Fresh Flesh (27 page)

On the west side of the island, less than a
mile away the spot where Jessica and Richard made love, illuminated
by the glow of a flaming torch, the secret lay in the bushes.
Richard was right, Jessica was surprised.

Richard had not been wasting his time like
the other convicts all these years. He had meticulously whittled
dozens of branches to similar sizes, taken and glued them together
with the sap from a group of trees on the island. Next, he'd taken
rope and tied both ends and the middle for support. He'd used knots
in the rope which Jessica had never seen before, explaining that
they were knots he'd learned from a kind teacher in school. He'd
glued the rope to the finely whittled branches and had created a
very primitive raft, one which he'd built with the use of only two
tools: a knife and bare hands.

He had spent the last eleven years
constructing a means of escape.

"It floats?" Jessica said, remembering the
day she saw the airplane overhead. How she had felt for a moment
like she could be rescued and find a way off this island.

"Of course it floats."

"It floats," she said, stroking the wood. "It
floats, it floats. . ."

"Yes, floats. I finished it about a year ago
and took it out for a test one night. Didn't go very far, maybe
fifty yards. I thought the sap in the trees would work as glue if
it was properly dried and treated, and it does."

"I can't believe you made this."

Richard smiled.

"What has kept you here?"

"I said it floats, not
sails
. The
nearest island is over four hundred miles away, remember? The ocean
or the sharks would have gotten me before I could have made it a
fraction of that distance."

"Then why bother in the first place?"

"One, it was something to fight off boredom.
Two, I had another idea in mind. I hoped someday there might be a
fishing boat nearby. So it wasn't a lie when I said I hadn't seen
even one boat. Sometimes I do feel like we were thrown as far away
from mankind as possible. I worked on the branches by day and glued
them by night. I kept the raft hidden here, covered by shrubs and
branches."

"Why don't we take our chances? Right now,"
Jessica said. "Let's put this in the ocean and. . ."

Richard put his arms around her. "We have the
best chance during the day. And look out there. No boats, Jessica."
Richard squeezed her shoulder. "Can you remember where this spot
is? I want you to memorize this hiding spot."

She nodded. She studied the area in relation
to the beach. She could find her way back here.

Richard put out the torch. They returned
slowly to the beach, hand in hand, talking about the many things
they'd done together; the nightly ritual of walking to the sandy
southwest beach and watching the always-changing tide. The sunny
days they spent berry picking; the always interesting, often
humorous (sometimes catastrophic) fishing trips; and most
especially, their wonderful, in-depth conversations. In two months
they became good friends.

But both remembered what had been in the
darkness.

And what still remained.

They lay on the beach in each other's embrace
listening to their hearts beating. It was their night and no
malignancy could kill it. Their night, surrounded by an ocean
filled with mysteries, secrets, life and death.

And on their night they fell asleep holding
each other tightly, Jessica Stanton, who had once thought she'd
never sleep again, slept the best night since she'd washed
ashore.

Jessica's sleep was dreamless. She awoke,
yawned, and blinked back to reality. She was surprised to see the
sun shining hot and bright above.

Why didn't Richard wake me yet?

She rolled over and reached out for Richard's
warmth. He was not there.

She got to her knees, searched around with
laser intensity.

He was gone.

She looked out at the ocean and spotted
several ships. Three large Navy ships in the distance.

"Richard?" she called. Had the boats come to
rescue her at last?

Those ships should have had wings, and flown
down from the heavens.
Richard, where are you?

And then she knew.

The terror flooded back in on her in
sickening waves: Edward's crawling hand, Bobby, her hand thrusting
the knife into Bat Jackson's stomach. Richard saying last night:
we have the best chance during the day.
Richard knew last
night what he planned to do this morning. He didn't tell her
because he didn't want to ruin their special night on the
island.

Richard had gone to face Kyle Kollector
Roberts on the east side of the island.

