Left on Paradise (56 page)

“What about our people?” Viet asked. “It’s going to take two trips and we don’t have much time.”

“Here’s what we’ll do,” John said. “You and Linh take the kids and Tiffany. Kit and Lisa can come with me to the west village. We’ll pick up more supplies and meet you at the beach later this morning.”

“I can’t sail,” Viet objected, “but I can fight. And I’ve got my weapons and traps in place. I can hurt them worse than you can.”

“You also have children.”

“That’s why I have to fight,” Viet explained. “For the lives of my own children. They’ll be slaughtered if the northsmen get near them. I’m a father and I intend to keep Donovan’s marauders from my daughters.”

When John started to protest, Linh waved him off.

“Viet’s right,” Linh said. “You and Kit need to take care of our children if anything happens. We trust you. Meet us at our old beach as soon as you can. We’ll decoy the northsmen while you make your escape.”

“John and I,” Kit said as she stepped forward, “should ...”

“You,” Linh interrupted, “have a baby and a toddler to care for. Your place is with them. My daughters are older. They can survive without me.”

“Only in body,” Kit said.

“It was their bodies I gave birth to and right now that’s enough for me. There’s no other choice.”

“I’m expendable. You’re not.”

“Listen,” Linh said with a stern voice as her eyes moved between John and Kit, “I can’t sail and neither can Viet. Both of you have spent years sailing and can get these children—all of them—to safety. Now’s the time to act.”

Kit no longer objected.

“I’m staying too,” Tiffany said, finally awakened from her stupor and despair. “That’ll make room for more water and supplies for my boys. Besides, I can’t sail and that boat will only hold one adult with all these kids.”

“Me too,” Lisa said.

“We can’t leave all of you here,” John protested. “Let’s dump the supplies and go.”

“You’re clutching straws,” Viet said, “and you know it. We’ll starve on the motu without the supplies. They’re our only real chance. They’re the only chance for our children.”

“Northsmen will be here in twenty minutes,” Viet said as he pointed to the lanterns, now just above the tree line as they neared the base of the slope, “and we need you to guard our daughters. Get them to safety while we lead the northsmen south. God willing, they’ll never see where you went if we can keep them off that mountain for a few minutes. All you need to do is land on the far side of the motu. As long as we keep moving, they’ll never catch us. Bring the boat back at noon to pick us up—if we’re standing in the clear.”

“They’ll see us and follow.”

“They won’t follow,” Viet said, “without boats.”

“Make sure you destroy all of them,” John said. “Beyond any chance of repair.”

A moment later, neighbors said farewell with hugs and kisses. Viet and Linh gave tearful final instructions to their children and Tiffany sobbed as she hugged her twins—pleading with them to remember the courage of their father. All three parents begged John and Kit to take good care of their children if anything happened, then pushed the two sailboats into the surf: Kit sailing one boat and John the other. The three women on the beach found hand axes and ran toward the line of boats moored just beyond the reach of high tide while Viet picked up a can of gasoline and waded toward the half-sunken landing craft.

As their sails lifted with wind and pulled the heavy-laden boats south, John and Kit watched the women hack through the thin fiberglass skins and aluminum frames of two overturned kayaks and one large fishing boat. They also watched Viet set ablaze the half-sunken cab of the LCVP and two overturned wooden rowboats already shattered by ax blows. By the time their sailboats turned west along the south perimeter of the island, Lisa already had fastened her long hair into a loose ponytail and now remained on the edge the beach—waiting to be noticed—as gulls circled over the path to New Plymouth where Viet and two women marched north.

A blood red sun rose from the east.

44

Resistance and Repentance

Lisa waited no more than five minutes before she heard shouting from the main trail. She inspected her backpack one last time, checking its canteen of water, box of raisins, chocolate bar, rye crackers, and peanut butter. Sufficient calories and water existed to run for hours, if necessary. Then she tightened her shoelaces and adjusted the elastic-banded jogging shorts that hung loose on her hips. She pulled a green tee shirt over her head and stuffed it into her backpack—which she dropped behind a bush. Finally, she flipped her watch for an easier read and slipped into a shadow. There, she scratched her naked chest and tugged at tangled underarm hairs while she waited for her pursuers to arrive.

She didn’t have to wait long.

In less than a minute, Father Donovan came from the forest with a man to each side. Two women followed them. One was buxom and short while the other was broad-hipped and tall and neither looked to compete in a foot race—which meant the contest was between Lisa and the men. Lisa remained crouched behind brush until the northerners were beyond tree cover, then sprang from the shadows to grab her pack. Once she jumped, she moved fast—stirring as much brush and sand as possible. Two nearby gulls squawked and flew away as the young woman grabbed her bag and turned south.

By the time she was at a full run, Lisa knew the ruse had worked. Donovan and his comrades sprinted toward her, shouting and waving weapons as Lisa ran into the woods—careful to run at a pace that would neither wind her nor deter her pursuers. Her legs were strong and breath deep and she couldn’t lose this race if she ran it smart. She deliberately splashed mud and broke branches to keep her foe on her trail. If the enemy really had a chance of catching her, the run might have been considered reckless or brave. As matters stood, it was only clever—for the young woman kept her lead without breaking a sweat.

