it tight around his head. He laid back on his side, using an old towel to keep his knees apart and the other clothing remnants for a pillow. Warmth fully returned and without the shivering he moved less, and therefore the pain wasn’t constantly being recharged. He slept, waking frequently from dreams that were vivid and torturous. At one point he was soaked through with sweat and Earl helped him to sit and to drink from a metal cup dipped in the ‘correct’ bucket. When Mike fully awoke, sunlight was slanting through the bars and Earl was gone. Mike rolled onto his back, wincing, his head pounding and his mouth dry. He lay for a long time looking up at the cracked ceiling, the silence interrupted by the occasional bird or buzz of an insect flying by. His anxiousness mounting as he waited for them to come back and re-start his interrogation. Gingerly he moved to the edge of his cot and stared for a while at the vacant one opposite, wondering what had happened to Earl, hoping the old man was OK. His gaze settled on the two buckets. The thought of relieving himself filled him with dread but he could feel it was required. He pushed himself upright and shuffled to the left bucket, holding himself to prevent any movement. He carefully pulled down the waist band of the sweatpants and gasped at the sight. For a long time, he stood fearful of the pain to come, his body refusing to empty his bladder. Eventually he forced himself to relax and was relieved to hear his stream hit the bucket, although the swollen flesh was difficult to control. Mike emptied the remaining water into the cup, flicking several dead flies to the ground, and drank. Without Earl for distraction his imagination worked overtime on what they might still do to him. He found he was acutely listening to any possible sound that could herald the approach of a guard until the torment became unbearable, his nerves stretched to breaking. He tried walking the short distance between the cots but he was too fatigued. He lay listlessly on the cot, the heat building as the sunlight moved across the window. His thirst steadily grew. He got up and slapped weakly on the steel door, shouting hoarsely for water. In his crazed state he thought he heard a vehicle, he listened intently, he could hear muffled conversation, one of the voices was female, maybe Tara, then his nerves jumped with the sound of a single gunshot. Mike shuffled up and down the narrow gap, willing to himself to remain strong. He put his ear to the door. Nothing. ‘Anyone there,’ he called, his voice barely a whisper. Mike rested his forehead against the steel. He had never felt so alone, so utterly vulnerable and despairing. The bolts unexpectantly crashed back and he fell away from the door with a cry of surprise. Tara stood in the doorway, hands on hips, a bottle of water in one hand, her skinny frame in cut off jeans and a t-shirt. She gazed at Mike without sympathy. ‘I guess you’re in the clear,’ then she looked pointedly at his cupped genitals. ‘You goin’ to be able to move?’ ‘You’re…you’re letting me go?’ Tara shrugged. ‘Sure Mike, we had to know, the island’s survival depends on our vigilance.’ ‘This…,’ he looked down at himself, ‘was necessary?’ ‘You weren’t telling the truth,’ Tara said matter of factly. She put the bottle on the floor and left. ‘Was that a gunshot?’ Mike said hoarsely. ‘Ahuh,’ Tara called back, there was a clank of a door and then silence. Mike stood staring at the space Tara had occupied not fully accepting the fact his ordeal was over. He picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap with shaking hands, sniffed the contents then drank greedily. He was desperate to leave but fearful it was some kind of psychological play on the part of Cyril. He peered into the corridor, looking left; a dead end with a heavily graffitied wall, to his right a row of cell doors, all open and then the far door leading from the block, slightly ajar, still creaking from Tara’s passage. Mike shuffled down the corridor and pushed open the door. A guard’s rest area with a heavily used wooden trestle table and battered fold up chairs. He heard a vehicle start up and got to a dirty window in time to see an army jeep disappear. There was a changing room. Biohazard suits hung on hooks, breathing apparatus and personal protection gear discarded on the floor. Items of clothing lay haphazardly on the narrow wooden benches that ran around three walls. A further door led to the toilets, Mike guessed by the smell. He worked slowly along the benches, awkwardly bending to look at the various clothes left from previous occupants of the cells. He needed something cooler, looser fitting and of lighter fabric. A pair of blue baggy cargo shorts, worn in the knees and a cotton Hawaiian patterned shirt. It took him fifteen minutes to change, sweating profusely. He found a halfway decent pair of flip flops. No one had disturbed him. Anxiously, he hobbled past the room they had used to interrogate him. A battered microphone and equipment still connected to a car battery and beyond the one-way glass, the bare concrete yard, baking in sunlight. The chair was gone. He shivered and went on, passing an administrative room, with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. A small lobby area with a broken desk and then the arched wooden front doors. Mike pushed open one door and blinked cautiously out onto the gravel parking area. Had they simply abandoned him? He could only manage a few steps before he had to rest, how was he going to walk almost the length of the island? His ordeal was far from over but stepping out of the grim building filled him with a surprising sense of euphoria - he could go home and hug Leah and Ben, he had survived. Then he caught his breath and his elation vanished. A Land Rover was parked under the shade of a tree beyond the guard hut, his Land Rover. Leaning nonchalantly against the bonnet, one foot raised on the bumper was Thompson, and even from that distance Mike could see him grinning from the flash of his white teeth in the shadows.
Earlier that day, Leah had watched Ben walk across the dusty play area towards where the teacher stood in the doorway with her bell. Several children ran to Ben and started showing him the toys they had been allowed to bring. Ben produced his model spitfire and they started running in circles, kicking up dust from the baked surface. The teacher rang her bell more urgently and the kids obediently filed in under her swinging arm. She had stared undecided at the space Ben had just occupied. Fear bubbled inside her. Something had happened to Mike. She didn’t know what, but something had definitely happened, she could tell by the way people avoided her gaze and hadn’t come over to say hello. Rumours were spreading but she wasn’t being told. She was going to be in trouble for using the Land Rover and wasting precious fuel, but she had to get to Plymouth and find out what was going on. She started the engine, it was loud in their quiet world and several parents walking away, looked back with surprise. Leah did a U-turn and headed for the airport. The terminal appeared its deserted ‘new normal’. She climbed out and stood listening for a moment to the old diesel ticking. A lizard scuttled out through the main doors and raced along the pavement. She took a deep breath and strode inside. She knew her way around, Mike had bought her and Ben on a few occasions, even smuggling them up for a routine flight, bribing Tony not to tell anyone with a case of beer. She followed the footprints in the dust and sand along the corridor passing the empty offices to the passageway that led to the control tower. Her steps clanged on the iron treads, in the distance was the hum of a generator telling her Tony was still around. She pushed open the door and sure enough there he was, watching the empty radar screens. ‘Hello Tony,’ she said loudly, so he could hear her from inside his headphones. Startled, Tony swivelled round, spilling coffee from his mug. He snatched off his headphones, eyes large behind the thick framed glasses as he looked passed Leah to see if she was alone. ‘Leah…what a…surprise.’ ‘Sorry to startle you Tony,’ Leah walked further into the control room. Tony relaxed seeing she was alone, putting down his mug and wiping the spilt coffee from his shoe. ‘I haven’t heard from Mike, Tony, I’m really worried, why hasn’t he come back yet?’ Tony’s nervousness returned. ‘What’s going on?’ Leah said, standing in front and forcing him to look at her. ‘I don’t understand,’ Tony mumbled, throwing the tissue he had been using into a bin, ‘you haven’t been told?’ ‘Told what?’ Leah demanded. Tony took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with the tail of his shirt. ‘I…I probably shouldn’t be talking to you Leah…’ ‘Too late for that Tony, where’s Mike?’ Leah demanded. ‘You should talk to Commander Roberts.’ Leah bent forward and clenched the armrests of his chair, her face close to his. ‘So, he is back on the island, yes?’ Tony nodded. ‘For fuck’s sake Tony, what’s happened?’ Tony reached for his binoculars while still trying to hold Leah’s glare. ‘Mike returned yesterday Leah.’ Leah snatched them from him and focused in the direction Tony indicated. The blurred gleam of an object at the far end of the runway suddenly jumped into focus and she gasped as she recognised the wrecked King Air. ‘Oh my God Tony, what’s happened?’ she looked down at him, ‘why…why has no one told me?’ ‘I thought you would have been,’ Tony muttered. 'Tony you son of a bitch,’ Leah shouted, dropping the binoculars, ‘where’s Mike? Is he OK? What happened?’ Tony reached out tentatively but Leah waved him away angrily. ‘Leah he’s ok, at least he survived the crash, but I don’t know what happened afterwards. They thought he might be contaminated from Crooked Island.’ 'Contaminated!’ Leah slammed her hand on top of his radar screen making him wince. ‘Contaminated from what?’ ‘There were people on the island who didn’t like them leaving, took some shots at the aircraft, took out an engine and front undercarriage and ah…killed Thompson’s men,’ Tony finished quickly. Leah stared at him with incomprehension then put a hand to her chest, a tear ran down her cheek, she reached out blindly for a chair. Tony hurriedly scooted one over and she sat heavily. ‘Oh God, no,’ she looked up at him, ‘why wasn’t I told?’ Tony shrugged. ‘I guess they’re waiting to see if he’s got the sickness.’ Leah put her head in her hands. She had encouraged him, hadn’t been sympathetic to his concerns, hoping like the rest of the islanders, that he would find fresh resources for their dwindling supplies. Now he could be dying from the disease and that’s after being shot at and making a crash landing. Why hadn’t she reacted sooner? Oh God, everything was falling apart…again! She wiped her face, standing and sending the chair crashing back into a console. ‘You’re a complete shit Tony!’ she yelled pointing a finger accusingly. ‘You could have come and told me, instead of sitting…’ she looked around her, ‘sitting up here in your fucking ivory tower as if everything else happening on this island was no concern of yours.’ ‘I’m the sentinel…’ ‘Shut up! You’re nothing! That plane was the only reason you were of any use. Now it’s gone, you’re useless.’ ‘I’m not I…’ Tony pointed at the radar screen. Leah stepped forward and Tony flinched. She held her fist inches from his nose. ‘Where did they take him?’ she said. ‘I…I don’t know I swear, they didn’t come back up here after they left in the jeeps.’ Leah squeezed her eyes shut, controlling her urge to smash everything in sight. When she opened them, some calm had returned. Relief flooded through Tony’s expression. ‘Who else was on the plane?’ ‘Earl and Aloe Muckenfuss, he was wounded, they took them away too.’ Leah moved towards the door then turned back to face him. ‘You hear anything, and I mean anything, you come and tell me, or I’ll come back here and destroy everything you see, got it? ' Tony nodded and Leah left, slamming the door behind her. She ran down the stairs, her vision blurring. She was tempted to get Samuel but then what would they do with the girl? She clambered into the Land Rover, her fingers slippery on the ignition key. The engine chugged over on the starter motor. ‘Come on,’ Leah pleaded and twisted the key. The diesel clattered into life. ***** Leah squealed to a stop outside the Government building, the only memory of the frantic drive being her hand on the horn and the look of startled walkers and cyclists, swerving from her path. She ran up the steps, her blouse sticking to her back, the sunglasses slipping down her nose. The entrance lobby was deserted so she pushed open the heavy oak doors and ran into the inner foyer, her sandals slapping on the marble floor. Corridors led off the foyer, all deserted and the grand staircase offered similar hope of finding someone. ‘Hello,’ she shouted, her voice echoing from the vaulted ceiling. Leah ran down one corridor, banging open doors that were unlocked and shouting hello. When she returned to the central foyer, someone was leaning over the balcony above. ‘What you want Sugar?’ the woman called down impatiently. ‘I need to speak urgently to Commander Roberts,’ Leah said, her hands on her knees. ‘He’s not here,’ the woman disappeared. ‘Wait!’ Leah shouted, running up the stairs. ‘Please wait.’ She got to the top, her heart pounding. The woman was standing outside an office door, arms crossed under her breasts. She raised an eyebrow at Leah. ‘I must speak to Commander Roberts, it’s about Mike… Mike Huntley the pilot.’ Something flickered across the woman’s face, fear or impatience, Leah couldn’t tell. The woman un-crossed her arms and rested a hand on the doorknob. ‘You’ll find them at the Kissimmee Resort, Handcuff Bay,’ she said over her shoulder, pushing open the door and closing it behind her with a swing of her hips. Leah clenched her fists with frustration and ran back down the staircase and out to the Land Rover. Leah raced out of Plymouth and up a series of hairpins as the road climbed the limestone cliffs then swept across the blunt headland dotted with millionaire’s mansions, hidden behind acres of plush tropical vegetation, before doing the reverse down into Handcuff Bay, named she remembered absently, from the times of British occupation when they used to bring the slaves ashore after the harrowing Atlantic crossing. Another bleak time in human history. The Kissimmee was one of three, five-star resorts on the island but the only one that had been kept going because it had been commandeered as Purple Bob’s personal residence. There was a collection of expensive cars, 4x4’s and Purple Bob’s limo in the parking area outside the expanse of glass that fronted reception. A pick-up was parked nearby with two soldiers lounging in the shade of a tree, assault rifles held across their chests. They gazed at Leah from behind reflective sunglasses as Leah skidded to a halt but did nothing to prevent her entering the building. The interior was deliciously cool, a temperature she had not felt in years and could only come from constant air conditioning. How much fuel must this be using? she thought angrily, staring around her at the immaculately kept space, floors shining, furniture neatly arranged, everything as it must have been when the place was catering for well-healed tourists. She could hear music and ran off in that direction. The main building was linked to clusters of bedroom suites via air conditioned glass walkways that seemed to float across a vast infinity pool that stretched like a lake, complete with palm treed islands and swim up bars, hammocks under sun sails, and massage cabanas. Beautifully maintained and populated by clusters of cavorting people which Leah paid little attention to as she hurried down one of the walkways, the music getting louder. She recognised the famous tune from Prince, Purple Rain, and knew she was getting close. The walkway ended in an atrium with several doors labelled Azure Suite, Cobalt Suite and one that had had its original name pulled off and ‘Purple Suite’ written on the wood in paint that had run down the panels from the bottom of both 'p’s. A guard in tight fitting combat gear, complete with blue beret, stood at the door. Leah approached cautiously. ‘I need to speak with Purple… sorry… Commander Roberts.’ The guard looked her up and down with interest. ‘Who yih?’ ‘Ms. Leah, Diving Belle boat captain.’ The round face frowned, then broke into a knowing smile. ‘Yah Samueal’s gyal!’ Leah’s eyes narrowed. ‘No! Samuel’s my first mate.’ ‘I went out drinkin’ wit crew from Island Defender, Samueal reckon yah his bobo.’ Leah put her hands on her hips. ‘Whatever. Can I speak with Commander Roberts?’ The smile left his face. He regarded her for a moment. ‘Cool out Ms. Leah, I go talk to the Commander.’ Leah stared at the runs of purple paint on the door, listening to Prince’s guitar solo, arms crossed. Purple Haze’s version by Hendrix had started when he returned. ‘Commander say OK.’ Leah took a step forward but the guard held up his hand. ‘Nah like that.’ Leah held out her hands. ‘Like what?’ The guard indicated rails standing in an alcove. ‘I ‘fraid clothes nah allowed inside.’ Leah glanced at the rails with a jumbled assortment of clothes, some on hangers, others bundled on the floor. ‘You’re joking!’ The guard’s smile had returned as he shook his head. ‘I just want to ask him one question,’ Leah pleaded. ‘Them’s dah rules Ms Leah, errybody got ta obey dah rules.’ Leah bowed her head. Was there another way? Someone else she could ask? ‘Cyril Roberts, do you know where he is?’ The guard thumbed behind him. ‘Aloe Muckenfuss?’ The guard made the same gesture. ‘Jude Winspear?’ Again, the same gesture. ‘Tara?’ Leah asked. The guard shrugged. ‘Nah idea.’ Leah had a vague idea where she lived but she was a bitch and unlikely to tell her anything. Deep Purple started playing through the overhead speakers. She sighed. What the hell, she had nothing to be ashamed of. She strode to the rails and kicked off her sandals, with her back to the guard unbuttoned her blouse, found a spare hanger, unclipped her bra, hesitated a fraction before pushing down her shorts. She could feel the guard’s eyes and her resolve wavered. This was the craziest thing she had ever done. Crazier than taking her boat to rescue an international hostage. Leah took her time arranging her shorts before peeling down her thongs and stuffing them into her short’s pocket. She turned and stared defiantly at the guard. He looked her over slowly and then nodded approvingly, reaching behind him, and turning the handle, he opened the door and beckoned her in. Leah strode passed him with as much confidence and dignity her vulnerability allowed. The music morphed into gangster rap from the suites' sound system, getting steadily louder as she went down a tiled corridor, the guard watching from the doorway. It opened onto a wide curved balcony with glass balustrade, overlooking a sunken living area with Boca do Lobo furniture and Fendi Casa designed lighting and prestigious objects, all with a purple colour theme. Doors led out onto a vast wooden sundeck that fronted a private section of the infinity pool, complete with jacuzzi and giant urns of purple bougainvillea. Leah momentarily forgot her nakedness as she took in the opulence. Then it came crashing back as she registered the groups of people scattered around the luxurious space, all in some kind of sexual act. Leah walked slowly along the balcony, her fingers brushing the gold-plated handrail. A woman was in the middle of two men, penetrated by one, while she performed oral sex on the other, another watching, using a grotesquely large purple sex toy. Nearby, a white woman was laid back on a glass table, her ankles around a man’s neck, his hands around her throat, which she seemed to be enjoying, and at the other end of the same table, a woman was spread-eagled while three men snorted lines of white powder off her slim brown body. One had ginger hair and very pale skin. Leah screwed up her face with revulsion at the sight of a grossly overweight man, on his back under the table, looking up through the glass, furiously masturbating. A naked man and woman wearing just bow ties, walked between the groups with trays of filled champagne glasses. Muckenfuss was sitting on a sofa, arm in a sling, he glanced upwards, recognised her and waved weakly. Leah’s attention dragged to a man entering from the pool. Purple Bob’s son, Cyril, imposing with thick legs slightly splayed to support his bulk. He yanked a comatosed young girl off a sofa and aggressively pushed her head onto him, his thrusts in rhythm to the music. Leah backed away, hands unconsciously protecting her crotch, her resolve crumbling. There had to be another way. Where could they be holding Mike? The island wasn’t big, someone had to know where he was. How long would it take to search? A noise behind her and she turned in time to see a man stagger from a bathroom door. His glazed eyes leered at Leah as he lurched forward, pushing her back against the balustrade where he started to fumble and grind into her. Leah could feel his strength as she fought to get out of his hold. The more she struggled the tighter his hold became, his manic laugh in her ear, his hardening erection trying to find a way in, he dropped his arms to lift her thighs and Leah used the opportunity to kick him away, using the hand rail as support. But the man wasn’t as far gone as she thought, and he took hold of both her ankles and pushed her over the rail. Leah screamed, at the last moment her hand snatching out and clamping onto the handrail. ‘Help me!’ Leah shouted as she felt her fingers slipping off the smooth surface. The man appeared above and reached over grabbing her wrist. Then a face appeared below, looking up with a smirk. He gestured for the man holding Leah to let go and she fell, too quick to register a scream. She fell into Cyril’s solid arms, her body slapping against him. Leah lay momentarily stunned. The man was huge, like falling into a real bear’s hug. Cyril grinned down at her. ‘Now wah I ketch me here,’ he slurred. Leah started to struggle. Cyril feigned surprise. ‘My, my, Ms. Leah, you cum lookin’ cuz yah husband now ah wutless man?’ ‘Put me down you bastard,’ Leah snarled. Cyril threw his head back and laughed before opening his arms. Leah landed on her back, the polished wood floor winding her. Cyril clicked his fingers and the three men who had been snorting coke off the women’s body pounced on her like meat thrown to hungry wolves. Leah struggled to breathe, powerless to fight them off. She was pinned by her legs and arms, hands moving over her body, squeezing her breasts, fingers pushing up between her thighs. ‘No…’ she panted, ‘please no, please just tell me where Mike is?’ She willed her strength to return, beginning to twist in their holds as she felt fingers start to probe inside her. Panic engulfed her, firing adrenaline through her system. She fought harder but the hands clenching her ankles and wrists just became tighter. Her legs were slowly being forced apart. The purple toy was waved across her face before Cyril stood above her, his genitals filling her vision. ‘Where’s Mike? Please tell me,’ she shouted. Cyril’s face appeared as he looked down at her over his stomach. ‘He’s wutless to yah now Leah, cool out, have fun in my house.’ He slowly lowered himself, so his penis was brushing her face. Leah turned her head away. A hand slapped her and forced her head to turn back. She felt the toy start to push into her and struggled with renewed revulsion. A hand squeezed her cheeks and forced her mouth open. Cyril lowered himself into her mouth, her jaw stretching, gagging on the smell, Leah could sense her systems shutting down, her brain cutting out, protecting her from the shock. With all her remaining strength, Leah clamped her jaws down, her teeth cutting into the swollen glands. For a second there was no reaction and then Cyril let out a bellow of agony. He tried to withdraw, but Leah held on, tasting blood. Cyril swung his arms trying to reach Leah, knocking the men that were holding her out of the way, yelling at them to pull her off. Leah needed no persuasion. She rolled away and leapt to her feet, lashing out as a man approached still holding the purple toy. Her foot connected with his crotch and he doubled over, dropping it to the ground where it rolled to her feet. Leah snatched it up and back handed the next assailant across the face before throwing it at the ginger haired one crawling towards her. Cyril had fallen back onto a couch, holding his penis, blood seeping through his fingers, bellowing at the others to get hold of her. Fired with adrenalin, Leah dodged their clumsy attempts and made it to the staircase. She ran up, turning at the top as she heard someone close behind. She was about to lash out when she recognised Serena, the mum at school who organised swingers’ parties. She held out a hand to stop Leah hitting her. ‘Old prison, South Road, Trunk Bay,’ she said breathlessly. Leah backed away warily. ‘Go girl, s’where I heard they holdin’ him.’ Serena’s breasts swung as she glanced behind her. The men were pulling themselves up the stairway, spurred on by Cyril. She turned back with a look of desperation. ‘He gets hold of yah, you’ll never leave.’ ‘I can’t, there’s a guard at the door,’ Leah said. ‘Through there, there’s a connecting door to the other suite. Lock this door, it’ll give you time. Go!’ The men were at the top of the stairs. Serena turned and opened her arms. ‘Which one of yah boys wants a special helping from me today, I gah plenty here to give,’ she looked over her shoulder and winked before grabbing the first man over the top step and kissing him hard on the lips. Leah barged open the door with her shoulder and locked it before turning. Purple Bob was standing with his hands resting on the seat of a chair, naked, his great stomach hanging like a bloated dead animal, Jude Winspear was under him, struggling to take him in her mouth while another girl’s face was pressed into his backside. Floor to ceiling mirrors captured the scene in ever diminishing sizes to infinity. Purple Bob looked blankly at Leah, his mind too far gone. Jude, her mouth stretched and saliva dribbling from her chin, her eyes reflecting the shame as she recognised Leah. The other girl simply ignored her, carrying on servicing the canyon between Purple Bob’s buttocks. Leah stood mesmerised, her chest heaving from her exertions. She suddenly leant forward and vomited, dropping to her knees as her stomach kept heaving. The thick Persian carpet absorbed the mess. Leah lifted her head, smoothing back strands of hair. Jude and the girl were still going strong, Purple Bob had a dreamy look on his face. ‘White gyal, come here n’finish me,’ he beckoned to Leah. Leah used a nearby chest of drawers to help her stand. She wiped her chin, spied a bottle of water and unscrewed the cap, finishing the contents, feeling her battered stomach swell. She grabbed a glass of champagne. Fists were beating on the door behind her. Anger bloomed like a bomb going off inside her, ‘Cheers,’ she snarled, downing the contents and then throwing the glass at a mirror. Jude withdrew, her mouth still gaping but in astonishment, but her companion kept going, Purple Bob was still beckoning her languidly. A primal scream, a demented cry from the depths of her being consumed Leah, she snatched a tall elegant vase from the top of the drawers and charged, lifting it high above her head, time seeming to slow, she watched in a detached way, as Purple Bob’s expression barely changed even as the china split open around his head. She had leapt in the air to deliver the blow, the movement carrying her over the girl whose face was still between his buttocks and reaching the far door in time to look back and see the two girls staggering away from his collapsing bulk. Leah opened the door and left, locking it behind her. She found herself in an identical room. Quickly walking to the en-suite she was relieved to see a complimentary Kissimmee branded dressing gown still hanging on the back of the door. She felt something slimy over her stomach and looked down thinking it was her vomit. She nearly threw again when she realised it was semen. She held the dressing gown and raced