Left on Paradise (52 page)

Steve was utterly disgusted by the strategy while Ryan and John were merely dismayed. Viet nearly mutinied at its folly—insisting victory would be given to the army that chose its own field of fire and mobilized its entire citizenry as General Giap did against Americans forces in Vietnam. A majority of his fellow citizens didn’t agree and ignored the protests of what was thereafter deemed the War Party.

After the votes were tallied, Steve took charge.

“There’s one more thing,” Steve said as the people hushed. “The northsmen have a gun. Or guns. The fighting is going to be rough and both men and women likely will die. The northsmen have proven themselves pernicious from the assaulting of Lisa to the murder of the natives to yesterday’s treachery. We can’t afford to hold too many prisoners and we don’t have the means to exile or imprison them. Sad to say, it’s kill or be killed. No quarter. There’s no way around it. I don’t want illegal killings to occur, but they will if we lack the death penalty. Only if we have legalized capital punishment are we going to escape retribution for war crimes when this is over.”

A man raised his hand.

“We can’t murder prisoners,” the man said.

“We can’t murder prisoners,” Steve agreed, “but we can declare martial law and make illegal possession of a gun a capital crime by constitutional amendment and send word any rebel caught with a gun will die. Maybe that’ll put a little fear into them.”

No one made the proposal.

“If we don’t do this,” Steve said, “they’ll take potshots till the last of us has dropped. It’s us versus them.”

A voice from the crowd seconded the motion and after several silent seconds the second amendment to the constitution was enacted without further discussion—unauthorized ownership of a firearm was declared a capital crime. The assembly further decided that unauthorized ownership of a firearm should include persons conspiring with or benefiting from illegal weapons.

Ambushes were set on the slopes by nightfall. Sharpened foot-long stakes were embedded into two-foot-deep holes covered with branches, leaves, and dirt. A dozen such traps were set across the trail on the west side of Mount Zion and another three dozen placed along a perimeter defense on the north side of the camp. Laborers also stacked trees along the east edge of the summit and covered them with dirt as a redoubt capable of stopping pistol shots. Extra weapons were prepositioned throughout the camp in case of attack: stones, spears, axes, shovels, hoes, and even coconuts.

Shortly after dusk, two details of armed settlers were deployed. Viet led two easterners to collect intelligence on northern preparations and intentions while Steve led foragers to find fruit on Mount Zion. Everyone else continued to work: digging ditches, felling trees, shoveling dirt, and posting guard. Only children were permitted the leisure of early bed. Not until the perimeter was secured did weary islanders fall into camp, leaving several men posted as guards and a few others sleeping at battle stations.

After being relieved of duty for a time, Ryan found Maria near a fire and sat beside her. The fire was little more than hot coals in a tarp-covered pit of ashes—though it remained warm enough to brew coffee.

“There you are,” Ryan said to his pregnant bride when he saw her.

“I want to go home” Maria said, her face stained with tears.

“It’s not safe.”

“It’s safer than here.”

“No,” Ryan said, “the west village is too close to the northsmen. Too easy for them to raid.”

“Home,” Maria said. “I want to go home. To the United States.”

“Isn’t Paradise our home?”

“This isn’t my home,” Maria said. “I was crazy to come—and now I’m pregnant and scared and hungry. There are madmen making war on us and cannibals want to eat what’s left over. I gave up grad school to become a side dish.”

“You’re safe tonight with me.”

“I’d feel a lot safer if you had a gun.”

“It’s against the law.”

“Power,” Maria said as she shook her head, “is politics from the barrel of a gun. Haven’t you learned that yet?”

“I guess,” Ryan said with a shrug, “I’m a hopeless idealist.”

“You’re right about that: idealism is hopeless. Even in Paradise.”

Ryan placed a hand on Maria’s thigh.

“You can’t live without hope,” Ryan said. “If we can’t dream of a better world, what will we become? That’s the sin of the right.”

“Maybe it’s their realism,” Maria replied, “even their wisdom.”

