Paradise: An Apocalyptic Novel (4 page)

“You’re drunk, John,” the old man said, ignoring his young boss’ protests, “go back to sleep.”

“Just follow me, you old bastard.”

“Now, John, you know I hate being called—”

“Spare me the parental respect sermon,” Maverick said, springing to life, flinging the joint into the corner of the room, “this is serious, and I need your damn help.” He shoved past Cole and began walking down the hall. Cole waited in the doorway. “This isn’t optional,” Maverick yelled, perhaps a little too loud for a clandestine meeting, “come down the goddamn hall.”

“All right, son, I’ll be right there.” Although the timing wasn’t spectacular, Cole felt a tinge of pride—John had figured out how to go for the jugular.

The old man limped down the hall, propped up by the cane, looking up and down for unwanted spies before he went into Maverick’s open room. The door swung shut behind them, and the two men were alone.

“John, you know this heart attack took it out of me,” Cole started, “my damn leg hurts all the time.”

“This is goddamn important,” Maverick said, “listen.” He turned the broadcast on.

They listened for a couple loops.

“Now you understand why I said to limit the information flow.” It’d been Cole’s idea to have no internet, no radios, no cell phone towers, no satellite phones on the island. All visitors had to abide by these rules. At the time, Maverick had considered them the thoughts of a technological dinosaur. Now, though, Cole’s paranoia seemed prescient.

The official line to the visitors always was that this was a cleansing, disconnected retreat—to refresh the mind and engage with nature. Although most visitors just engaged with various vices and each other.

“What do you think it means?” Maverick asked, his foot banging against the floor in a nervous tap.

“Doesn’t sound good.”

“I’m glad I woke you up for that.”

“What do you want me to say, John? I’m not in LA. Have you spoken to anyone on the ground?”

“No. Tell me what to do.”

“You’re the boss,” Cole said, “it’s your decision.”

“Do I tell them?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“But what if they find out?”

“They will, one way or another.”

“Then why bother with the lies?”

“Because it gives us time,” Cole said, as if this were obvious, “and it keeps us ahead of them.” He paused. “It gives us the power.”

“But I already have that, don’t I?”

“If everything is melting down out there,” Cole said, “then the rules have changed. Money doesn’t matter. Only survival.”

“Isn’t that the way it’s always been?”

“Yes,” Cole said with a wolfish grin, “but it’s obscured by everything. Money, fake power, success, reputation, awards. They distract people from the truth.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you aren’t tough, son.”

Maverick felt his chest tighten up a little bit, and he bit down. Cole never avoided the truth; in fact, he always seemed to build to it, so it’d have the maximum debilitating effect. In between his jackhammer-like heartbeats, Maverick wondered if the old man was playing a game of his own—had been playing a game of his own, all these years.

Maybe—but now wasn’t the time to address that. He needed a course of action.

“Let’s get tough, then,” he said, “to stay on top.”

Cole’s eyes glinted. Whether it was from the stars shining through from above, or from some thought buried deep within, Maverick couldn’t tell. For now, the pair would have to trust each other.

“Tough,” Cole said, like he loved the sound of the word, lived the sound of the word, “I like the sound of that, John. I like the sound of that.”

4

The New Kings

Amanda shrieked.

She was not often surprised; when she was, however, it seemed to make up for every moment of detached cool.

She dropped to her knees on the moonlit beach and pumped her hands on the still chest. Amanda could see the blood, the deep crimson staining the sand a horrid shade of reddish-black, but still she pressed on.

“Come on, Matt,” she whispered, to no one and everyone, “come on.”

Matt didn’t respond; Matt couldn’t respond. His body was still warm, containing that tantalizing hint of life. He was wet, soaked from head to foot, and on his person were a pair of bolt cutters.

Amanda gave up, and sprawled out beside him, misty eyes looking at the stars. She hadn’t yet discovered the cutters, hadn’t put the betrayal together, but even if she had, her reaction would have been the same. They’d lived out here for five years together.

They were friends. The two of them, living on this farm, they were supposed to be friends.

And now, it was just her. She began to claw at the sand, digging a shallow grave. There was no one to mourn his passing. Now, it was like he never existed. No one on the island knew him.

The moon caught a glint of something, and she stopped.

The cutters.

She slumped down, over the body, beginning to contemplate what it all meant. Her arms shook and her face reddened as tears continued to drip down on Matt’s wetsuit. Through the blur, she could see where the shot had entered, straight through the head. He hadn’t felt a thing.

And he hadn’t felt a thing about her, either.

It got lonesome on the island. They’d been more than friends. And she wasn’t the princess type, full of romantic wishes, but she’d still hoped that maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way about her. It was clear that he didn’t even value their friendship much—at least not as much as who’d sent him.

There could only be one person who did that, maybe two. Amanda didn’t trust Cole, couldn’t stand him, his placating smile and limp. But Maverick, he still held the keys to the treasury, and if there was one thing she knew about activities on this island, it was that money talked—and everything ran through him.

That was why, after all, she was here alone, mining foodstuffs for idiots and fools. The pay was too damn good. Halfway to seven figures type of good.

