Left on Paradise (47 page)

“They didn’t deserve her.”

“She was our counterculture.”

Kit sobbed and John’s eyes misted as he wiped her cheeks. Neither talked for several minutes.

“I feel like a coward,” Kit said.

John gently grasped Kit’s chin with his hand and turned the woman’s eyes to his own.

“Swear to me,” John said with a stern voice, “you won’t tolerate such nonsense—not even from yourself. None of us are made to hack enemies with axes, especially women. If Hilary wants to fight, let her. But someone gentle and sweet like you isn’t made for war. You’re not a man.”

Kit’s breasts heaved as she sobbed, soft flesh rising and falling with each breath. Her hands quivered even as John’s forearm tightened his grip on her wrist.

“You’re not a man,” John said a second time, with an even gruffer voice, “but a woman. I see it with my eyes and I feel it with my heart. Don’t ever think of yourself as anything else.”

As Kit’s sobbing slowed, John dropped his voice.

“Your place,” John whispered, “is with Linh and Tiffany. They’ll need help if things turn out poorly. Understand?”

Now Kit wrapped her ankle around John’s foot and John reached his arm around Kit’s waist to pull her close. Neither of them slept before John gave Kit a kiss to the cheek and walked to the designated assembly area.

Ryan lay beside Maria on his wool blanket, beyond earshot of the camp. Both lay naked beneath a sheet.

Ryan was red in the face.

Maria wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said. “I’ve never failed before.”

“Too bad we don’t have one of those little booster pills.”

“There’s some at the dispensary,” Ryan said as he sat up.

Maria pulled him down.

“It’s all right,” the young woman said. “I’d be nervous too.”

“I avoided,” Ryan said, “the draft for Vietnam and now I’ve volunteered to fight cannibals. Some paradise.”

“Take care of yourself and don’t be a hero.”

“You can bank on that.”

“They’ll see,” Maria said, “that they’re outnumbered and outgunned and you’ll pick up our wounded without a fight.”

“We can hope. We can hope.”

Maria lowered her voice. “Ryan?”

“What?”

“I’m not sure I want to stay here any longer.”

“You want to admit failure?”

“We’re spiraling downward.”

“We’ll talk when I return.”

Now a shout came from the dark that there remained only fifteen minutes before departure.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said, “but I wanted to give you something to remember me by.”

Maria patted her belly. “You’ve already done that.”

“I’m glad my name won’t die with me,” Ryan said. “I’d never even thought of it before now.”

Maria squeezed her husband’s hand.

“If something happens,” Ryan continued, “tell my son about me. Or my daughter.”

“I’ll tell her everything.”

“Just the good.”

“What would you want me to remember?”

“Talk to my publicist,” Ryan said as he stood to dress.

“You can tell her yourself,” Maria whispered. “I expect to see you come home tomorrow night. To finish what we started a few minutes ago. I’m not done with you quite yet.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ryan said.

Maria slipped into her clothes and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders before walking with Ryan to the beach.

Steve woke an hour before the alarms were set to ring, so he stacked logs on the fire to kill time. After filling a pot of coffee and breaking open a box of rations, he called out the time and ordered the militia to assemble—asking John to load the LCVP with one MRE and two jugs of water for each soldier. This army wouldn’t march on empty stomachs. Meanwhile, family and friends carried tins of coffee and spare blankets to the ship, as well as two medical kits and bundles of hastily sharpened spears. At the last minute, it was decided to substitute the camp veterinarian for the camp physician (who had volunteered to deploy) and to instruct the New Plymouth staff to ready the hospital for casualties—as well as to keep the emergency radio on standby in the event it proved necessary to seek outside assistance. Final plans were drafted, mournful tears were shed, and wishful hopes were shared—and a few islanders even gathered for prayer during which a east villager named Dillon petitioned God to help their side.

Four conscripts and two volunteers failed to report for duty, so Steve delayed the departure—sounding a loud horn three times to call those who were absent without official leave to station. After fifteen minutes passed and they hadn’t arrived, the decision was made to proceed without them—and two southern men present for farewells were pressed into service. Islanders gathered at the shore pushed the loaded landing craft to sea and it wasn’t long before the boat was navigating through the lagoon toward the dark horizon. John and an eastern volunteer sailed the motorized launch before the landing craft, hauling rope and tackle in the unlikely occurrence that the larger boat faltered in the open seas. No one wanted the men and women of Paradise to drift into danger or death.