“I won’t give in to pessimism,” Ryan said. “I won’t accept the world as it is. I will uphold my faith in mankind and the promise of a better future. I will work to improve the world.”

“You will become fat on the bones of barbarians,” Maria said with a weak smile, “and dung in their bowels—if you don’t clear your head of idiocy.”

Ryan fell silent as Maria threw a few sticks into the fire and lay down on her side, belly toward the warm flames. Only after Maria slept did Ryan return to the perimeter to stand guard at a fortified position—where he looked into the dark until his eyes blurred and his head hurt, straining to see every shift in the shadows and listening for every snap of a stick. It was nearly midnight when he was relieved by a southerner and wrapped a wool blanket around himself as he closed his eyes to rest.

Ursula’s shivering woke Sean. The dark was deep and he couldn’t see her face in the shadow of a beech tree—where she lay covered with a single wool blanket. When Sean touched Ursula’s cheek and found it wet, he sat up.

“Ursula, what’s wrong?”

“I’m cold.”

“Our fire went out?”

“Hours ago.”

Sean slid from the warmth of his wool blanket and walked to a fire a few feet away and rolled a small log on it. The coals remained hot and it wasn’t long before the wood crackled and radiated its warmth outward.

Meanwhile, Sean found a spare blanket in an unoccupied tent and spread both it and his own blanket over Ursula before lying down a couple feet from her. He folded his arms and crossed his legs to draw in his own warmth.

Ursula turned toward Sean. “You’re cold too,” she said.

“I’m okay.”

“Come under the covers with me. It’ll keep us both warm.”

Sean scooted toward the mother of his unborn child and pulled the blankets over himself.

“That’s better,” he said as he pressed his hand to Ursula’s belly. “Can I touch the baby?”

“That’s fine.”

“Does it move much?”

“He,” Ursula said, “or she, quivers once in a while, I think. Mostly at night. I felt something a few minutes ago.”

“I feel like a god—a life maker.”

“Then I’m a goddess?”

“You always were.”

“I’m still cold,” Ursula said after a time, “come closer.”

Sean moved closer to the pregnant woman until her breasts flattened against his chest.

“You are cold,” Sean said, “I can feel you against me.”

“Has it been so long,” Ursula whispered, “that you can’t tell the difference between hot and cold?”

Sean smiled and moved his hand down the young woman’s belly.

Ursula didn’t object.

“I’m sorry for being a fool,” Sean said.

“You were a jerk,” Ursula said, “but I guess I didn’t make it easy for you either.”

“I wasn’t much of a man; at least not a good one. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t talk about it any more,” Ursula whispered as she pressed a finger to Sean’s lips. “Tend your business here.”

“Can you do this?” Sean asked as he stopped his hands where they were. “I mean, being pregnant?”

“I’m not ready to burst quite yet.”

“I don’t want to hurt the baby.”

“Tend your business.”

Sean slipped one hand between Ursula’s legs as he pulled her close with the other drawn around her waist. After several seconds, he loosened his grip and fell away from the young woman.

“I don’t want it,” Sean said. “Not like this.”

“You don’t want me?”

“I mean,” Sean said, “no more meaningless sex. Only what’s good for you and our baby.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ursula, I want you more than I want to make love. I want it to be good between us. If I can’t have you, I don’t need the sex.”

Ursula looked at Sean a long while through the dark of the night, then pulled him close and began to sob.

“Now,” Ursula said with a quivering voice, “you’ve become the man I wanted. The man I need. The man my ... the man our baby needs.”

“Our child,” Sean said, “needs a father, not just a boyfriend for his mom.”

“I know.”

“Should we marry?”

“That’s your choice,” Ursula said. “All I want is a man.”

“I choose you.”

“Now?”

“Ursula Gottlieb-Tate, will you marry me?” Sean whispered.

“Yes.”

“Then I pronounce us husband and wife.”

A tear fell down Ursula’s cheek as she let herself be kissed as a bride for the first time. The fire burned hot for the next several minutes and so did love. When the couple was finished, they tossed blankets aside to cool themselves. Their bodies were so close that they had no need for more than a single blanket, even after the fire burned to ashes.