And, she wondered, kneading the wet sand beneath her knuckles, if it was all worth it. With a grunt, she dragged the body towards the ocean. The tide would sweep him away, or it wouldn’t. Either way, she wasn’t going to bury him.

She chucked the bolt cutters far away. No one needed to know about this but her. And Jackson.

Morning came, and
everyone’s spirits dampened.

If only they knew what was going on in the world, and on the island, they would be more concerned; but their concerns were more immediate and physical.

They’d hit the bottle—and whatever other substances they could find—a bit too hard. And the morning light, let in by the big bay windows splashed across the house, didn’t help the painful hangovers. The night before, everyone had been infuriated by the cocaine running out at the height of the proceedings; now, it seemed like a good thing.

Britt groaned and cupped his head in hands. He looked to his right. A naked girl asleep in his bed. He shook her.

“Hey,” he said in a slow, deliberate way, “did we, you know?”

“Sure, I guess.” She went back to sleep.

Must not have been very good.

Pride smarting, he went downstairs. Even though it was almost noon, no one was awake, save Maverick. He looked like hell, but not from drinking.

“Tough night?” Britt asked, grabbing a muffin from the breakfast assortment on the table. “I think I had one too.”

“Just a little under the weather,” Maverick said, forcing a grin. Even Britt, who couldn’t perceive anything, knew that something was up.

“Yeah, I think everyone is. You sure know how to throw a party.”

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t see you last night, though,” Britt said, pushing the issue a little further, “I’ve heard that—”

“Just taking the night off,” Maverick said, meaning piss off and go away. Britt got the message; with a conciliatory grunt he grabbed another handful of baked goods and walked back upstairs.

Maverick hadn’t slept. If it’d been because of the party, he’d feel much better. Josephine had quizzed him all night about his pacing, complained to him that she couldn’t sleep. If only she knew; if only they knew. This place would be a madhouse.

He wanted to bring Jackson into the mix. He’d understand why some of the satellites had gone offline, and maybe what this whole virus meant for the mainland. Maverick hadn’t tried to phone LA; he was scared that they were all stranded here, that the call wouldn’t go through.

That he’d messed up good this time. Real good.

Maverick couldn’t buy much more time. People would find out about the boat—if they didn’t know already—and when the parts for the craft didn’t come in, everyone would have questions. He could only put that off a couple days.

When you’re a billionaire, overnight delivery to the middle of the ocean is standard—and when it takes longer, people talk. More worrisome, they begin questioning you, whether you deserve to be at the top of the heap.

He couldn’t have that; he’d fold underneath that type of scrutiny.

Josephine came down the stairs and shook him by the shoulder. He had nodded off, catching a few winks of elusive, glorious sleep.

“What, dear,” he said, making it clear that this interruption wasn’t appreciated.

“What the hell is going on,” she said, “I just listened to the radio, and they’re saying that there’s a virus eradicating everything? That boils people from the inside?”

“Yeah, I think it’s a hoax or something.”

She slapped him. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid.” She acted stupid, but it was for a purpose. Here, she couldn’t force herself to submit to such a weak lie. Her voice rose. “I can’t believe you treat me like this, like some whore who you won’t tell anything to, keep secrets from. We’ve been married eight years, damnit, eight goddamn years—”

“Shut your mouth.” The words were swift, and with them, the conversation was over. Her eyebrows arched, and she stammered, trying to form words. The mild-mannered Maverick had never talked to her like that; sure, he was often carousing with other women, but he’d always been nice, at least. “You won’t tell anyone about this, understand? And if you do…”

His tone made the threat clear. She nodded, her throat dry, before she retreated up the stairs. She faced him the whole way, going up backwards, just in case he decided to do the deed then.

Maverick didn’t know where that outburst had come from, but he was a little pleased. More scared, but still pleased. Maybe he had what it took to brave the storm and see it through. Maybe.

After a few moments, he followed her up the stairs. There must have been another broadcast; the boiling bit was a new, unsavory and unwelcome twist. He’d have to get Cole in the room, and they’d listen together.

Jackson awoke to
the warm afternoon sun caressing his face. He had a nice room—the only one nicer was Maverick’s master suite—but this had been his modus operandi since his second visit to The Hideaway. All the signs of the storm were gone; the day was beautiful, full of possibility.

Back then, there wasn’t even a full house. It’d been a quarter of the size, maybe less—a beach bungalow more than anything else. Construction was going along on the rest, and there wasn’t enough room inside. Rather than sleep on the couch, Jackson made a bed of palm leaves and other various jungle foliage, and made his home near the border between the homestead and Maverick’s mansion.

Amanda would come visit him, and they’d reminisce about the old days—university and such, when she’d first met Maverick, him, and they’d become a trio of best friends. Those days were far away, and while the nostalgia remained, and perhaps they paid lip service to the ideal, the fact was that they weren’t best friends any more.

Or perhaps they were, only because they had no better friends in the world, as alone as they were.

Amanda shook him awake, and even with his eyes half closed, he could see that she had blood on her clothes.