Both boats crossed the coral barrier and disappeared into the dark no more than thirty minutes after Steve called assembly. On board, officers were elected and orders given. Nerves were raw and voices snapped as the LCVP approached its destination and several men and a couple women vomited against the high walls of the craft while others used long ropes to retrieve seawater to wash down the worst of the foul mess. Indeed, rinsing was just finished when the boat came within sight of Roanoke Island—the dark outline of the island lighted by the early morning sun. Gestures and shouts were used between the two craft to coordinate the final leg of the voyage over the roar of their engines.

When they reached Roanoke Island, John motored ahead to reconnoiter the atoll while Steve and the militia readied themselves for battle. Water was sipped and bits of chocolate eaten. Bootlaces were tied and weapons shouldered. After straws were drawn, the northsmen were assigned a reserve position at the rear of the boat while the other squads lined single file to disembark as soon as the boat struck sand.

They didn’t have long to wait.

36

War in Heaven

“We’ve passed the coral. Weapons ready.”

After shouting his warning, Sean crouched beside Brent against the ramp gate. Behind them stood Viet, Ryan, Hilary, and Jose. Jason decided to fight with northern friends and was stationed with Donovan’s war party and medical staff to the rear. The landing craft dipped in the surf and several of the militia groaned. Sean looked over the top of the steel gate and turned white. When he turned around, he shouted as loud as he could over the diminishing whine of the engine—which already was throttling down.

“They’re waiting,” Sean shouted. “So haul ass after I drop the gate. West village left. East village right. Southerners forward. Northsmen to the rear. Don’t lose this boat, boys and girls. It’s our ride home.”

Three men cracked weak smiles. Two others vomited and one pissed his pants. A woman stood in the urine trembling without attempting to move her feet. A few seconds later, the shallow-draught boat slowed to a halt in waist-deep water—where Sean dropped the gate with a pull of the lever as the citizen-soldiers of Paradise jumped into battle.

The first spear struck immediately. Brent hadn’t taken two steps before a scrawny native hurled a bone-tipped spear straight at his chest. The spear struck in the sternum and Brent collapsed, blood spurting from his mouth and nose. Ryan tripped over him and fell forward as a second spear flew waist-high into the boat, missing his head by inches. A southern woman gasped, then howled in pain and clutched the spear lodged in her side. Meanwhile, Sean jumped into the surf to pull Brent’s head above water as everyone else sprang from the boat in frenzied terror. As a northsman pulled Brent into the craft, Sean shouted for the nurse—who already tended the wounded woman—then told the northsman to do what he could while he himself limped to join his compatriots (having reinjured his knee during his jump).

By the time Sean limped into line, the first volley of native spears had ended. Brent and the southern woman were down, and two other islanders staggered back to the LCVP with gaping wounds—one in the leg and the other in a shoulder. Steve used the lull to direct islanders into formation against what appeared to be an irregular line of twelve men and several boys. Spears were passed to the northerners and the advancing neighborhoods moved forward as the northerners volleyed missiles in an effort to drive the natives back to shore. Only if the islanders advanced to dry land could they effectively bring their superior numbers to bear.

The natives, however, didn’t retreat from the missiles, but darted in front of falling spears while raising high their short, sharpened lances. Closing the gap with the southerners in a matter of moments (and having the advantage of surprise and maneuverability against opponents still waist deep in the surf), the cannibals struck the center with deadly effect. Five southerners went down without the loss of a single native. The younger cannibals finished off fallen opponents using shards of sharpened shell while older tribesmen retreated and regrouped for a second attack. Two southern men dragged a wounded friend to the safety of the rear.