Early in the morning, Sean rose to rekindle the fire and to prepare a plate of food for his wife.

40

Criminals and Guns

Scouting parties deployed at dawn. Three pairs of soldiers—each including a strong fighter and a fast runner—patrolled along the north, west, and east slopes of Mount Zion while the south trail was secured by a single picket (with a conch shell) ready to insure northern raiders didn’t infiltrate the south slope undetected. Behind the scouts came foragers searching for food. Most stayed close to camp while they collected green bananas and unripe pecans and dared not deploy to more fertile orchards at the base of the hill for fear of a northern ambush. Meanwhile, sentries posted atop Mount Zion as lookouts trained their eyes and binoculars on a waft of smoke rising from the north and watched northsmen ferry supplies from New Plymouth to the northern village via the motorized launch. By noon, foragers had collected enough food for a couple meals, after which they returned to the refugee camp atop the mountain and recalled all pickets to camp.

Afternoon was spent shoring defenses as traps were dug and earthworks built. Every man and several women took weapons training: practicing close quarters combat with spears and axes and knives. Dulled weapons were used for practice, though one girl managed to cut herself with a table knife and two men pulled muscles while sparring. Spears were hurled into a dirt mound and arrows shot into discarded crates. Most of the hastily organized militia showed marked improvement after their rudimentary training.

Late in the afternoon, Viet returned from long-range patrol with disconcerting news: he had watched the northern camp for several hours and observed them preparing for battle. Spears were being sharpened, bows strung, and firebombs stockpiled. The northsmen had gathered provisions and were teaching lethal combat techniques even to their women. Viet claimed to have crept close enough to hear Father Donovan tell fighters the battle might require the liquidation of all opponents and natives; he also reported that two native women had been taken in chains to the northern camp—though he could only guess what they were needed for. In any case, Viet assessed that the northsmen intended to wage war and expected them to commence operations by day’s end.

Viet’s report secured political power for the War Party. By two votes, it was decided to forego a defensive posture in favor of offensive strikes. The General Will of the People authorized Viet and two volunteers to raid the northern camp—specifically to destroy the launch in order to end the northsmen’s decisive mobility along the coast. It also was voted to send a raiding party to New Plymouth to forage for supplies and free the native women. Not only was it considered inhumane to keep the women locked in the LCVP for days on end, but it also was hoped the cannibals would menace northern operations. The War Party assessed that every bullet spent on a heathen was a shot that couldn’t be taken at the islanders themselves. Three women and two men objected on grounds that the cannibals were a worse danger than the northsmen, but were outvoted. Lisa and Alan volunteered to free the natives during the night’s supply run.

Supper consisted of unripened fruit and overripened vegetables. Linh cooked a pot of breadfruit and salted-perch broth and was pleased to see her soup drained to the last cup for the first time. Babies drank warmed goat milk and toddlers nibbled from crackers and peanut butter. Children were sent to bed early and guards posted for three-hour shifts. Viet marched his team west while Lisa and Alan followed a half-dozen foragers to base camp. Because the sky was clear and the moon nearly full, the foraging party deemed it prudent to avoid the main trails.

The ambush party threaded single-file through shadows and twists of the trail. Passing through the west neighborhood’s abandoned camp, they crept to the coast before turning north. After crossing Turtle Beach, the team moved north so cautiously that it took an hour before the point man saw the light of a northern fire. Viet posted his companions as a rearguard and crept toward his foe—though it took another thirty minutes before he was within earshot. Near the north village, Viet was forced to hide behind a bush when a squad of armed northsmen passed within ten feet, though they looked neither right nor left as they filed south. Viet prayed silently for his family and his companions—recollecting for the first time in decades prayers he’d been taught by the clergy who’d sponsored his family for resettlement from Vietnam.