It took Richard roughly thirty minutes
limping with his leg to reach the east camp. He tried not to think
of leaving Jessica, hoping it wasn't permanent. It was long past
time to face Roberts. No more running.

He entered Roberts' camp, surrounded by what
remained of the executed convicts. Years of convicts buried above
ground, rotting in the ocean wind and food for bugs.

Richard was appalled the first time he'd seen
it and he couldn't imagine why any of them would continue to live
among this above ground human cemetery.

Roberts had constructed (or more likely, had
others construct for him) a makeshift house. It had windows, a
separate section with a pit dug for excrement. It had a wooden
table made out of tree branches and several tree stump seats.
Draped across the walls were pictures of butterflies. Everywhere
butterflies.

The perpetrator was sitting, back to Richard,
on one of the tree stumps. He was gazing intensely at the blank
tree branch wall. Staring out beyond the camp. He did not seem to
notice Richard's entrance.

"About time you showed up, Richie."

Roberts spun around. A knife blade shining in
one hand.

"You've avoided this day for some time."

"You've played on all of our fears since the
beginning."

Roberts' forehead furrowed. "Have I? I think
I've been generous to
you
all this time. I split the island,
did the babysitting and let you live over there in peace."

Richard's anger started brewing. "And what
about the supplies all those years? Who hoarded every plane-load?
And you call that. . .out there
babysitting
? That's a
graveyard, Kyle. This is your private human collection burial
ground. You picked up where you left off in the states and
continued here."

"Look at my face, Richie. I've paid something
here too."

"Some of them fought back, I don't blame
them."

Roberts smiled, his bubbled face shifted,
eyes glowering. "You should have shared her with me."

"I would have killed myself before doing
that."

"You care for her that much?"

"Yes. Why does it have to end this way, Kyle?
What will be gained from any of this except more needless suffering
and death? Must we both die here?"

"Are you suggesting there ever was any other
outcome?"

"Maybe we could strike a new truce? Jessica
and I—"

Roberts waved his knife from side to side.
"We both know we've reached the end of something, Richie. This is
how we were meant to finish. It's the showdown you put in your nice
little letter in the ground to me."

"The people that decided we needed to come
here did this because they thought there would be no redemption for
people like us, Roberts. Why should we prove them right?"

Kyle stood up and pointed to the butterfly
pictures on the walls. "The only nice thing they sent me from the
states. These used to hang in my cell on the row." He ran his index
finger across the golden-blue wings.

"I'm surprised they ever gave us anything. I
thought this island was about taking, not giving."

"We should have been butterflies,
Richie."

"Butterflies?"

"The butterfly is a wonderful creature. Their
life cycle is made up of four parts starting as nothing more than
an egg, just like us, then larva, pupa and an adult. They fly
primarily in the daylight, on days like this. They tend to migrate
over long distances and they feed on harmful insects. That's what I
did in the world that sent me here: fed on harmful insects. Sadly,
butterflies live very short lives just like we have lived here. But
if we had been butterflies we could have flown away. We could have
migrated somewhere else."

"Rubbish," Richard spat. "If there's any
human left in you at all, you'd feel some remorse for what you did
back there and what you've done here. You're exactly what they
wanted to send here."

"Maybe we can agree on one thing? We never
would have been able to share her."

"No. I love her. I do. I could not share her
with someone that would hurt her."

"Are we done with this dance?"

"Fine, let's do this." Richard unsheathed his
knife.

"I should have killed you when I had the
chance." Roberts glared.

"That would have been out of character, Kyle.
What kind of sport is that?"

They took a step toward each other.

"So this is for the big money?" Roberts
said.

"Jessica is gone by now."

Richard prayed that his lie worked.

"Ahhh, so you've constructed some means of
escape for the pretty one?"

"Maybe I have."

"I always knew you were up to something
sneaky. Clever, Richie. Maybe she's the butterfly among us."

They stepped even closer showing each other
the glint of their blades.

Richard moved warily. Roberts stepped.
Richard, Robert, Richard, Robert. They danced without touching.