As the islander’s attack stalled in confused horror, the cannibals eluded a volley of northern spears and sprinted through ankle-deep water to flank the western line—all the while screaming with a demonic intensity as they gained speed. The chief’s two sons led the charge of twelve warriors against a squad of five westerners. Seeing the threat, Jose swam for deep water and Ryan shouted for help—though he didn’t wait to hear the response of those still in the LCVP before joining a shoulder-to-shoulder defensive line hastily organized by his fellow westerners. When the natives attacked the loose formation, Hilary deflected the thrust of the foremost warrior with a poke of her spade and Sean hurled a javelin that struck the man in the ribs. Blood gushed from the cannibal’s mouth as he slipped into the sea. No one tried to save him, though he was the son of a chief. Rather, the others pressed their attack over his sinking body. The second son of the chief lunged at Viet with an American-made ax, but slipped in the surf as he approached. Viet lifted his own ax high and drove it into the native’s back so that the chief’s son never moved again, his spine severed between the shoulder blades.

Meanwhile, Hilary and a skinny native grabbed each other by the throat as they spun about in a grim-faced dance of death, but the man had a stronger grip and soon pushed Hilary underwater. Hilary was on her knees with the surf splashing across her face when Ryan hurled his spear and struck her attacker in the buttocks, breaking his death grip and forcing the man to limp away. Viet sprinted to help the fallen woman, but arrived too late to prevent a stocky native from grabbing Hilary by the hair and snapping her neck over his knee. Her bones cracked and she let out a short grunt as her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she sank beneath the sea. Then the native turned toward Viet—who called to Sean and Ryan for help as he retreated to deeper water.

Indeed, all three westerners backed into waist-deep water as a ragged line of nine warriors moved to encircle them. Five natives prodded with their lances to pin the westerners while four others fanned behind their foe in an enveloping move. In addition, four boys followed their elders, bloody shells in hand as they waited to finish kills with a slash of the throat. The westerners pulled stones from their pockets and prepared to throw, trying to keep the natives at bay, but it didn’t work. Within seconds they were cut off and a high-pitched command of the stocky native made it evident the end was near.

That end never came.

No one noticed that the motorized launch had circled behind the LCVP and it was without warning that John gunned the boat for the natives who had flanked his friends. The boat struck hard and two natives crumpled under the impact of fiberglass and disappeared under water, the engine whining for an instant as its blades shredded flesh and bone before stalling. But even before the sound of the engine had died, John and the southerner leaped from the boat—axes in hand—and charged the foe. Utterly shocked by the sight of seawater turned blood red, the cannibals turned to face this new threat just as a volley of spears was hurled at them—striking the old chief in the arm and a bloodthirsty boy in the face. The chief grabbed his arm and ran for land while the young boy flipped into the sea and didn’t get up. A second volley was hurled, then a third. Three more natives were wounded, two of them (including another boy) seriously enough to leave the battle. The northsmen had aimed well.

Reduced to five men and two boys before a reinforced enemy, the natives backed away as the tide of battle turned. The westerners advanced under John’s commands to maintain contact with the foe as east villagers to their right marched at double time toward the beach. Under Steve’s direction, the militia from the east village fanned into a firing line as they reached sand and blocked the only path of retreat. The cannibals turned to the new foe, only to be flanked by a third column—Father Donovan’s northsmen had grabbed axes and shovels after hurling their last volley of missiles and now closed with the natives on the dead run. The natives didn’t see them until the first northsman came crashing into their line swinging a double-edged ax into the back of a thick-armed cannibal. Others went utterly berserk and tackled natives to the ground as they poked eyes and chewed ears. In the short-lived melee, two easterners fell and one northsman was slashed across the face, but all of the natives were struck down or killed outright. Some were hacked to death with hoes and shovels and others pierced with spears. One was beheaded with a clean swing of an ax.

The fight was over in a breath.

Casualties were severe; the citizens of Paradise lost seven dead and seven wounded—two in critical condition. The natives lost eight dead, six wounded, and one missing—not counting one throat-cutting boy captured uninjured. The northerners posted guards around captives as the other villages reformed their ranks, though southern numbers were so decimated that it fell to the east and west villages to sweep enemy territory since the full complement of northerners was needed to guard the boats, watch prisoners, and tend wounded compatriots. Steve loaded two lightly injured southerners on the launch before taking it to search the smaller islands for stragglers and civilians.