Several minutes later, Viet raised his head from the brush and took a long look. As best as he could see, only two men and six women remained at the camp: all of them sitting around the fire as they passed a water pipe and laughed loud. Behind them, the motorized launch was tied to a tall palm tree on the beach. After Viet watched the northerners several minutes, he heard muffled cries of suppressed anguish that he considered investigating until he remembered the critical nature of his mission: if the northerners could be slowed to foot speed, the advantage of high ground would be magnified since Mount Zion both provided a natural barrier to protect allied forces scavenging for forage and served as a natural observation post. Viet held his position and endured the cries for what seemed an hour—though he suspected the clock would have shown the passing of no more than a few minutes. Only when the wailing became the piercing screams of a tortured woman did the stoned northsmen stumble toward the far side of their village, leaving behind only a single woman—and she was sprawled nearly motionless in the sand.

Now Viet saw his chance and crawled forward, soon standing and then darting between trees. When the terrorized woman screamed from a distance yet again, Viet stopped for a moment—this time listening to the guffaws of drunken men. Whatever was taking place evidently held their attention.

It was time to make a move.

Viet jumped up and sprinted into the open straight toward the fire, his ax raised high. The woman lying in the sand tried to stand when she saw the approaching enemy, but proved too stoned to do so and fell backwards as the intruder ran toward the motorized launch. Slipping behind the boat’s fiberglass hull to catch his breath, Viet reached for the keys to the boat, only to find they weren’t in the ignition. With no time to search for the missing keys, Viet climbed into the boat to look for whatever combustible material he could find. He found a blanket, a shirt, and a can of reserve fuel—which he splashed across the boat, careful to pour plenty of the gasoline on the control panel, steering column, and the motor (whose fuel cap was removed to insure it would ignite).

The combustibles readied, Viet climbed from the boat and looked toward the shore. After removing his shirt and swiping it across the fuel-soaked deck of the boat, he wrapped it into a ball and dipped his hands into water to wash away every trace of gasoline. Turning his back to the village and pulling a lighter from his pants pocket, Viet lit the shirt, threw it into the boat, and sprinted for safety moments before the fuel ignited and light flashed across the surf. Indeed, he took only a few steps before the fuel tank exploded—knocking him forward and singeing the hair on his back. Still, Viet kept to his feet as he ran through the surf, sprinted across the beech, and darted into the refuge of the forest.

As for the woman at the beach, though she staggered to her feet and turned toward the intruder as soon as the boat blew up, she chose not to sound the alarm when Viet ran straight toward her waving his ax. Instead, she raised her hands in surrender until the west village raider had disappeared into the cover of the trees from which he had come. Only then did she cry for help as she staggered toward the sea—where the launch was aflame from stern to bow and already beginning to list to its starboard side.

When Viet reached Turtle Beach a few minutes later, his companions were gone, so he jogged south alone. At his home village, he filled a duffle bag with spare clothing for his family and keepsakes treasured by his daughters and also found some food in the barn—which had been looted only haphazardly. The jellies and dried fruit were gone (along with the fish), but plenty of flour remained. Viet grabbed several bags of flour, a tin of sea-salt, and a canister of dry yeast. He also picked up a bag of sugar, a small tub of lard, and several cast iron pots and pans. Only as he reached the bridge over the Pishon River did he notice the bobbing of lights coming down the northern trail toward the village: a northern scouting party. Viet crept into the dark of the forest, slipped off his shoes, and moved slowly uphill, keeping as far as possible from the main trail to escape any war party waiting in ambush.

New Plymouth was sacked. Tents were torn open and poles hacked into kindling. The supply sheds were ransacked and the ground littered with broken pill bottles, opened cartons of gauze, and smashed medical instruments. The library had been burned to the ground and even the toilet was tipped. The foraging party salvaged a box of medical supplies, several articles of loose clothing, and even two crates of packaged food before triggering an emergency beacon overlooked by the northsmen. After the others began their trek toward Mount Zion, Alan and Lisa moved toward a south-leading trail to complete their assigned mission—telling the others they’d be along in a few minutes and not to wait. The foragers wished the pair good luck before disappearing into the trees and it wasn’t long before the crunch of grass underfoot no longer sounded.