through the suite, out to the deck and jumped into the pool, wading across to the far side, rubbing her body vigorously as she went, clambering out and hidden from Purple Bob’s suite by the pool islands, she put on the dressing gown, working her way back through the gardens and then walking as casually as she could, out to the Land Rover. The two guards still loitering under the same tree, appeared unaware of the chaos unfolding in Purple Bob’s suite. Neither of them acknowledged her wave as she left, trying to keep her speed down. Leah took the narrow twisting dirt road that ran across the centre of the island from Plymouth to Trunk Bay. The track skirted around outcrops of limestone and along fertile fields that were protected from the salty sea winds. Here was the main growing area for Petit Brac and the fields were tended by labourers, bent over the crops, providing the food lifeline that the islanders depended on. Leah battled the wheel, her speed dangerous for the slippery, rutted surface. Little did they know, that while they were bent double under the blazing sun keeping the island alive, their leader was being sucked off with his head full of cocaine! They had to leave. Tony was right when he said things were going to change. She hooted as she came up behind a horse and cart stacked with watermelons. The horse was slowly pulled out of the way and she accelerated by with a thank you wave, that was answered with a tip of the hat from the old man walking at the horses head. She swept through isolated villages, houses, broken down buildings barely supporting the tin that made up the roofs. Then she was in the southern waste area of sparse vegetation because of poor soil and little rainfall. She reached the southern coast road and turned left, her speed picking up on the compacted crushed limestone surface. Trunk Bay was a mile ahead. The old prison was part of a fort, built on a promontory into the bay. It was the only deep water harbour on the island and a concrete jetty ran from under the crumbling walls of the fort to a pontoon where container ships used to dock, unloading their cargo which was then stored on a concrete apron. The few containers left were rusty and open, the contents long since looted. Leah drove up the track towards the fort entrance. There was a security hut with a barrier across the road. A pickup stood off to one side. A soldier held up a hand stopping Leah. Beyond the barrier was a colonial style building, white rendered walls with dark blue paint, detailing the outline of the arched doors and barred windows. It had been the island’s prison before it became too crowded and requiring a bigger one to be built closer to Plymouth. Leah brought the Land Rover to a halt and the soldier came up to the window. ‘No access,’ he said. ‘I need to see Mike, Mike the pilot,’ Leah said. The guard shook his head. ‘Please, I need to see he’s OK.’ ‘This’s a de-contamination facility, you have tah leave.’ I know, I know,’ Leah said, ‘I’ll wear a suit, I just need to see he’s OK.’ A figure appeared from the doorway in the building and walked slowly towards her. Leah’s heart sank as she recognised the formidable figure of Thompson. ‘What’s going on,’ he shouted. ‘Nothing boss,’ the guard replied. ‘No visitors.’ ‘I know boss, this here’s dah pilot’s woman.’ Leah watched Thompson approach, a slow smile spreading across his hard face. A woman appeared in the doorway behind him. Tara Suckoo. Thompson leant on the Land Rover and looked inside before his gaze rested on Leah. He smelt of tobacco and sweat. ‘No visitors.’ ‘Yes, I know, de-contamination,’ Leah said, trying to get out but Thompson held the door closed. ‘Come back in two days when we sure he’s nah wit the disease.’ Leah put her hands back on the steering wheel and clenched them turning her knuckles white. ‘Is he hurt, from the accident?’ Thompson ignored her, looking over the Land Rover. ‘This y’vehicle?’ Leah nodded. ‘Emergency use only. Yes?’ Leah closed her eyes. ‘Please, let me see Mike, please.’ Thompson stood up and took a step back. ‘Get out,’ he commanded. Leah’s hand shook as she pulled the catch and opened the door, stepping out she realised her head only came to Thompson’s chin and he was twice the width of her. She tied the dressing gown tightly around her. Thompson frowned but didn’t comment. Leah was relieved he obviously hadn’t been radioed about her escape from Kissimmee. ‘Vehicle is confiscated cuz yah man loss his job,’ he announced, signalling his guard to step in and take it away. ‘But I need to get back for my son,’ Leah felt tears sting her eyes. ‘Start walking Ms. Leah,’ Thompson sneered and shoved her along the track, ‘you got a few hours n’ nuttin here for yih-see.’ Leah stumbled and fell to one knee. She stood slowly and looked back at Thompson. He removed the pistol from its holster and fired, the bullet ricocheting off a rock to her right. Leah walked slowly away, her legs trembling. ‘My advice sweetums, look fah a new man,’ Thompson shouted. Leah started running. Back on the Southern Coast Road, Leah turned towards home, still running, her feet slippery from blood, sweat and tears streaming down her face. She collapsed on reaching the junction with the cross-island road from Plymouth. Standing at the junction was the old man with his cart of watermelons. ‘Can you help me,’ she gasped. His rheumy eyes studied her; eyebrows raised questioningly. ‘I need to get to my son, he’s at school in Bolt Hole.’ The man produced a knife. Leah stiffened. ‘You thirsty Miss?’ Leah fell back with relief as he watched the old man slice a large chunk off a watermelon and hold it out to her. She held it with shaking hands, juice running down her fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she said around the last mouthful before gratefully excepting another. ‘Sit up there Miss, my hawr’se heading Bolt Hole way,’ and he nodded his head in the direction of the wooden bench at the front of the cart. Leah glanced at the horse, concerned that her extra weight may finish him off. ‘Doon worry ‘bout him, like me, stronger than people thinks,’ the old man said, chuckling and gathering up the halter. ‘Thank you,’ Leah said again climbing up onto the rough seat. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Me or my hawr’se?’ the old man looked at the horse. Leah smiled wearily, ‘both.’ The man returned a toothless grin. ‘Jerimiah, this here’s Joe,’ he found a bottle of water and indicated she should clean the cuts on her feet, before clicking his tongue. Joe took a few seconds but eventually stumbled forward before settling into a plodding pace. Leah looked anxiously ahead. Jerimiah offered her another slice and started chatting about his life and how little had changed except his trade with the hotels and the tourists buying watermelons from his roadside stall. Perhaps he sensed she needed her mind taking off things and carried on talking until he dropped her off in front of the school. Leah hugged him. There was a look of pleasure, the years of wrinkles creasing his face. He gave her a watermelon and then slowly turned the horse in the street and plodded off towards the General Store. She only had to wait a short while in the shade of a palm tree before the bell rang for the end of the school day. The other parents were avoiding her still but giving curious glances at her dressing gown. She forgot them all, smiling as Ben raced through the gates, scooping him up into a fierce hug until he started to squirm. Leah realised that she had left her handbag in the Land Rover. She was reminded of it now because of Ben’s sun cream. She made sure his hat was firmly on and started to hobble off down the road, trying to keep to the shadows. Ben’s endless chatter slowly fizzled out as the walk home began to drain his energy. He had asked what had happened to the Land Rover, where was Daddy, what had happened to Mr George and his tricycle, now he was grumpy and tired, asking to be carried, which she knew was impossible. A bell sounded behind her. One of the parents. He dismounted and smiled kindly, indicating that she should take the bike. Leah gratefully accepted. The man helped Ben into the carrier and steadied the bike as she got on. She almost cried from his thoughtfulness compared to the ugliness she had witnessed at Kissimmee. ‘You sure y’ok Ms. Leah?’ Leah nodded and pedalled off, trying to keep her feet light on the pedals and dressing gown from flying open. ‘What did you say sweetheart?’ Leah said, realising she had tuned out from his grumbling. ‘I’ve got sand in my toes,’ he whined. Leah shook her head. ‘What did you say before?’ ‘When?’ ‘Before you got sand in your toes.’ ‘William said we can never leave because the bola will get us…what is a bola?’ Leah concentrated on avoiding the potholes. ‘I don’t know what William is talking about.’ The paved road finished, and they started along the track to home. A figure emerged from the shadow under a dense clump of bushes. Leah let out a startled cry, swerved and tumbled them both into the verge. She hurriedly got up, pulling Ben who was crying to her, unaware her gown had fallen open. When she recognised who it was, she visibly relaxed. ‘Christ Sam, you scared me to hell!’ Ben broke out of her grip and ran over to him, sniffing loudly. He immediately scooped him up and with a wide grin said, ‘sorry my man, did I scare yah?’ ‘Yes. Can I go on your shoulders?’ Samuel effortlessly lifted him above his head and settled his legs either side, ‘there y’go.’ A small figure emerged from the shadows. Leah froze. ‘Sam, why is she off Diving Belle?’ Sam looked down at the frightened figure. ‘I can’t keep her cooped up there all day long and anyway…she…’ Leah stared at him. ‘She what?’ ‘Kind of escaped, I found her walking up this track,’ Samuel said. Leah put her hand to her chest, realised she was baring all to Samuel and quickly retied the gown. ‘Was she spotted?’ she said, ignoring his smile. Samuel looked deflated. ‘She’s not speakin’ much as you know.’ Leah smiled tentatively at the girl half hiding behind Samuel’s bulk. ‘Why weren’t you with her?’ Samuel picked up her bike and Leah allowed him to brush debris off her gown. ‘You’re hurt,’ he said, looking at her feet. ‘It’s a long story,’ she said irritably, shaking him off and getting on the bike. ‘So why weren’t you with her?’ ‘Because after you left this morning, I saw someone entering your house.’ The bike wobbled as Leah looked at him sharply. Samuel put out a hand to steady her. ‘Y’need to know something Leah, something that’s not good.’ ‘About Mike?’ Leah said, glancing up at Ben. Samuel looked at her curiously before nodding. ‘I found out today Sam… why I ended up wearing this,’ she tugged at the gown. ‘They’re holding him in the old prison in case he’s got the disease,’ she glanced again at Ben but he wasn’t listening, pretending he was a plane. Samuel dipped and jiggled his shoulders, simulating turbulence. Ben giggled. ‘Did you find out Mike had a passenger?’ Leah shook her head. ‘Don’t seem surprised?’ Samuel said. ‘Sam, if you knew what kind’a day I’ve had, you’d know I’m way passed being surprised.’
Exhaustion had finally overcome him. Within the security of the abandoned boatshed, Hudson had succumbed to weeks of too little sleep. Spiders looked down on the inert form, repairing threads and cocooning prey that found their way through the weathered boards, slowly deteriorating from the sun’s relentless work on its daily east west commute. The shadows were lengthening when Hudson finally stirred, disturbing a butterfly that had been dining on the salt in his sweat. It floated languidly on the thick air, catching itself in a cobweb across the window, it resisted for a while and then stilled, as if accepting its fate. Hudson could feel consciousness coming towards him, peeling back layers from nothingness through vivid urgent dreams of running, hiding, escaping, to absurdity, clinging to the back of a seabird, which was rolling and wheeling, trying to dislodge him until it dived towards the ocean. Hudson’s eyes flicked open, his body bolting upright, his mind taking seconds to clarify where he was, memories flooding back, the relief, sinking back onto his bed of sails, dozing until hunger and thirst became too much to ignore. Hudson clambered out of the unfinished hull, wincing from the stiffness. He stretched up to the sagging beams, decided against using one for pull ups, opting instead for press ups and squats. Rubbing the sand from his sweating hands Hudson went to the only window and wiped a cobweb from the cracked pane of glass, carefully untangling a butterfly, studying its iridescent blue as it spreads its wings on his palm, before it flitted off through the beams of sunlight, disappearing outside through a crack in the sagging double doors. There was no sign of life at the Huntley house. His stomach rumbled loudly. He relieved himself in the corner of the shed, covering the pungent puddle with windblown sand. His stomach rumbled again. He went back to the window with his binoculars. There was no breeze, the palm leaves hung like puppets waiting for the Caribbean breeze to jerk them to life. The tarp that covered the Land Rover was abandoned on the ground and rippled occasionally with the promise of the ubiquitous breeze. He could see through the pillars supporting the house to the sea beyond. It shimmered with sunlight. There was a basket at the foot of the stairs leading to the veranda. Hudson wondered if it contained food and thought whether it was too risky to investigate. Where was Mike? He had promised to stay in hiding until he arrived, but he was not good at being cooped up. There was no garden to hide in. The beach simply ran up from the sea, under the house and out into the palm grove, finishing around where the boatshed stood. There was a square concrete structure in the void under the house used to store water or fuel. It was the only thing he could hide behind and be closer to the house when Mike returned. Minutes passed in indecision. The need for fresh air was becoming paramount. An old man arrived on a rusty bike and dropped things into the basket before pedalling away, humming tunelessly in time with every downward