It was still early morning when John led his men into the native village—little more than a scattering of hammocks and lean-to tents—where women and children wailing from anguish and apprehension were driven at spearpoint to the beach. A second sweep netted four more refugees: two women, a small child, and the wounded chief. These were marched back to the beach to take their place with prisoners being interrogated by Dr. Morales. The old chief, however, wouldn’t talk and even threats couldn’t open his tongue. As a result, a third expedition was launched. This time John was told to keep moving until he found the lost citizens of Paradise and to simply tie up captives and stragglers until they could be properly processed. Late in the morning, six well-armed citizens of Paradise marched into the heart of the island. All of the westerners were among them, except Sean and Jose; the former proved unable to walk and the latter remained unwilling to fight.

Moving first to the totem pole, John collected the remains of Heather’s scalp. After looking for every strand of hair he could find, he removed his shirt and covered her remains for later burial. Meanwhile, Viet piled wood around the totem pole and placed the bones of the devoured baby atop the wood and set them ablaze after John commended the child’s soul to God. Then the search party moved toward the far side of the island.

As they neared the beach, the sickening and sweet stench of burned flesh filled the nostrils of the rescue party, so they hurried toward the odor and found what remained of the missing citizens of Paradise. Charles and Joan were unclothed (with long strips of flesh sliced from their arms and legs and rolled in salt for jerky) while Deidra remained clothed and mostly intact (excepting only several fingers chewed to the knuckle). Ashley was no more. She had been eaten raw and little more than a gnawed skeleton remained, though a few pieces of unpicked ligament also stuck to her joints. It was even worse for Stuart—who was smoked over a fire that still smoldered, his once-white skin cooked golden brown and a spit run from his anus to his mouth. It was clear he’d suffered terrible agony—the anguish of death evident from his contorted face and wild-staring eyes.

It took the search party an hour to bury their dead. After graves were dug and bodies buried, Viet watched as John performed a Christian burial service as best as he could remember. Both men wept.

John and Viet returned to the beach by early afternoon, forced to detour from the main path after the burning totem toppled and set the woods aflame. The grass was still burning when the two men came to a smoldering field, where thick smoke forced them to thread their way through the brush. There, they captured two more natives—a young mother with stretched teats (no wider than her wrist and hanging past her ribs) and a young child. Caught hiding in tall grass, the woman jumped away but was grabbed by the quick-footed Viet. While John tied the native’s feet with nylon cord, Viet investigated a noise in nearby brush—which proved to be a whimpering baby boy. Viet attempted to return the child to its mother, but the woman refused the child until Viet compelled her with sharp words and pointed gestures.

After marching the captured mother and child to the beach, John and Viet were greeted by utter horror: the throat-cutting boy was hanging from a palm tree, his broken neck stretched and his eyes bulged out. An eastern guard explained that the boy had been caught nibbling the fingers of a dead southerner. The easterner also pointed to a young woman and old man dangling in a nearby grove and noted that the woman had killed a northern guard with a knife thrust to the back and the old man was the tribal chief. Moreover, every one of the captured warriors lay on the beach dead—the spears driven deep into their chests still standing upright and the eyes of the executed heathens opened in unblinking terror. The easterner didn’t know why those prisoners had been put to death and didn’t really care.

John turned pale when he saw the line of bodies. When he saw Viet sprint toward a band of northsmen gathered near the treeline, he followed his friend—shouldering a spade as his weapon. As the two westerners approached jeering northsmen, they saw Father Donovan using a sharpened spear to tear open the pregnant belly of a dead native.

“What the hell are you doing?” John screamed as he pointed first to the hanged prisoners and then to the disfigured corpse.

“They,” Father Donovan answered, “need to be taught a lesson.”

John’s face turned almost purple. “Murdering prisoners is a lesson? What kind of lessons do the dead learn?”

“Were we supposed to set them free?”

“We were supposed to decide justice at the Assembly.”

“Why burden others,” Donovan said without hesitation, “with this bloody business? Let’s get it over with here and now. Justice is in our hands.”

“Murder is justice?”

“Capital punishment is the proper term.”

“On what grounds were they executed?” John whispered, his anger evident in the clenching of his teeth and trembling of his voice.

“The girl,” Donovan said with a glib tone, “murdered Roberto and the boy ate Serina. This one tried to escape. And the chief ... well, let’s just say the others needed to be taught to fear us. Sometimes it’s better to be feared than loved.”

“What others? They’re all dead.”