Lisa jumped rocks and scampered over fallen trees nimble as a doe. Only when she came to the strewn bones of Alan—which someone had dragged a hundred yards down the trail (either to hide the body or feast alone)—did Lisa momentarily lose focus, slowing to turn her head and keep her stomach from exploding. The crash of a man’s steps through the woods and his shouts for a gun brought renewed focus. Now Lisa sprinted down the trail until she turned a bend where the cover of brush was thick.

After this, Lisa made no more mistakes. She slowed when the northsmen lagged and sprinted when they ran. She led her pursuers past Alan’s remains, down a wide lane, and toward the southernmost tip of the island. There, Lisa ran faster to avoid being cut off by a quick-thinking northsmen who might bisect the circle she was running—though she remained confident she’d brought the foe far enough south to allow Viet to move against the northern side of the island as planned. If John and Kit were fortunate enough to have rounded the tip of the island without being observed by any northern scouts, the west village might yet escape. Lisa had decoyed the enemy and now it remained only to save herself.

Lisa’s strides soon grew long and the splash of mud less noticeable. Branches no longer broke when she passed and the occasional cobweb was left threaded across the trail. After she took a long drink and a short meal, Lisa removed her shoes so the very sound of her step softened. When she put an ear to the wind, she heard only distant shouts and eventually nothing at all. Only then did Lisa slow to drink water and eat an energy bar. Even if her foes guessed her destination, it’d take the winded northerners at least an hour to make the hike—if they were cautious. If they were careless, Viet would insure some never finished their journey.

Lisa’s eyes filled with tears when she saw smoke atop Mount Zion. The refugee camp was destroyed and scavenger birds already circled the smoke in search of carrion. She thought of searching for survivors, but changed her mind when she remembered the distance of the climb and the danger of cannibals, reminding herself that the village had made its choice and must now live or die by what had been decided—just as the west villagers would live or die based on their decision to flee.

The young woman kept near the shoreline and under cover of trees whenever possible. Gulls squawked overhead and sea turtles lumbered across the beach as she jogged north, but she saw no northerners or other islanders. Once she reached the western beach, Lisa looked toward the motu where John and Kit planned to sail and now remained hidden, but decided against an attempt to swim the short distance for fear of exposing the location of her friends and endangering her assigned mission. Instead, she dug out a shallow hole in the shadows of a glade of ironwood trees and covered the hole with a bit of brush. Here was a safe spot to wait for the return of the others.

Morning broke before Viet, Linh, and Tiffany marched through New Plymouth, destroying two supply tents and one supply building as they passed—dumping and scattering all food in order not to leave anything useful to the enemy. Though occasionally slowing to listen for movement to their rear, Viet kept the pace steady and used a compass to navigate the northern slope of Mount Zion. It took three hours to cover the short distance as they moved off-trail through the forest, frequently doubling back, setting traps, and trying to cover tracks. When they finally arrived at the outskirts of their own village, Viet scouted the looted and burned tents and barn for intruders before helping the women gather some of the abandoned provisions and finding a hiding place near the recycling area. He gave Linh his watch and told her to move to the beach precisely at noon, whether or not he himself had returned, explaining that John had promised to return precisely on the hour.

Viet himself marched north at the double time since less than two hours remained to complete the work he’d been assigned. He moved quickly past Turtle Beach and up the west coast until he came to the northern camp. There, Viet slipped into trees and looked for guards. During a final check to his rear, he noticed that a curtain of smoke now hung over the peak of Mount Zion, obscuring whatever horrors had occurred. Viet shuddered and refocused full attention to his mission. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled through the brush until he came within twenty yards of the camp.

The village looked empty.

Yesterday, it was full and Viet could do nothing for Sally’s daughter—who sat disconsolate near the half-eaten body of her mother’s friend. Now the camp seemed deserted as Viet peeked around the corner of the barn only to see two dead cannibals: their eyes open and bodies swarmed with flies. The bruised face of one native woman was splattered with dried blood and the throat of the other was cut.

Viet soft-toed into the camp, his weapon posed to strike. When he heard a cough from the longhouse, he moved to it. Reaching into his pack, he grabbed a Molotov cocktail, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and jogged toward the longhouse—hands trembling and breath short. He lit an oil-soaked rag stuffed into the bottle and nudged the door with his shoulder as greasy smoke burned from the bomb he carried.

A man slept on the far side of the room and two women lay near the door beside a young girl with uncombed hair and a mud-stained face. One of the women—a tall woman in her mid-twenties with matted blond hair—bolted upright as soon as Viet entered the building.

“A fanatic,” the tall woman cried out.