"She didn't tell you, did she, Richie?"

Richard tilted his head.

"You bet I fucked her while she was here.
Just like I fucked the others before I did them. Mmmm, it felt so
good too."

"BAAAAAASSSTTTTTTTTAAAAAAARRRRDDDD!"

Richard rushed with his knife raised.

Six ships in the distance. Freedom.

She couldn't leave without Richard. He had
been there every single time she'd needed him. He'd rescued her
from the ocean, Bobby, and Roberts. He'd been there for her every
time and now she could choose to be there for him.

The ships beckoned her. Two months she'd been
here waiting for civilization to return and there they were in the
distance, waiting.

Jessica turned away from the ships. She must
go help Richard. It was the only way she'd ever be able to live
with herself.

But she knew where the raft was, could easily
drag it to the beach, climb on it. . .

No. Can't leave him. Love him.

She looked at the boats and there were eight
of them out there now. It was a convoy of rescue ships, waiting for
her to float on Richard's raft to them.

What's going on out there?

Not just one angel, but several angels
waiting. Come to us, Jessica, come to us. . .

Can't leave him. Love him.

Come to us, Jessica. We have warm beds,
fresh, hot, non-fish meals.

She made her decision, turned away, and
started running for the east side of the island. God help her, if
Richard was dead when she reached there.

God help her, period.

Roberts' dwelling was being savaged,
dismantled, collateral damage to the viscous, hate-filled battle.
Roberts had lost his knife in the frenzy, sticking it in a tree
branch while aiming for Richard's head. Richard's knife was still
in his hand, stabbing for and missing Roberts' heart.

Neither was winning.

Roberts swung blindly and punched a hole in
the wall instead. Richard rushed Roberts, knocking him through the
wall, and suddenly they were out in the open on the ground,
punching each other with fists, and trying to claw each other's
throats out with the other hand.

Roberts grabbed Richard's wounded leg,
sticking his dirty fingernails deep into the scabbed flesh and
digging. Reopening the wood, fresh blood oozed anew.

Richard jumped off, his howling echoed into
the ravine and across the island. He rolled over to the dead
campfire. "Bastard."

He grabbed a small stone out of the circular
arrangement, forcing himself to stand. Warm scarlet flowed down his
leg in uneven streams.

Roberts had retrieved both knives and glared
at him with smiling pits.

Richard motioned him on. By now he was at the
height of rage. He didn't care if it was a Mack truck he was
fighting.

Roberts rushed toward him.

And so did two spinning knives.

Jessica felt lost. She only knew if she
followed the line of the ocean, kept very close to the shore, she
would reach the opposite end of the island.

The ships had spread out and had begun to
surrounding the island.
What's going on out there?
She
switched between a fast walk and run, pushing branches aside.

Her mind was reeling,
I know he's dead,
know he's dead, please don't let him he dead but I know he's dead,
he's dead—

Realizing that she was moving way too slow,
she quickened her pace. Her heartbeat was the only thing moving
faster than her feet.

As she drew nearer the camp, gooseflesh rose
like tiny black bug heads inside her skin.

One of the knives bit into Richard's flesh,
causing him to drop his stone weapon. It was a long unreal-looking
slice down his forearm, immediately exposing bone. He reached with
his other hand, connected with Roberts' wrist, and thwarted the
oath of the other knife.

"DIE!" Roberts screamed. "DIE YOU SON OF A
BITCH, DIE!"

Richard pushed his adversary back, back, back
into one of the dead convict's tree branch forts. The fort
collapsed, the battling men landing on the rotting inhabitant,
pinned to the earth by his knife. They rolled around on the
decaying bones of the corpse, Richard still clenching Roberts'
wrist, the smell of rot faintly wafted in their nostrils. Roberts
broke free, recoiling, climbing to his feet. Richard bulleted up
and landed a fierce right that shattered bones in Roberts' nose,
knocking the man back in the direction of the campfire.