Alan and Lisa crept toward the beach, watching for northern patrols and ambushes. Long before they reached the landing craft, they heard the wailing of heathen women pounding fists against wood walls—the clank of chains reverberating across water and sand.

“At least they’re still alive,” Alan said.

“And inside the boat,” Lisa added.

“Probably too frightened to leave. Or still chained.”

“Or too short.”

“I’ll lower the ramp myself,” Alan said, “since you don’t fight. Just don’t be a distraction. I want you to keep watch to the north—looking for northsmen. I can handle these pygmies. What I don’t need is a bullet in my back.”

“I won’t fight,” Lisa said. “I’m not a soldier.”

“Just scream and run for your own life if the northerners come. I’ll see to my own safety.”

Lisa nodded.

“I’ll be back in five minutes,” Alan continued. “Be here.”

Lisa said she’d stay put.

Alan then slung his ax over a shoulder and jogged toward the screeching of the natives while Lisa slipped into shadows and turned her face north. Behind her, the shrieks and screams of native women sounded so fierce that Lisa shuddered as she remembered the stretched breasts of the cannibals: elongated from suckling babies whom they had eaten. A shiver ran across her own breasts and she clutched her nipples.

A moment later, the heavy thud of a steel ramp against solid ground reverberated across the lagoon and Lisa stared into the darkness as she imagined what it must have been like to watch hundreds of warships dropping their payloads of armed soldiers into the terrible battles that engulfed the Pacific and brought a man-made hell to so many tropical paradises. She trembled to consider how artillery had destroyed pristine beaches and aircraft had firebombed unspoiled forests.

“No soldier,” Lisa said, “will die by my hand.”

Lisa looked back again. The noise of the women grew louder and more pitched. They seemed more fevered and maybe a little closer. She wondered how Alan was doing; he seemed to be delayed.

It was then that a scream penetrated the forest—a man’s howl of such anguish that Lisa froze from fear. Only when the man screamed a second time did the young woman take a hesitant step toward the pain. A third shriek, even more anguished than the others, finally broke Lisa’s trance.

Now Lisa sprinted toward the cries, slowing only when she turned a sharp bend in the path. There, under the pale moonlight, she saw Alan pinned to the ground by four natives while several others fed like dogs from the soft of his belly. He writhed hard and even from a distance Lisa heard his gasps of breathless anguish. She also saw skinny legs slipped from their chains and hands bloodied with fistfuls of bowels—as well as children slapped and kicked whenever they squeezed between the arms and legs of crouching mothers to take a bite for themselves. As she approached the stricken man, Lisa saw that Alan’s face was utterly contorted from pain and his eyes wide from trauma and terror, though she heard no words come from his mouth.

Lisa again froze—her heart racing and hands trembling. Tunnel vision obscured every sight but that of her stricken friend and she no longer heard the shrieks of the natives or saw them circling to her side. Her hands and feet felt sluggish and her mouth felt dry and salty. She saw Alan’s ax a few feet away and reached for it, almost unthinking, with both hands—though securing it with surprising difficulty. Wishing to chase the natives away, she threw the ax at the feet of a native. But stress and adrenaline proved strong and the ax sailed much further than Lisa had intended, now catching a scampering child in the back. The girl let out a yelp as her legs went limp and she crumpled to the ground.

As cannibals scattered in every direction, Lisa pulled the weapon from the unmoving child and hurried toward her fallen friend—whose stomach was torn open and guts strewn from shoulder to thigh. His eyes were vacant and he breathed slow. Blood drained from his torn throat.

“You’re already dead,” Lisa cried out. “What I do isn’t war and killing, but mercy and peace.”

Alan choked out a single breathless word—though Lisa couldn’t make it out as she raised the ax high over his chest. When she drove the ax downward with all her might, Alan’s eyes went wide with utter horror as the sharp edge of the ax broke his sternum and split his heart. His eyes rolled and a mouthful of frothy blood gushed outward. He was dead before the young woman pulled the ax from his chest. Taking a deep breath that cleared her blurred vision, Lisa turned toward the natives who had begun to circle the now-armed pacifist—their hands filled with stones and sand.