stroke of the pedal. Hudson found he was daydreaming of the moments he had observed Leah. The frown line across the bridge of her nose as she probably worried about Mike’s whereabouts, accentuated the sexiness of her eyes, her hair in a simple pony tail that bounced playfully, every time she looked down at her son. She had been wearing pale green shorts and a white blouse, toned legs, the defined muscles working under the honey coloured tan as she negotiated the steps. Guilt suddenly interrupted his thoughts and Hudson quickly picked up the cooler box, deciding to leave the bag of weapons, before cautiously opening a sagging door, cringing as it creaked loudly. He stood in the gap listening. Nothing but the buzz of insects. He hurried across the sand to the house. Inside the basket were bananas, oranges, potatoes, and sweet corns still in their husks. He thought about taking them inside but decided it unwise. He climbed the stairs two at a time and slid back the door just enough to slip inside. He took off his sunglasses, his guilt building as he quickly skirted through the living area to the kitchen. Under a mesh cover, was a plate with a cooked chicken leg, tomatoes, a salad of green leaves - wilted, and two boiled potatoes. Hudson’s stomach rumbled louder than ever. The plate was obviously meant for Mike’s return. He couldn’t help himself, he removed the cover and wolfed down the meal, sucking the bone clean of any meat, before throwing it outside. He took the plate to the sink, washed it using old water from a bucket and left it to dry in a dish drainer. He searched the rest of the cupboards, heard a comforting but now rare sound, and located the fridge, he guessed being powered by the roof solar panels, and pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewing the lid, relishing the cool liquid before spotting a can of beer in the corner. How long had it been? His guilt now beyond redemption, Hudson reached in and grabbed the can. It was cold to the touch, his hand almost trembled with anticipation. He pulled back the ring tab, there was a hiss and white froth oozed from the opening together with the best smell in the world. Hudson slowly brought it to his lips and allowed the liquid to seep into his mouth and down his throat. He closed his eyes with pleasure. He took a few more deep draughts. ‘Now why don’t you put that down nice and slow,’ said a calm, deep voice from the corner of the living room. Hudson squinted in the direction of the voice from around his raised can. ‘Nice and slow,’ the voice said again. Hudson spread his arms wide, with an apologetic grin. ‘Couldn’t resist man, first I’ve had in months.’ ‘As I said...nice n’slow.’ Hudson assessed the man wearing tatty thigh length swim shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt stretched around muscled limbs with his unkempt black hair and beard. He was holding a spear gun, the barb of the spear aimed at Hudson’s stomach. ‘I’m a friend of Mike’s’ he said, his arms still wide. ‘That so? Still don’t mean you can drink the man’s beer.’ Hudson grimaced. ‘Shame to let it go to waste.’ ‘That touches your mouth again and it’ll be coming out of a hole in your stomach,’ the man growled. ‘Easy,’ Hudson said, ‘here, I’m just going to put it down on the counter OK?’ The man didn’t reply. Hudson straightened up and the man motioned with the spear gun for him to keep his hands up. ‘What you doin’ here?’ the man asked. ‘Told you, friend of Mike’s? ‘ I know all his friends and you ain’t one of them.’ Hudson sighed. ‘Ok, maybe not a lifelong friend,’ he grinned, ‘but I’m on his side.’ The man studied him. ‘You mind if I put my hands down?’ ‘Yep.’ ‘I guess finishing that beer is out of the question?’ ‘You trying to be funny? You see me laughing?’ Hudson raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Just trying to lighten the situation.’ ‘How about I put this through your mouth, tow you out to sea and let the sharks finish you?’ the man said quietly. ‘You’re a stranger here, they don’t like that. They would think I’ve done them a good service.’ Hudson nodded. ‘You must be a friend of Mike’s?’ ‘More than you, that’s fo’ sure.’ 'The name’s Hudson, Hudson Bentley, and you’re right, I’m not from this island but Mike brought me here yesterday, on the plane.’ The man took a step closer, his stare hard and unwavering as the tip of the spear. ‘Ok, so where’s Mike?’ Hudson looked down at the floor. ‘I don’t know. It was a hard landing, that guy’s a damn fine pilot!’ Hudson exclaimed but the man didn’t respond. ‘Things happened quickly. He told me to hide out here ‘til he returned.’ ‘Ahuh,’ the man studied him a while. 'I swear bud, I’m not Mike’s enemy.’ ‘We’ll see ‘bout that.’ Holding the spear gun with one hand, the man walked cautiously to the bookshelf, opened a draw and pulled out a roll of duct tape. ‘Sit,’ he ordered, indicating a chair. ‘Com’on, really? What can I tell you to convince you I’m a good guy?’ Hudson said. ‘Nuthin’, until you’ve sat and I’m sure you can’t do nuthin’ but open your mouth.’ Hudson’s gaze shifted slightly, looking for a potential weapon. ‘You want me to use this to fix you to that chair?’ the man jiggled the spear gun. Being in the security business, Hudson had found he had developed a talent for quickly sussing the bad from the good. This guy seemed good, intimidating but essentially good. He held up his hands in surrender, sat and allowed his wrists and ankles to be bound by the tape. Once Hudson was secure, the man relaxed. He laid the spear gun on the coffee table between them and walked over to the counter. He picked up the can of beer and sat back in a chair opposite. He raised the can, grinned without humour, ‘cheers,’ before finishing the contents in one fluid motion. He smacked his lips afterwards and grinned for real this time, ‘man you’re right, that was good!’ ‘Glad you enjoyed it,’ Hudson said sarcastically. ‘The man’s grin dropped as quickly as it had arrived. ‘I think I’m in the mood for a story, why don’t you tell me one.’ ‘I can’t tell a story until I know who I’m telling,’ Hudson smiled. The man glared at him. ‘Samuel. Now start talking.’ Hudson told him, leaving out the cooler box although it was sitting in plain view on the living room floor and the bag of weapons in the boatshed. Samuel was quiet for a while. ‘No way you have the disease?’ Hudson shook his head. ‘How you sure?’ ‘Been on the island a week before Mike found me.’ Samuel scowled. ‘But I guess they’ve put Mike in quarantine anyway.’ Hudson did not react. 'Y’don’t seem too bothered!’ Samuel scowl deepened, ‘eating the man’s food, drinking his beer.’ ‘Sorry, I was starving and the beer…was unexpected.’ ‘You takin’ advantage, while the man who saved you, could be in all kind’a trouble, ain’t right,’ Samuel said angrily. ‘How so?’ 'You say his plane is wrecked, means Mike’s usefulness is over and he don’t have friends in high places. Plus, the shit he brought back from that island of yours, I heard it’s making people pretty ugly.’ ‘I see,’ Hudson said. ‘See what?’ ‘See it could be a problem,’ Hudson said, his expression serious. ‘You know where they might have taken him?’ 'Maybe.’ ‘I might be able to help,’ Hudson said. Samuel grunted. ‘How long you reckon you’d last walking round here without one of Thompson’s men seeing you?’ Hudson held his glare. ‘Not long, we’d have to be careful, but I’ve got skills that could help.’ Samuel dropped his gaze and stared at the floor. ‘You have to trust me Samuel, I owe Mike and will…’ Samuel held up his hand, suddenly standing and picking up the spear gun. ‘I gotta go and do something. You stay comfortable and I’ll be back.’ He started to leave. ‘But what if Leah comes home?’ Hudson said, looking at his bound wrists. ‘Be polite,’ the man said, and slipped out through the gap in the patio doors. Hudson tested his bonds. He rocked the chair. It was sturdy enough, but he could push it over and, on his knees, smash it against the counter frame. He thought better of it, he had already caused enough damage in Mike’s life. He sat back, relaxing, Samuel seemed reasonable enough, his first impressions had not come into question. Hudson breathed deeply, surveying the homeliness of Mike’s life scattered around him; the kids toys, magazines left open on the sofa, unwashed clothes, framed photos of the happy couple, and if he squinted, it looked like Samuel, standing with Mike and Leah on the stern of a boat. Books stacked untidily on the shelves, a guitar leant up against a wall; a scene of normality and domestic happiness in a world gone mad. Hudson belched softly, reminding him of the beer. If they had a boat he thought, how was he going to persuade them to take him to Miami? Was he even sure Miami was still the place to aim for? The people he needed to see, were part of a crisis centre established to deal with Florida and the Caribbean, but that news had been months old. Who knew what had happened since? What was the alternative? New York? Hell of a boat journey and the city had been dangerous in the best of times. Hudson was surprised to feel drowsy. He thought he’d had enough sleep. The few mouthfuls of beer and a decent meal was having a surprisingly soporific effect. He closed his eyes, promising himself he would not sleep.
Mike hunched forward, twisting fistfuls of hair. If Hudson Bentley were within reach, he would have gone for his throat, squeezing the life from those grinning eyes, vengeance for how he had destroyed his life, annulling two and half years of isolation, in a few short hours. The six by ten cell had two, fold down metal cots with stained mattresses the thickness of cardboard and sheets, equally stained, equally inadequate. The beds were supported by wall chains. Furthest from the steel door were two buckets, one a toilet, the other for washing. Earl had already confused the two. The air was rancid, emanating from centuries of urine-soaked concrete covered with scratched in graffiti. Earl sat on the other cot, his knees up to his chin, his forehead resting on his arms. They were both naked, having been stripped on arrival and showered down in the courtyard by a high-pressure fire hose that had nearly taken the skin off their frames. They had pleaded against the indignity, shivering in front of two men in orange overalls, expressions hidden behind face masks and degraded plastic visors. Cyril Roberts, standing behind a railing on a roof platform overlooking the courtyard, had laughed, saying why waste resources on contaminated bodies. As Mike had feared, without a plane, his usefulness had come to an abrupt end. As an off-islander, he was now bottom of the food chain. Earl, who’s family had been around for generations and a mechanic, had a good chance of being let go. Mike hoped so anyway. Humiliation, another feeling he had loads of experience of. If they were lucky, the cell was going to be their home for only three days. The time required for Airbola to start showing symptoms. If clean, they would walk free. And if there weren’t, Cyril had declared they would be shot and bodies incinerated. What did it matter? Without treatment they would be dead in days and from a far more painful process. The irony of a vaccine being on the island fuelled Mike’s desperation. If he told them, it would save the islanders from catching the disease, but he would be caught in a lie and again, most likely shot. Was he being a coward? But, what if they couldn’t find Hudson? What if he wasn’t actually carrying a vaccine? Instead of saving his family, he would be putting them in greater danger. The torment almost had him screaming. The only thing preventing him; his confidence they weren’t infected. He just had to be patient for three days. His misery became unbearable if he dwelt on thoughts of Leah and Ben. Would they have been told what had happened? Was Leah outside right now begging for his release? And what about that idiot Hudson, was he staying away from them as promised? When he got out, how was he going to persuade Hudson to give them the vaccine, for his family at least? Then there was the girl on Diving Belle. Mike jumped up and started hitting the wall with his fists. ‘Take it easy Mike, it’ll be ok,’ Earl said. Mike rested his forehead against the cold, stinking concrete. ‘Earl,’ he said, needing to calm his racing thoughts. ‘Ahuh.’ ‘You really think she’s beyond repair?’ ‘Ahuh.’ ‘A right off?’ ‘Tell me sump’m Mike, you worried about y’own skin, I see dat, but life here…’ he looked up with tears in his eyes, ‘dass about ta change for all of us.’ ‘You need to stay positive Earl,’ Mike said, more for his own sake than Earl’s. ‘No point,’ Earl said, his voice muted, ‘I nah gah no job too, y’know.’ ‘I do know, I feel responsible, but we’ve got to hope.’ Mike hugged himself, feeling the chill despite it being 30 degrees outside. ‘What about that Piper Cherokee in the hangar?’ Earl shrugged. ‘Hasn’t been up in years.’ Mike started to pace, feeling uncomfortable about his nudity. ‘We need to make ourselves useful Earl. If we said that the Piper’s flyable then we could use it to find something more useful on another island.’ ‘They got Island Defender for dat.’ Mike sat, his buttocks slapping against the bare metal. He leant forward, across the gap between the two beds. ‘Come on Earl, let’s work out a plan, one that makes us valuable to them again.’ Earl regarded Mike. ‘Wat y’think that Aloe told em?’ Mike held his gaze, then sighed, sitting back despondently. ‘Anything to save his own skin.’ ‘He’ll stall um out.’ Mike closed his eyes and leant his head back against the wall. ‘I hope so. The consequences will be the same for him if he says anything.’ Earl shrugged, non-committedly and studied Mike. ‘Wah’s that Hudson fellow to you Mike, why you bring him back?’ Mike took a deep breath. ‘Those men were trying to kill him.’ Earl grunted. ‘Ahuh, he wah trying to kill us too.’ ‘I don’t think he’s a bad guy Earl.’ ‘Ahuh, dat why he shoot Thompson’s boys?’ Mike clenched his fists. ‘He was trying to make a point.’ ‘Ahuh,’ Earl was silent for a while and then said quietly, ‘which was?’ Mike punched the metal and it rang hollowly. ‘Dexter surprised him, he had no choice, and Daniel was a nasty prick who he wanted to make an example of, show us he wasn’t messing around.’ Earl was silent. Mike drummed his fingers on the metal. ‘You trust me Earl?’ Earl snorted. ‘Trust! This island nah gah no trust in anyone, dat the first thing that go when people are scared …. law is now wit Purple Bob, uwah people don’t know nothing ‘bout trust no more.’ ‘I agree, but Purple Bob’s days are numbered Earl, trust me when I say things are going to change for the better, his rule will not last for much longer.’ ‘Need’s ta b’quick Mike, dat blow you gave em, goin to make things much, much worse.’ They were silent, listening to the clang of a door, the arrival of a vehicle, distant voices. Mike thought back and wished he had followed Earl’s advice. The cocaine was no price to pay for the fuel they had found. ‘I can’t tell you everything Earl, not yet, but trust me when I say, I think he’s a good guy OK?’ Earl studied him for a while before putting his forehead back on his arms. ‘Whatever you say Mike, whatever you say.’ Mike stared at the wall. What was he going to do when he got out? If Hudson was telling the truth the world now had a vaccine. That should be filling him with hope. But it didn’t. It meant they would have to go out and face whatever chaos awaited. Their isolation on the island hadn’t been perfect, but it had been … he searched for the right word … simple…uncomplicated… just appreciating the basics… love, family, the world around him … there had been the undercurrent of fear and worry and people had kept to themselves, but it had been peaceful. Now it was all opening up again and he knew he didn’t want to go back to it. The world seemed just as ugly, if not uglier, people striving for power, settling old scores, families ripped apart, jobs gone, homes no longer affordable, economic chaos and these were the things he could only imagine. Who would want that, if you could stay isolated forever on a Caribbean island with the two people you loved? He must have dozed because he leapt awake with the crash of bolts sliding back from the door. His backside was cold and numb from the steel bench, his neck ached. Two men appeared in the doorway, dressed in the same orange boiler suits and face protection. One pointed at Mike and gestured for him to follow. Mike glanced at Earl who had also jumped awake. The guard shook his head emphatically and pointed again at Mike. Reluctantly Mike got to his feet, holding his hands to cover his crotch, he followed them out of the door. The corridor was bare concrete, illuminated from high barred windows. There was graffiti scribbled along the sides, names, dates of previous offenders, on their way to whatever fate had held for them. Mike’s thoughts were still with him, compounding his trepidation as he was escorted through the grimy prison. There were no rules on the island other than those Purple Bob and his cohorts chose to follow. There was no legal system. English Common Law and Civil Rights had been thrown out at the beginning of the crises. Martial law had been imposed which gave the Roberts freedom to do whatever the hell they liked. Wherever he was being taken, if they decided to shoot and bury him in an unmarked grave, no one would be the wiser. His stomach churned, his bowels liquefied, he needed the toilet. They refused. The prison was built around an open concrete courtyard, that in the good old days had been used for exercise. It was where he and Earl had been hosed down. As he entered the courtyard again, it was dominated this time by a highchair, with wooden arms and a tall back. It was fixed to lengths of timber in a noughts and crosses grid, occupying the middle square. The men gestured him towards it. Mike resisted. His rear escort pushed him forward and he stumbled onto one knee. ‘Sit in da chair,’ a voice boomed through the speakers mounted in the corners of the courtyard. The heat was oppressive, the sun just visible above the western roof ridge. The concrete under his bare feet was still hot to walk on. ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted, looking around at the various openings, his frightened gaze settling on a small window that he could see his reflection in, guessing it was one-way glazing. ‘I’m not sick, this is ridiculous.’ ‘Sit. Don’t speak until spoken too,’ the voice was distorted but sounded like Cyril’s. Mike realised that the chair had been modified. A toilet seat replaced the normal cushioned area. He glanced nervously again at the window, his legs were beginning to shake, on the verge of collapsing. ‘Sit.’ Mike felt his heart pumping, sweat ran down his face. One of the guards pushed him back onto the chair, his buttocks feeling the sun hot plastic. His arms were wrenched from protecting his genitals and cable ties bound his wrists to the chair arms. ‘This is Tara Suckoo, Mike, I’ll be conducting your inter…interview today,’ her voice echoed around the courtyard. ‘Why…why do you need to interview me like this!’ Mike shouted. ‘I apologise for the circumstances Mike, but you are still in quarantine.’ ‘I’m not sick,’ Mike yelled. There was no reply just a hiss of static. ‘Mike, we want to know exactly what happened on Crooked Island?’ ‘I’ve already told you,’ Mike said. ‘You’re going to have to speak up Mike.’ ' You know what happened,’ Mike yelled, his fear making him angry. A pause. ‘Aloe Muckenfuss has also told us… but his story is somewhat different.’ So, he hadn’t stalled them. The piece of shit was probably high on coke and being promised more if he told the truth. He was fucked. ‘What…what did he tell you?’ ‘Speak up!’ Mike hung his head, despair engulfing him. ‘What did he tell you?’ ‘That’s what you need to tell us,’ Tara said, her voice impossible to read through the electrical distortion. Mike clenched his fists. ‘I landed. Found the others safe and well. About to take-off. When from nowhere these men ran onto the strip and started shooting. We lost an engine. Cabin shot full of holes, which was when Dexter and Daniel were killed.’ One of the guards moved to stand beside him. He wore a face mask under the visor. Mike could see the brown of his eyes studying him, then the corners crinkled in a grin. Thompson! If he was frightened before, he was now terrified. The tannoy hissed, smothering voices in conversation. ‘Tony says you were on the ground for hours, why?’ Tara said. Mike took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t realise we were on a schedule.’ Thompson pulled from a pocket a long orange rubber tube, one end containing a ball shaped object. He whirled it, making a sound like an Aborigine Bullroarer. He leant close to Mike. ‘You loss your job sweetgums, you wutless to us now, and I goon make you pay for all dat shit you given me, introduce you t’friend of mine, Mr ballbreaker,’ and he directed it under the toilet seat. The rubber tube stretched around the edge of the toilet seat and accelerated the ball onto his exposed testicles. The suddenness of the action caught Mike by surprise and delayed his reaction but then the pain smashed through his nervous system and he howled, like a pressure release from a kettle, he kept howling knowing that if he stopped, he would pass out with the agony spreading up through his belly. There were no bones, muscle mass or fat to absorb the hit, the glands designed to give so much pleasure could on the flip side, deliver the most incapacitating, end-of-the-world pain that could humanely be endured. Tara’s voice was coming back at him, but he couldn’t hear through his howling. Thompson started whirling his ballbreaker. Mike squeezed the armrests, forcing himself to listen. ‘Mike, we don’t want to do this but … for the sake of the people living on this island, tell us the truth.’ Mike’s vision was blurred with tears, he didn’t know whether to close his legs or open them, afraid to look down in case he saw his testicles hanging in a dislocated mess. The second shot whirred in under the toilet seat. Another wave of pain, not as intense, but like a tsunami surge, it just kept coming until Mike welcomed the thought of passing out. Thompson’s man unravelled the pressure hose and now blasted Mike with cold water. ‘We know you came in contact with a man on the island, who was he?’ Tara’s voice came at him mechanically. Thompson started whirling the obscene, florescent orange tube next to him. ‘Hudson,’ Mike tried to shout but it was simply a moan. ‘Speak up!’ Tara said. ‘Hudson,’ Mike cried out. Silence except for the drip of water, tannoy hiss and whirling ballbreaker. ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’ ‘Why d’ you think,’ Mike groaned. ‘Had he captured the others?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘What happened on the island? Where did you go with him?’ Mike retched, bile dribbling from his mouth. ‘Tell da lady sweetgums,’ Thompson growled. Mike hung his head in time to see a flash of lurid orange before his vision burst with a fresh wave of pain. His howl was cut short by another blast from the hose, filling his gaping mouth with water, choking him. ‘Stop…’ he puked water, gasping and retching, ‘please …stop,’ he gasped. By some unseen communication, Thompson left his side and went to stand by his assistant. They waited, watching Mike spasm and vomit. Tara said, ‘When you’re ready Mike. ’ The pain came at him in jackhammer waves. ‘He…he had been shipwrecked, wanted me to help him…’ Mike gritted his teeth and took a gulp of air, ‘recover some bags.’ Hiss of static, Mike was shaking uncontrollably, his nervous system in overdrive. Eventually Tara said. ‘Where were these bags?’ ‘At…at the abandoned hotel.’ Thompson stepped forward and Mike hurriedly continued. ‘The… the bags, heavy, he didn’t…didn’t let me look inside … wanted to escape to Cuba … I said … impossible… not enough fuel…’ ‘Then what?’ ‘On the way back I… I escaped,’ Mike slurred, realising his mouth was full of blood. He raised his head and focused on the small glass window, hoping he was conveying enough conviction for them to believe him, no matter what Muckenfuss had said. He could dimly see his battered reflection, hair hanging from the drenching, blood dripping from his chin, his pale body, convulsing. Thompson casually walked over to stand beside him again. ‘I swear th..th…that’s what happened’ his nails had dug into the wooden armrests like talons, ‘I ran…ran back, everyone was on board, we started to take off…. then he…he ran out of the trees shooting.’ The tennis ball or whatever the fuck was in the end of the tube, hit again and this time it felt he had lost them, punched through into his belly. His head lolled forward, unconsciousness close. Despite the waves of agony, he was dimly aware that if he buckled and confessed, his family would be next. He had to believe Leah and Ben were safe, as long as he didn’t tell them. ‘It’s the truth,’ he groaned, head back, eyes streaming, looking up at the sky getting steadily darker. ‘Why did you not tell us before?’ Mike was still looking up at the sky, wishing his body to shut down. ‘I don’t know.’ ‘How do you know this man did not have the sickness?’ ‘Been…been on the island a few weeks.’ ‘You said at the beginning, men attacked you, now you are saying it was just this man, yes?’ The whirring stopped with another smack on his mauled genitals and mercifully his body cried, enough. Mike slumped forward as unconsciousness overcame him.
“Hudson Bentley, you are a waste of space sir, a useless, feckless waste of space!” His headmaster’s words all those years ago, echoing in his mind as he laid down in a partly restored yacht’s hull, housed in a dilapidated boat shed, a safe distance from the Huntley’s residence. The final straw in a haystack of offences. This time caught riding a neighbouring farm’s horse, naked, paralytic, and smoking a joint. Hudson allowed himself a small grin, remembering his cheering schoolmates leaning from the windows of the top floor dorm of the 17th century private school, as he tried to jump the wall leading to the playing fields, only to end up ploughing through Mr Le Notre’s prized vegetable garden, destroying the fresh vegetables ready for the following weeks school dinners. His father had been called and he had reluctantly flown from the City of London in his helicopter to collect his expelled son, paying for the damages and a year’s supply of vegetables from the local farm shop as compensation to the distraught Mr Le Notre. Hudson stared at the cobwebs between the sagging wooden beams, wondering if his father had managed to pay his way out of contracting Airbola. That flight had been the first time he had seen him in over six months. He hadn’t said much, something like, ‘that was a waste of money then wasn’t it,’ while still reading whatever was on his laptop. When they had landed, they had taken separate cabs; his father back to his company, him back to their empty home in Kensington. His mother and sister had left to live with her new man in Edinburgh. An RBS executive, not quite as rich as father but getting there. His mother was a beautiful flirt. Hudson had been aware of the hungry looks she got from the men at their frequent house parties, but his father hadn’t appeared bothered. Hudson guessed he had his own admirers but had been a little more discreet. Hudson watched a spider carefully work its way along a vibrating strand. Did he really care whether any of them had survived? When was the last time he had seen them? Five…no six years ago, when his sister got married to that arsehole of a Scottish Laird. He had been asked to leave after staggering over from the bar and attempting to follow the idiot in his cringingly awful Highland Fling. He had been consoling himself. He had lost another job; one he had actually enjoyed. Working through the old boy network, that was the only legacy left to him from school days, he had got a job as a consultant to a Nigerian gold mine, sourcing cheap mining equipment, but the owner had quickly realised that what he knew about mine equipment, could be written on the back of a gold bar. He had put him to work instead on re-organising the mine’s security, which, to his surprise, he loved, particularly the part involving guns. He would have stayed if he hadn’t been caught screwing the mine