“What happened,” he asked, and she didn’t reply. “What’d Coop say? You’re covered in blood.”

“Matt died,” she said, then said no more. After a half hour, maybe less, she got up and walked back to her homestead, leaving Jackson alone, with more questions and fewer answers. But with the light above, even with his reservations, Jackson felt refreshed. After arriving on the island, Jackson had remembered why he’d come: to get away from this damned project, the stress. The sun was doing wonders for that.

It was time to call in those repairs. Hell, Maverick would be pissed that he waited this long—which he could handle, since Maverick was hiding something from him about the whole situation.

A lot, seeing as how there was a body count on the island.

He headed towards the house to get something to eat, but the sound of voices caused him to stop. They were flowing from the window above; from Maverick’s room.

“Not all of the satellites are offline,” he heard Cole say, “a few of the stations are still broadcasting.”

“But for how long?” Maverick sounded strung out.

“Anyone’s guess. Do you have stocks of ice?”

“Here? A little.”

“The guy says that’s the only cure to keep from getting boiled alive,” Cole said, like they needed to prepare for doomsday, “best get to it.”

“But how, without everyone noticing? And aren’t we safe?”

There was a pause. Jackson strained, standing on his toes near the window. He wasn’t missing anything; nothing was being said.

“Safety is always an illusion, son,” Cole said.

“They said the r-nought is 25. The hell does that mean?”

Jackson almost fell down.

“It sounds bad, is what it means. I wouldn’t want to be on the continent right now.” Cole didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation.

Jackson, however, knew: there was full-blown pandemic coursing across the mainland, with infections spreading and cooking people from the inside, like some sort of super-flu. He remembered one of his professors talking about r-noughts, explaining that it was how fast a virus spread—and the higher the number, the more screwed everyone was.

While Jackson only remembered this particular lecture because the professor had cursed, the knowledge was now very useful—and chilling.

“There’s no way we can keep this under wraps.” Maverick said.

“Then we prepare until it comes out,” Cole said. His voice was cold, calculating. Jackson knew this was the real Cole—but how many others would see it?

He rushed to the homestead, away from the window, to find Amanda.

No one would be calling the mainland for repairs, it seemed, for a while.

Sam had brought
his cell phone, and the group wasn’t happy about it; their entire pay was at stake.

“Sam,” Melina said, trying to reason with him, “I love you, but you need to get rid of that. I need this money.” She had a three year old son back at home, caught in limbo between two warring parents. Her sexy past wasn’t doing her any favors, and her bank account was doing her even less.

“You guys need to see this,” Sam said, calling down from the tree. They’d chased him up there, all the way from the guest house. He had no idea how he’d managed to climb so high, but no one else seemed able to reach him. He panted; his adrenaline had somehow propelled him up the rough bark and into the canopy.

“Damnit, Sam,” Pierre said, and his tone wasn’t as sweet, “if you don’t come down, I’m going to burn this thing down.”

“People are getting sick on the mainland,” Sam said, “I got a picture right here. But you have to promise to look at it.”

“We promise,” Melina said, “now, can you come down?”

Sam hesitated, then stayed put. They were going to smash the phone the instant he set foot on terra firma. Each staff member got paid forty grand for this excursion, complete with an iron-clad NDA and a list of rules that, if broken, would result in expulsion from the island, legal action and forfeiture of wages.

Sam had just wanted to email his girlfriend. Flashes of signal broke through—spotty, but somewhere, it seemed, there was a tower close enough to get a bar or two. Enough to access the news.

And the news wasn’t good: a million dead, no cure, and massive ice shortages. Reports of murders over freezers and other sources of cold—the only cure for a progressive viral infection that raised people’s body temperatures until they boiled. Doctors were working on a vaccine, but they seemed to be succumbing quicker than they could study the damn thing.

Plus, people seemed to have a bad tendency to break into their labs, to enjoy the cooling freezers and other amenities, in a desperate attempt to save their lives.

“No way,” Sam said, “I’m not coming down.”

Below, Pierre threw up his hands, and dropped his voice.

“What do we do?” He cared about Sam, about all of them, but there was a significant payday at stake. Something like this got out, and they would all have been treated like excrement for nothing.

“We’ve to get rid of him,” Bebe said. All business, straight to the point: she wanted the money, and she wasn’t bashful about it.

Melina shook her head, and Pierre agreed.

“No,” Pierre said, “we can’t do that. You crazy?”

“You’re crazy,” Bebe replied, raising her shrill voice, “he’s going to screw us all over.” She stormed off, back to the staff’s quarters.

“Tell us about this problem,” Pierre called up, “and then we’ll talk about it on the ground, all right?”

“You guys will just get rid of this thing as soon as I come down.”

“Just tell us, and we’ll go from there.”

“Fine.” And Sam began recounting the chilling tale from the mainland.

Cole left, and
Maverick breathed a sigh. He wasn’t sure about the old man’s advice. Cole wasn’t trustworthy, had only ever been trustworthy because he’d entered the game when he was a little old, a little feeble. He couldn’t become head honcho, at least not in public.