As the man rolled for the spear at his side, Viet threw the Molotov cocktail at the wall. It shattered close to the northerner and sprayed the man’s back and legs with burning gasoline. The man screamed and dropped his weapon as he sprang to his feet and bolted toward the door, where Viet slashed his arm with a machete as the northsman stumbled outside. Meanwhile, both women also jumped to their feet—only to find themselves trapped between fire and a hard-faced enemy who blocked the sole exit. They begged for quarter as the flames spread.

Near them, the little girl cried.

“Give me the girl,” Viet shouted.

Though her compatriot clenched teeth and said nothing, the blond woman started to push the child toward Viet until the second woman—a thirtyish woman with wide hips and dark hair unevenly cut at her shoulders—seized the girl and pushed her near flames that already engulfed the rear wall and fanned across the ceiling. Smoke filled the room and the eyes of both women welled from tears as their throats choked and the girl cried.

“Let us out or she burns too,” the dark-haired woman screamed.

Viet motioned for the child and also let the women pass. But as the first woman hurried through the door, he caught her ankle with his foot; the woman fell hard and her compatriot tripped over her as they stumbled through the door while Viet pulled the girl from the burning building.

Once the girl was safely outside, Viet turned back to the women—his weapon raised to strike.

“Where are our hostages?”

“Donovan took them,” the blonde replied.

“Where?”

“To negotiate.”

“All of them?”

“All of them still alive.”

“Who’s dead?”

“The men.”

“How?”

“Chuck cut their throats.”

“What about the women?”

“I don’t know.”

Viet clenched his teeth as he postured his weapon even higher.

The woman talked faster.

“Donovan,” the woman said, “wanted to keep Maria for himself but she escaped. And Chuck caught Jason’s whore and her mother hiding in your village. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“I won’t kill you,” Viet said as his face darkened, “but I’ll disfigure you for the rest of your days if you tell another lie.”

Viet dropped the blade of his machete so it rested atop the nose of the dark-haired woman—who raised her hands in submission and talked.

“They were torturing them,” the dark-haired woman said, “outside camp. I heard some screaming for a while. Chuck told me that they were dead.”

“When?”

“A night or two ago.”

“Where’s Ryan?”

“I don’t know. I thought he was on your side.”

“What about the other girl? The Murphy’s daughter?”

“She’s dead.”

“How?”

“She was fed to the cannibals.”

“Son of a ... Why? Why would you do that?”

“Chuck said they were hungry.”

Now the wounded northsman moaned as shock receded and his pain intensified. Both his clothes and skin still smoldered as he writhed and groaned just a few feet from the longhouse. Viet decided the man wasn’t a threat and faced his prisoners, both of whom turned pale as they watched the burned man crawl toward the sea.

“Give me your feet,” Viet ordered.

The women didn’t move.

“Your word’s worthless and I can’t let you run to Donovan.”

The women didn’t move, so Viet raised his machete.

“One cut,” he said, “across your heel and you won’t run anywhere. If it was just me, I’d take my chances. But I have this child to protect and I gave her mother my word.”

The women didn’t move.

“Your last chance,” Viet said, “I can make the cut small and clean or I can slash. Your choice.”

Now the women turned on their bellies and straightened their legs. Neither woman cried out as Viet cut their right heels just enough to hobble them for a few days. As the women clutched their wounds, Viet used his lighter to set aflame every building in the village. Tools and weapons were thrown into torched huts—along with food packets and supply crates. Water jugs and fuel barrels were sliced open and dumped to the ground. Though some tents were left intact, one caught fire from a spark and two others were slashed to pieces. Viet even scooped sand into a pot of soup.

Ten minutes later, Viet stuffed medical kits into his backpack, picked up Sally’s orphaned daughter, and jogged for the west coast of Paradise—where his rendezvous point south of Turtle Beach was located. Looking to the sun, he realized that little time remained.

John and Kit steered their sailboats toward the west side of a large motu and landed on a sandy beach. After hiding the children behind trees, John collected firewood and fruit while Kit pitched tents. Linh’s daughters milked a goat and warmed a bottle over a low fire, careful to follow Kit’s instructions not to burn green wood or smoky leaves. When the bottle was warm, the girls fed the baby while Kit prepared a late breakfast of coconuts and bananas—with Kit reminding everyone to be judicious with the fruit of the motu since their stay might last longer than anticipated. For that reason, John had picked only one coconut and three breadfruit for lunch, leaving most fruit hanging on the tree. After reviewing emergency escape plans with Kit, John pushed one of the two sailboats into the lagoon while Kit prayed for his safety.

The wind blew against his sails until John paddled past the south edge of the motu, where the breeze filled the canvas and sent the boat sailing through the lagoon. As he sailed, John looked to his watch and calculated he’d arrive just a few minutes early, then scoured the coast for activity—where he saw pillars of smoke spiraling from the north and dark clouds of dissipated smoke hanging over Mount Zion. As the smoke rose heavenward, John offered a silent prayer for Viet. When he finally neared the rendezvous point near Turtle Beach, he saw smoke begin to billow above his own village. Someone was near, likely Viet pursuing a scorched-earth strategy.