owner’s wife. After he had sobered up from his sister’s wedding, he had gone back to the old boy’s network. Global Private Security, had employed him without any referencing as one of their International Security Directors. Which was why he had been at the US Lab in Puerto Rico when Airbola arrived. Hudson felt his eyes grow heavy, the image of the spider bundling the fly into its silk cocoon beginning to blur. Hudson Bentley’s life so far, and other than a few adventures in Africa and the Far East, and of course the horse stunt at school, there hadn’t been much to admire. Now however, now, he could do something. His arm reached out involuntarily, and his fingers touched the side of the cooler box. If he succeeded in getting this to the right people he could feel justifiably proud that at last he had done something right, something selfless, humanitarian, a responsible act that would have his old headmaster turning in his grave with surprise. Hudson shifted his position to get comfortable, bunching up the sail bag under his head. He should crave sleep, but was still wired from the crash landing, the adrenaline taking a long time to leave his system. He had spied Mike’s wife and son on the veranda earlier. He had had a desperate urge to introduce himself and tell them Mike was OK but decided to stick to his promise. With binoculars, he could understand why Mike so desired to get back to them. She looked a lot of fun, sexy and very hot and Ben was a cute one. The sight of him and brought sudden tears his eyes. Craig, his own son. The only thing in his life he refused to think about, burying it as deep as he could. He knew if he let it surface he would use it as a reason to become like the men he despised, hating the world, hating the people left on it and using the disorder to gorge on his own anger, betrayal and despair. Hudson liked to think that underneath the drunkenness, the laddish behaviour the self-indulgence he was a decent enough bloke. Just needed a cause to hitch his wagon too. The vaccine was a freight train of a cause and he liked Mike, in a world that was falling apart, full of ugliness and corruption, it was good to find a decent guy and one capable of handling himself. He hoped he would be back soon and made an oath to himself, that he would do everything in his power to help keep Mike and his family together.
Mike collapsed into shade offered by a 5-meter-high dry forest, clinging to life in a small depression just before the track led out onto the spine of the island. His shoulders were on fire, his legs burnt with the effort of lugging the bag up the incline from the hotel. Hudson settled the cooler box gently on the ground then squatted next to Mike. ‘Too much sitting behind the controls of that plane,’ he grinned. Mike laid back, removing his sunglasses before covering his eyes with his arm. ‘Oversight of mine not to bring water,’ Hudson said. When Mike’s breathing returned to normal, he lowered his arm and looked sideways at Hudson. ‘Could say the same for not learning to navigate before you sailed.’ Hudson threw a stone and watched it bounce down the scree, creating a mini avalanche. ‘Life doesn’t always allow you to dot the i’s before action’s gotta’ be taken.’ Mike’s mouth was dry, dizziness swept over him as he struggled to sit up. Sand and bits of old tree stuck to him. He brushed away ants climbing his leg, wincing as he felt the sting from their bites. ‘Putting these weapons together and whatever’s in that cooler box, tells me this trip was planned, just not the shipwreck part.’ ‘True,’ Hudson glanced at Mike. ‘I’m pretty good at managing life on land, but the sea, I hate it and it, hates me.’ From their position they looked down over the roof of the hotel, sprouting vegetation from cracks in the concrete and between twisted communication dishes, antenna and air conditioning units. Mother nature, invasive, powerful, and as if to emphasise the frailty of human endeavour, the great arc of sea beyond, it’s surface glittering, humidity increasing, the cycle starting that created the fuel for the hurricane that destroyed the developers rich dreams in just a few hours. ‘So, you’re a soldier?’ Hudson took off his stained bush hat and pushed a hand through thick, matted black hair. ‘Nope.’ ‘Government agent, something military surely,’ Mike said, ‘don’t tell me you’re one of those nuts that collects these things and then shoots cans in the woods!’ Hudson wasn’t listening something had caught his attention. Mike followed his gaze, shielding his eyes from the glare. Hudson pulled one of the bags towards him. He unzipped and retrieved from a moulded compartment, a pair of Seeker 8 x 42 military binoculars. He pushed up his sunglasses and used his knees to steady his elbows. After a moment of adjusting the centre focusing wheel he concentrated on what had caught his attention, before letting out a low whistle, ‘ahh fucking hell,’ he whispered. ‘What?’ Mike said, staring more earnestly out to sea. ‘ ’They’ve found my boat.’ Hudson lowered the binoculars, ‘‘You can’t see it because the storm pushed it high up the beach under those palms. I covered it with debris but obviously not well enough.’ Mike snatched them off him. He focused beyond the shimmering reef flat. He followed the darker blue channel through the sand banks to the outer reef and then between the gap in the coral to the sea beyond. Because of the reflection it took him a while but his movements froze as the boat jumped into vision. He was impressed Hudson had spotted it. ‘Looks like the patrol boat from our island,’ he said. ‘I could deal with that Mike, but unfortunately you’re wrong.’ Mike concentrated. ‘Yeah you’re right, much bigger, could be a Coast Guard cutter.’ ‘Come on Mike,’ Hudson said holding out his hand to help him up. ‘Trust me, now’s not the time to discuss the differences in boat design.’ Mike ignored his hand and got to his feet, handing over the binoculars. ‘Who are they?’ Hudson focused out to sea. ‘They’re aiming for the channel,’ he was silent for a while, ‘yep I can see they’re getting ready to lower a boat to come ashore.’ Mike shaded his eyes. It was definitely a military ship; he could see the gun on the foredeck. ‘Pick up your bag,’ Hudson said impatiently. ‘ How do they know you’re here,’ Mike said. ‘They’ll have been searching for a while. It was only a matter of time before they turned up.’ ‘But they don’t know it’s your boat?’ Mike said. ‘Not at the moment, I destroyed the name, but they’ll investigate just in case.’ ‘But they’ll see the hotel’s deserted and leave again, won’t they?’ Hudson threw up his arms in exasperation. ‘What’s with the questions Mike? I know these people, they’re not nice. I’m sure I Ieft something on board that’ll tell ‘em it was my boat, then they’ll come looking. I don’t want to be around when they do, and by association, nor do you,’ and Hudson left the shelter of trees and clambered back out onto the track. Mike couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a shout; could have been one of the gulls gliding along the ridge line. He stooped and groaned with effort as he swung the bag onto his back, settling the straps on his shoulders. He followed Hudson, glancing back at the ship, now hove-to off the outer reef. A RIB was racing through the channel towards the beach. He couldn’t believe how quickly they had materialised out of the glittering sea to now landing on the beach. ‘Come on,’ Hudson yelled from the top of the ridge. Mike was about to turn and follow when the gun flashed on the foredeck of the ship followed by a shattering explosion in the scrub to his right, pummelling him into the ground and raining debris onto the bag on his back. Mike was no soldier but wasn’t a stranger to combat, he’d even been on the receiving end of a surface to air missile. The terror still occasionally woke him at nights, bathed in sweat. That terror now flooded through his system, kicking in the survival tactics he had learnt. Doing nothing was not an option, his body was already reacting, rolling out from its protective position, adrenaline firing into his muscles as he scrambled up the last few metres thankfully obscured by the dust thrown up by the explosion. The second shell exploded off to his left behind an outcrop of protecting rock. He crested the ridge and fell flat next to Hudson, heart pumping. Hudson wrenched the bag off Mike’s back, unzipped and hefted a Milkor multiple grenade launcher to his shoulder. ‘How far away you reckon the hotel is,’ he yelled. Mike’s hearing was ringing from the explosions, his vision blurred by clouds of dust. ‘How far Mike?’ Hudson shouted. Mike looked at him, blinking away the grit. ‘I don’t know, half a kilometer...maybe…’ ‘What’s that in football fields?’ Hudson shouted. Mike shook his head trying to get rid of the ringing. ‘What?’ ‘Football fields Mike, how far,’ Hudson had loaded the launcher and was kneeling, exposing his upper body over the ridge line. ‘I dunno, ahh about five I guess.’ ‘English or American?’ Hudson yelled, a shell exploded down the ridge forcing Hudson to duck down. He grinned. ‘We’re going to keep moving, they’re spotters are too good.’ 'It’s you they’re trying to kill, not me,’ Mike started to get up. Hudson restrained him. ‘They’re not trying to kill me Mike, just slow me up.’ Another shell hit below the ridge they were hiding behind. Hudson handed him the binoculars. ‘You’re going to have to spot for me.’ ‘What?’ Mike said, stretching his jaw, trying to unblock his ears. ‘Tell me where they are. I’ll fire, then we legit along this ridge to a new position. They won’t come on in a hurry if they know I’m hitting them with grenades.’ Mike looked dumbfounded at the binoculars in his hand. ‘Ready?’ Hudson grinned encouragingly. ‘Take a peek, tell me what you see.’ ‘No,’ Mike started to get up. Hudson placed a boot on his chest and pinned him to the ground. ‘Trust me Mike, they’re not going to differentiate between you or me.’ He glared at him. ‘If they reach that airstrip before us, we’re never leaving.’ Mike angrily tried to push the boot from his chest but Hudson leant down harder. ‘It’s the only way.’ Mike stopped struggling, his mind in turmoil, wrestling with options. Hudson was a known threat; alone, which gave him a better chance of escaping. The ship could be carrying the good guys, if it was a Cutter it represented the government and authority, which would make Hudson a fugitive. One he would be aiding. But who knows what had happened in the world, there was no guarantee they were still the good guys? The question why they wanted Hudson so desperately, would have to wait. He made up his mind. ‘Good boy. Take a look.’ Mike rolled onto his stomach and squirmed up to the crest, using a scraggy plant as cover, he put up the binoculars and focused down to the hotel. ‘Eight of them running up the hotel drive,’ he said breathlessly. Hudson knelt up beside him, aimed and fired in one fluid moment. Ducking back down before the grenade had landed. ‘You hit a gate post, they’ve all run into cover,’ Mike said, just before a shell detonated on the slope below them. ‘Come on, 50 yards, lets go,’ Hudson shouted, running off at a crouch. Mike hefted his bag, lighter by seven kilos thanks to the absence of the Milkor and ammunition and raced after him. They jogged and stumbled, crouched over just the other side of the ridge, off the track so they had to weave around scrub and rock, their arms and legs suffering from the obstacles. Mike knew he had used up all his reserves. Adrenaline was fuelling him. Hudson crashed down behind a rocky outcrop, careful that the cooler bag remained upright. ‘Right, go see what’s happening.’ ‘Three spaced out on the track, four by the gates.’ Hudson crouched on his knee and fired two grenades in succession. ‘Go, go, go,’ he shouted, hearing the distant explosions. They ran on but this time no shell exploded near their last position. ‘Take another look,’ Hudson panted. Mike wiped the sweat from his eyes, his hands shaking making it impossible to focus clearly. ‘They’re running up the track, probably twenty metres apart.’ ‘You sure,’ Hudson said. ‘No, I’m not fucking sure, but as good as,’ Mike shouted, not waiting for instructions from Hudson. He stood and ran as Hudson fired three grenades and watched their pursuers dive for cover. None returned fire. He grinned, sons of bitches wanted him alive or didn’t want to risk damaging the merchandise. He fired another two and set off after Mike. Mike’s throat was like sandpaper, there was no saliva and he had stopped sweating, his body was dangerously dehydrated. His legs were rubbery, vision fading, waves of heat hit him as he plunged and staggered through the rough vegetation. Most of the gullies were jumpable others he fell down one side and scrambled out the other. His hands and knees were bleeding. He miss-timed a jumpable gully, his ankle bent over the far ridge. He cried out from the stabbing pain and landed on his back in the narrow trough. The hard contents in the bag winding him, draining him of any reserves of strength to pull himself out. He lay there like a stranded tortoise. He stared up at the blue arc of sky and wanted to cry. Images of Leah and Ben filled his mind, whirling with the confusion over what was happening, the suddenness of it all, the fact that people were yet again trying to kill him. A shadow fell over him. He held up a hand to block out the sun. A hand took hold and he was pulled from the ditch as if a spring had uncoiled under him. ‘Quit lying around Mike,’ Hudson grinned, patting him on the arm. ‘A few more yards, there’re the palm trees.' Minutes later, with an arm around Hudson’s shoulders they staggered into the shade of the palm grove. The red crabs had disappeared. Mike sunk down next to a trunk. ‘That’s it for me,’ he said drunkenly. Hudson crouched next to him. ‘Listen Mike, I meant what I said, if these guys get hold of us, we won’t be leaving this island, ever,’ he took Mike’s sunglasses off and stared into his eyes. ‘Get it?’ He shook Mike by the shoulders. ‘No more family Mike and I fancied meeting them.’ Mike nodded weakly. ‘You’re the only way off this island, you’ve got to get to your plane, OK?’ Mike just stared into the fierce pale blue eyes, inches from his. ‘I’m going to hold them off, give you time to get it started. When I come running that’s your clue we gotta’ leave,’ Hudson helped Mike off with the bag and then to stand. He put both hands on his shoulders. ‘I’m trusting on you to wait Mike.’ Mike opened his eyes wide, trying to concentrate. Hudson’s face wavered in front of him, ‘you haven’t heard my story yet, it’s a good one, worth waiting around for, OK?’ Mike couldn’t imagine how he was going to pilot the King Air but the thought of escape galvanised him once more. He started to leave but Hudson held him, hands tight on his shoulders. ‘Take the cooler box Mike.’ Mike shook his head. ‘You don’t have a choice Mike,’ he handed it over, ‘this is what they’re after. As long as you have it, your chance of escape is good, without it…’ Mike was relieved to feel it didn’t weigh much. ‘Don’t try and open it Mike, I have the lock combinations here,’ Hudson tapped his head. ‘Try and force it and you’ll destroy what’s inside.’ Mike didn’t care about the contents he just wanted to escape. Without a word, he staggered off down the shaded avenue of sand. A figure appeared in his periphery vision. Mike lurched to one side, trying to evade the outstretched hand but all energy had left him. He almost sobbed when he recognised Earl. ‘Mike!’ Earl cried, ‘mother of sweet Jesus what’s happened to you? We heard explosions!’ Mike gratefully accepted Earl putting an arm around his shoulders. ‘Got to get to the plane,’ he mumbled. ‘What about the other guy?’ ‘Plane,’ Mike said, from around a tongue that felt two sizes too big for his mouth. ‘Sure, sure, come on, I’ll get you there.’ Earl was tougher than his wiry frame let on and he easily held Mike’s weight, their pace quickening. ‘Others,’ Mike said. ‘They’re already at the plane,’ Earl said, his breathing becoming laboured. ‘We’ve been waiting ever since you left, those knots you tied were good and loose Mike.’ They made it to the strip and at the far end the most welcoming sight in Mike’s life. Tears blurred the glint of its fuselage, it spurred him on. Someone came out from the shade of the port wing and stood watching them. ‘You useless bastard, come n’ help,’ Earl shouted. Aloe Muckenfuss hesitated before sauntering towards them. ‘Glad you could make it!’ Earl grunted ‘Take that off him and grab his other arm.’ ‘Where’s the other guy?’ Muckenfuss said, helping carry-drag Mike quickly to the King Air, laying him in the shade of the wing. Earl was doubled over, panting, sweat streaming down his lined face. He looked at Mike. ‘I guess things aren’t cool, so we need you fit to fly outta here.’ Muckenfuss was already rummaging through the remaining food items and finding a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and held the bottle to Mike’s lips. The first few mouthfuls dribbled down his chin. Mike held the water in his mouth to relieve the dryness and then allowed it to trickle down his throat, trying not to gag. When his reflexes had fully returned, he greedily finished the bottle. Mike could feel the life-giving liquid surge through his body, and he fell onto his back with a groan. Earl knelt by his side and peeled an orange, feeding him segments. Mike waved him away. ‘Help me up, we gotta get going.’ ‘How’re you gonna fly son, you’re barely standin’,’ Earl said. Muckenfuss knelt next to him. ‘Try this.’ He had a pinch of white powder between his fingertips. Mike winced, shaking his head. ‘It’ll help,’ Earl said, nodding at Muckenfuss who held his fingers to Mike’s nose. Mike breathed deeply through one nostril and then the other. Earl pinched the bridge of his nose, tilting his head back to prevent him sneezing. Mike pushed them away feeling the chemical taste of the drug in the back of his throat. He drank another bottle of water and used Earl’s shoulder as a support to get to his feet. ‘There’s paracetamol in the first aid kit. That’ll do more good.’ Gunfire started from the palm grove. ‘You OK to fly,’ Muckenfuss asked. ‘If you want to get off this island you better hope so,’ Mike said, reaching out for the wing above to support him. ‘Help him on board,’ he pointed to Dexter who appeared delirious. Daniel had been watching them silently from the shade, a make-shift crutch lying by his side. He glared at Mike. ‘Tell me sump’m Mr Mike, that white guy goin’ to make it?’ Mike pulled himself up the steps using the wire handrail while carrying the cooler box. ‘I don’t get her started, none of us will.’ Daniel lifted a pistol that had been lying beside him. ‘He got nah chance of getting on uwah plane,’ he grimaced with pain as he shifted his weight to stand. Mike met Earl coming back through the cabin. ‘Here,’ he said, handing him a pack of paracetamol and Lucozade. Mike nodded his thanks. ‘Persuade Daniel to lose the gun, help Dexter on board and put this in the rear locker,’ Mike said handing him the cooler box. ‘Make sure it’s well supported.’ He slumped into his seat and for a moment looked incomprehensibly at the array of dials and switches in front of him, a brief flurry of panic ran through him as his brain refused to engage with the start sequence. The crackle of gunfire came to him through the open door and Muckenfuss and Earl swearing at each other as they manoeuvred Dexter on board. He felt his seat vibrate from a large explosion. He glanced out of the windscreen seeing debris and smoke drift into the air above the palms. Mike jammed two pills into his mouth and swilled them down with Lucozade, squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he forced himself to relax, allowing his brain to filter out all except the start sequence. His fingers started slowly flipping switches and checking dials, then as the procedure came back to him, his hands moved automatically until he reached the point where he could start the engines. Sweat stung his eyes, the cabin was roasting. He glanced into the cabin and saw that Earl had secured Dexter into a seat. Daniel was by the open door, pistol in hand. For a moment he hesitated and then beckoned Earl forward, ‘leave it open Earl.’ Earl frowned. ‘Make sure you’re ready to close it as soon as he’s on board.’ Earl’s jaw dropped. ‘If Daniel shoots him then close the door, if he makes it on board, close it then.’ Mike turned back to the instruments, cutting off any further comment. He pressed the starter and was rewarded with the whirring of a compressor before the right turbo fan ignited, the smell of burnt jet fuel immediately filling the cabin through the open door. The propeller sped up to idle and the airframe rocked and pulsed as Mike went through the procedure for starting the left engine. He checked pressures and temperatures, momentarily forgetting what was going on outside. Satisfied everything was up to normal he looked out through the windscreen in time to see a figure emerge at full run. It was Hudson, and Mike was amazed at the strength the man had to run that fast while carrying a weapon’s bag on his back. He’s on his way,’ Mike yelled resisting the temptation to roll the King Air forward to meet him. He needed all the take-off space he had. His hands clenched the wheel and throttle levers. Another figure emerged from the Palm grove, gesticulating wildly. Immediately half a dozen more came into view. One knelt and aimed, dirt spurted up around Hudson’s legs. He whirled and fired the assault rifle he had been carrying across his chest. The six by the palm grove threw themselves flat on the ground. ‘Come on, come on,’ Mike said through gritted teeth, flinching as more dirt spurted up around Hudson’s feet and then a ricochet pinged off the fuselage above the windscreen and he ducked lower, feeling very exposed. Hudson turned again, a long burst that scattered the attackers back into the trees, giving him a few more precious seconds. Hudson was three quarters towards him when his pursuers re-emerged, this time fanning out onto the crushed coral of the landing strip, covering its width, weapons levelled at Mike. They started a slow, determined walk towards him. Hudson raced under the wing tip, his face puce with effort, his hat gone, his long black hair looking like he had emerged from swimming. Mike tore his gaze from the approaching fighters and looked back into the cabin. Daniel was leaning out of the doorway, pistol level, he fired, then was pitched back in the cabin, bursting through the toilet door where only his legs could be seen, twitching spasmodically. First the bag was thrown on board and then Hudson jumped in, tripping over it and sprawling headfirst down the passageway. ‘Go, go,’ he wheezed, trying to disentangle his feet from the handles of the bag. Earl expertly shut the door. Mike looked back through the windscreen and his hands froze on the throttle levers. ‘I can’t,’ he yelled, ‘they’re blocking the runway.’ Hudson scrambled into the seat next to him, his chest heaving. ‘Run the fuckers down Mike, go, they won’t shoot.’ ‘I don’t believe you,’ Mike shouted back. ‘Trust me, they won’t risk it,’ Hudson said, resting his hand over Mikes and pulling back on the throttles. Mike flicked his hand off and glared at him. ‘Don’t touch a thing,’ he shouted but he didn’t reduce power. His foot was hard on the brake, the frame shook, eager to be off. The men on the runway suddenly crouched on one knee. There were muzzle flashes and the ground in front of the King Air’s nose erupted from bullet hits. Ricochets pinged off the fuselage. A hit on one engine and they would never take off. ‘Ok so I was wrong! But they’re going for the tyres Mike, not us, it’s now or never,’ Hudson said, sitting back, looking suddenly relaxed, ignoring the blood running down his arm. Mike opened the throttles, released the brake and the acceleration even caught him unawares, as he was pushed back into his seat. Muzzle flashes and Mike prayed Hudson was right and they weren’t tempted to shoot out one of the engines or go near the wings, reducing them to a fireball. Then the nose dipped with a jarring vibration and he knew they had finally hit the front tyre. It would shred in seconds. He glanced at their speed, seconds away from V2 and take off speed of 115 knots, he pulled back on the stick testing, the vibration was getting worse, if the strut holding the wheel collapsed they would nose dive the ground and that would be the end of it. He fought to stay in control, to stop the shredding tyre from veering them of the narrow strip, he lost focus on the men, who were now scattering, no longer shooting, waiting for fate to finish the job. Their speed increased, the vibration intolerable, his vision starring, the tyre must have gone, they were down to the wheel hub, or what was left of it, the engines still bellowed at full power. Red lights blinked, a claxon blared, an automated voice warning him of tyre failure, Mike clung grimly to the wheel, praying for a response, his hands becoming numb from the pressure, then instinctively he felt a change as aerodynamics worked on the wings, he pulled back and the nose lifted, the shuddering lessened and then disappeared as the nose came clear and then the main wheels. They had used all the runway; the lone palm was at last going to carry out its threat. The crown raked the underside of the fuselage like a stiffened paint brush, the undercarriage snagged and for a heart stopping moment Mike believed it was going to throw them to the ground, but it tore free and with a surge of speed, they were out over the reef flat. ‘Left engine fire,’ he could hear Earl yelling. The panel in front of him was full of red flashing lights. A new claxon sound and automated voice warning him of engine fire. He ignored everything except keeping to a maximum climb and the wings level. ‘Mike you got to shut it down,’ Earl was suddenly kneeling between him and Hudson. ‘I need more height,’ Mike said. ‘She’ll blow if you don’t, then we’ll lose the wing,’ Earl said. They had made it to a thousand feet. Mike shut down the engine and pressed the ‘engine fire push to extinguish’ light, something he had never done before. Spray nozzles connected to bottles containing Halon pressurised with dry Nitrogen smothered the engine in seconds. He felt Earl’s hand squeeze his shoulder. ‘You did good Mike, she should get us home on one engine.’ ‘Front undercarriage’s destroyed, the main’s retracted but could be damaged,’ Mike said, pointing at warning lights. ‘Uhuh,’ was all Earl said, before turning back into the cabin, ‘we got more problems back here.’ Mike turned in his seat. The cabin was a mess. One of the windows had been shot out and Dexter was splayed back in his seat, head thrown back, eyes staring sightlessly in his direction. Muckenfuss had been hit too, he was holding his blood-soaked arm, pain contorted his face. They must have raked the fuselage with frustration as they got in the air. Mike sat back round. ‘Why don’t you go and help, there’s nothing you can do here,’ he said to Hudson, scanning the gauges for the working engine. He looked out through the side window to check the other was fully extinguished. He could see no sign of fire and the gauges seemed to be telling him the same. He shut off the claxon and the annoying automated voice. Hudson grunted as he got up, leaving blood on the seat. Mike shrugged off his congratulatory pat on the shoulder. He reduced power on the good engine, adjusted trim settings to compensate, flight controls seemed responsive, but the plane felt lopsided, like walking with a broken heal. Nothing to what it was going to look like after they landed, he thought grimly, sad that his days of flying the King Air were ending. That’s if they made it out alive. He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating on keeping the cruise steady at 1500 feet. His headache was fierce. Mike finished the Lucozade, mildly surprised to still find it wedged between his thighs and settled the headset over his ears, drowning out the roar of the remaining engine and the noise coming through the shot-out window. He lowered the microphone to his mouth and pressed the transmit button. ‘Hey Tony, you listening?’ There was a hiss of static and Mike thought that maybe the radio had been damaged but Tony’s voice came back clear. ‘Thought that was you Mike, why you so low?’ ‘Ran into some trouble, lost an engine and haven’t got three greens on the undercarriage.’ Tony was silent for a heartbeat. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Yep, I’m going to do a pass, want you to tell me how bad the front wheel is. If there’s anything left I’ll try putting her down on the rear undercarriage and then drop the nose at the last but if it’s no good, maybe better if I just drop her down on her belly.’ ‘Shit,’ Tony said again. ‘I’m not sure that’s flight control protocol,’ Mike said, surprised that he sounded so calm. Tony took him seriously. ‘Roger that Mike, sorry… I’ll ready the fire truck. Thompson’s here with his boy’s, they’ll help you out when you land and Cyril Roberts is on his way, over.’ Great, Mike thought, the full welcoming committee. A few minutes later. ‘King Air two zero zero, Brac Tower, the Defence Chief is requesting a status report on the aircraft, over.’ Mike could see the smudge of land ahead that had been his home. His haven. All that was about to change. ‘It’s fucked Tony, if we don’t end up in a fireball, even Earl’s won’t be able to fix what’s left.’ ‘Roger King Air two zero zero, understood. Are the others on board, over?’ Mike watched the island growing by the second. Should he pre-warn they’ve got a non-islander on board? Would they go easy on him if they thought he had been hijacked? Would the others back him up? Or, if he told them now, would they just shoot him out of the skies to prevent a stranger setting foot on land? He pressed the transmit button. ‘Daniel and Dexter didn’t make it, Muckenfuss injured, don’t know how bad, I’m OK, so’s Earl,’ he would take his chances once they were on the ground. Hudson slumped back into the seat next to him. ‘What’s happening?’ he said. He had wrapped a bandage around his arm covering the wound. ‘Telling the waiting committee what to expect,’ Mike said, removing the headphone nearest Hudson. ‘Didn’t mention you.’ Hudson’s grim expression softened. ‘No chance you can let me off before they see us?’ Mike shook his head. ‘No parachutes if that’s what you’re asking. There’s a good chance none of us are going to make the landing.’ Hudson looked at Mike with sadness. ‘I’m sorry OK, I really am, but I had no choice.’ ‘Sure you did, you could have stayed hidden and I’d have picked the others up and left, none the wiser. You had a choice,’ Mike said. Hudson chewed his lip, then seemed to make up his mind. ‘Mike, I trust you.’ ‘Wow, I’m honoured,’ Mike muttered. ‘King Air Two Zero Zero, Brac Tower.’ Mike held up his hand for Hudson to be quiet. ‘Yeah Tony, go ahead.’ ‘The fire truck won’t start Mike.’ Mike closed his eyes. ‘Ok Tony, get Thompson to load his jeep with those extinguishers we salvaged and get his men holding them instead of their bloody guns,’ Mike said. Hudson raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘No fire truck,’ Mike said, looking ahead at the distinct shape of Little Brac. They were coming in from the north east, he glanced at his watch, late afternoon, the sun was sliding towards the horizon, shadowing the land where it dipped and raised across the limestone bedrock, The buildings were stark, white structures amongst the dark greenery, the scars of roads, some concrete most dirt tracks, the turquoise of water close to shore and the ring of white beach, the darker reef flat and then a further guarding ring of cream surf denoting the outer reefs. He could see the whole island. It looked so small and it was thanks to this that it had remained untouched, unmolested by the world’s troubles. That was all about to change. Hudson had been saying something, He dropped his headphones. ‘What?’ Mike said impatiently. ‘I can trust you, can’t I Mike?’ ‘For fuck’s sake, we’ll be crashing in a few minutes why does it matter?’ ‘Because if we survive you’ve got to know it was worth the risk.’ Mike glanced at Hudson irritably. ‘The cooler box Mike, that’s what they want.’ Mike shrugged impatiently. ‘Can’t this wait.’ Hudson shook his head. ‘No Mike, that cooler box holds the fate of humanity, it’s a vaccine Mike.’ Mike took a moment to register what Hudson was saying and even turned in his seat to look back in the cabin to locate the box. ‘It wasn’t hit. It’s OK,’ Hudson said. Mike let out a deep breath. ‘I don’t believe you, why would you be carrying a vaccine?’ Tony was transmitting. He dropped the headphones into his lap. ‘I worked as head of security for a US lab in Puerto Rico. They had already been working on a vaccine before Airbola took hold. The US Government got all the best scientists onto it, flew everyone they could think of onto campus, then locked it down, security was tighter than a nuclear missile silo.’ Mike glanced out of habit over the instruments, checked his heading and then back at Hudson. ‘When they found the vaccine everyone was jubilant Mike, this was it, end of the world’s horrors, but the US flew in some Navy Seals and top brass and sealed the complex even tighter. They weren’t going to release the vaccine to the likes of you and me Mike, just the elite, the chosen few, the new world order. So, I broke into the lab, got hold of what I could and legged it for the marina and a boat, the rest you know.’ Mike’s headache returned with vengeance. He winced, he pressed his fingers into his forehead, his eyes screwed shut. ‘Couldn’t you have told me earlier,’ was all he could think of saying. The enormity of what Hudson had said was struggling to sink in. He was carrying the most precious cargo he could imagine and about to crash land on an island. ‘You think by telling me I’m suddenly going to be able to land this thing without a problem?’ Hudson stretched over and rested his hand on Mike’s shoulder. ‘No Mike, I know you’ll do your best no matter what, I just wanted you to know what was at stake if we survive.’ Mike felt oddly emotional with the touch. Reminding him of another fighter, an SAS soldier named Winterton who had placed similar trust in Mike’s abilities. What was it that gave these capable men, faith in him. He made a decision. ‘Thompson’s a trigger-happy prick, but hopefully all he’ll be armed with is a fire extinguisher. I’ll try and put her down near the southern perimeter, the fence is down so you’ll get through ok, make sure you head south, my house is the one on the beach, it’s a round building on stilts, you can’t miss it. Hide nearby until I get home, I don’t want you scaring Leah and Ben.’ There were tears in Hudson’s eyes and he looked as though he was about to lean over and give Mike a hug. ‘What about those two?’ He motioned behind him. ‘Earl is ok but Muckenfuss, I have no idea.’ ‘Should I chuck him out the plane?’ Hudson said. Mike glanced at Hudson to make sure he wasn’t being serious. ‘You need to think of something that will keep him quiet,’ Mike said. ‘Perhaps it’ll be enough just to threaten him that if he says anything, Thompson will kill him too.’ ‘I’ll tell them,’ Hudson hesitated, wanting to say more. ‘Good luck,’ Mike cut him off. ‘Belt up, stay out of sight of the windows and look after that box,’ Mike said, putting his headphone back on. A vaccine! A vaccine for Ben, Leah, everyone! An end to the nightmare. The fear, a life without fear. Mike felt tears sting his eyes. Then he looked out of the windscreen and reality fell in on him. So close. ‘King Air two zero zero, Brac Tower.’ ‘Yeah, go ahead Tony,’ Mike said wearily. There was a pause. ‘The Defence Chief wants to know if you came into contact with anyone?’ Mike sat straighter. ‘No Tony, we took off before they could touch us but that didn’t prevent them shooting at us.’ Another longer pause. ‘Understood King Air two zero zero. What’s your current status?’ ‘Tony, lets cut the chat OK? I’m a minute away from crash landing, something you’ll be surprised to hear I’ve never done before. I need to concentrate. Out.’ Mike dropped the headphones in his lap and clenched the wheel. He pushed the thoughts of vaccines and Thompson’s guns out of his mind. A few clouds were building along the shoreline. As they passed beneath, the King Air jolted from the up currents, almost reminding Mike that it was still flying, still able to get them down if he did things right. Mike took a few deep breaths making up his mind. They were going in for a landing without gear, there was no point having it checked from the ground, he knew the front wheel was gone and it would be safer to not rely on it. He had read manuals, studied gear up landing procedure and provided he followed the essentials, it was usually something most pilots walked away from. There was movement beside him and Hudson fell into the co-pilot’s seat. ‘Thought I told you to stay in the cabin,’ Mike said, not looking at him. ‘Couldn’t let you do this on your own,’ Hudson said. ‘How do you plan to help?’ Mike said. ‘Can’t I pull on something?’ Hudson said. Mike appreciated his bravado and suddenly grinned. ‘We’re going to come in gear up, I think it’s safer, I’m dumping fuel now, so if there’s a spark there won’t be so much to go up.’ ‘Good thinking,’ Hudson said. ‘Glad you think so,’ Mike said. ‘I’ll shut down the engine before we touch so the props don’t tear off the wings,’ Mike found that talking actually helped concentrate his mind on what had to be done. He banked the King Air, the runway could be seen clearly now, a broad expanse of concrete running down the middle of the southern part of the island. He could see the terminal, the control tower where he knew Tony would be watching them with binoculars and racing out to the threshold, a couple of jeeps with Thompson’s men, hopefully carrying extinguishers. ‘You’re coming in quite quick,’ Hudson said anxiously. ‘Yep, got to maintain airspeed and I don’t want to use flaps,’ Mike replied, leaning forward against his harness, judging angles, glancing at his airspeed, the dials indicating that most of the fuel had now been dumped into the Caribbean below. He shut off the pump, reducing power on the remaining engine, watching his height, letting the sleek fuselage arrow in towards the runway, keeping the descent as flat as possible, the sea was coming up to them quickly, then they flashed over the rocky limestone shore, no beach or reef for this part of the island, the sea broke against the stubby cliffs, then scrubland before the lusher green of the mangrove swamp that ran the length of the runway, a few sheds, the airport perimeter fence, still quicker than normal. Mike stopped their remaining engine, the propeller froze, he shut down fuel pumps, anything that could create a spark from a short circuit or ruptured supply cable. They passed the runway threshold, the white lines telling him it was now safe to touch down, the jeeps on either side flashed passed, he kept his precious plane off the ground for seconds longer, delaying the end, bracing himself for the point where it would start to tear itself apart on the unforgiving concrete but also wanting to put as much distance as possible between him and Thompson’s crew. Halfway, and they were still feet from the surface, still going quickly. ‘We’re running out of runway,’ Hudson shouted. Mike waited, waited, for the King Air to touch in her own time, he was calm which pleased him, flat and fast, her last bit of life in the air and he was helping her live every second, there was a jolt from the nose as the dangling remains of the front landing gear was wrenched away and then there it was, the belly hitting with a tremendous crash, like a thousand spades being dragged over concrete, the sleek riveted metal skidded across the surface. He was thrown against his harness; loose items crashed and fell around him. Mike worked the rudder to try and keep her straight, the engine casings acting more effectively. Even crashing, the plane performed perfectly, slowing down the centre line of the runway, sound abating as the speed quickly bled away, the nose broke through the navigation lights denoting the end of the runway and then they were onto softer scrub ground, the speed no longer frightening, the concrete replaced with the rumble and thwack of bushes. Debris and dust covered the windscreen, quickly obliterating his view. Mike jumped on the rudder and with what speed they had left, slewed the aircraft to a stop, the cabin door facing away from the runway. ‘Go!’ Mike yelled at Hudson, more scared of what Thompson might do than he had been of the landing. Mike looked back into the cabin, grateful to see Earl was still thinking and had already opened the cabin door. Hudson scrambled passed him. ‘Don’t go left, that’s the swamp, go straight towards the sun,’ Mike said. Hudson picked up his remaining bag of weapons and pulled the cooler box from the rear locker. He looked back at Mike. ‘You’re a good pilot Mike, see you soon.’ Mike waved him away and caught a brief glimpse of him running off towards the perimeter fence before he was lost in the clumps of scrub. Mike unbuckled his harness and went back through the cabin, the smell of aviation fuel and hot metal hurrying him along. They jumped to the ground and ran a distance away before stopping and looking back. Other than it was lying on its belly with its engines buried in torn scrub and dirt, his beautiful aircraft looked remarkably intact. The fuselage, with its high t-tail, its rakish black and red stripes leading down and under the windows looked as good as always if you ignored the bullet holes and shot out window. Earl came and stood beside him. ‘You did well Mike.’ Mike had a premonition that if he had nothing to fly, his usefulness to the island had come to an end. ‘Can you get her flying again?’ Earl let out a harsh laugh, looking away as the jeeps raced into view. Mike’s heart sank. They were all wearing breathing apparatus and contamination suits. They skidded to a halt between them and the King Air. Several men jumped out holding extinguishers and raced towards the aircraft but halted, looking back, uncertain what to do. There was a man behind each machine gun mounted in the back of the jeeps, each gun was pointed at the survivors and Thompson was standing up in the front of his jeep yelling through a megaphone for them to lay on the ground.