Brandon Enns - Islanders

“I can’t tell you anything until you tell me what happened between you two.”

Something clicked. His eyes deadened as he looked past her shoulder at the gun on the table, her hand stretched out next to it. He lunged at her, wrapping his hand around her throat, squeezing tightly, but not enough to strangle her. She reached for the gun. It was too far, just out of her grasp.

“There’s nothing to even tell. You don’t want to be a part of this, but for some sick reason, you think you do. You don’t want to hurt me though, do you? No, you don’t want to hurt anyone. You’re a kind person.” He tilted his head to the side and searched her eyes.

She stopped reaching for the gun and wrapped her hands gently around his wrists. “I’m in trouble,” she whispered.

He kissed her roughly on the mouth. His tongue, the taste of tequila, his hands all over her… Skye… She pushed Stefan back, grabbed the gun, and pointed it at him.

“What? I thought I was a good kisser. Or does everyone think that about themselves?” He looked deranged, menacing. He was insane. He glanced at the gun and bent at the knees.

“Don’t,” she blurted.

He lunged at her once more. She fired. Her ears were ringing. She had pointed away from his head and chest. It shouldn’t have hit him. Did it?

The gun had more kick than she expected. It was louder than anticipated. She held the pistol up again and fired another round high and to the left, hitting the floor. She then knelt down and whispered as softly as possible, while examining the blood flowing from his shoulder. “Keep your eyes closed. I’ll be back for you.” He grimaced and obeyed her commands.

Knees completely wobbly with each step, she made her way down the staircase toward the surveillance room. Each step she took felt like she was walking on ice. The surveillance door was closed. She stood to the side to avoid any possible gunfire and swung the door open, spinning around with her gun raised. There was nobody.

Erin gave herself a moment to let her nerves return to a dull roar before taking a peek at some of the surveillance, expecting her leg to vibrate with a text at any second, calling her out on her staged performance. She took the opportunity to explore the technology in front of her to find some answers that weren’t coming from anyone’s lying lips. The majority of the unraveling had happened within the past twenty-four hours, and most questions started outside the walls of the bunker, or at least that was where she needed to begin her search.

She began scrolling through the latest drone footage. There were two different drones actually, and it appeared that one covered the east the other the west side. She accelerated the rewind, but it was a touch too fast as she fumbled to put it back to the prior speed. In doing so, she saw activity around the villa. It appeared that the drones were operating based on movement—unless a manual override took place. She stopped the video and fast-forwarded slightly before stopping it again. It was Trevor walking into the villa hours ago. The sun will be coming up soon. Then two hours of footage later, the drone shifted back onto the island. There came Stefan, staggering out of the bunker with a gun. Up ahead, someone walked in the distance, though it was difficult to make out whom. Suddenly, he stopped and looked at the ground, again, difficult to see because of how dark it was. He knelt down and touched the sand. He had spotted blood. Stefan told me there was blood. That he was following someone. Dragging someone else. But from what she could see, there was no dragging—just a dark figure, with what appeared to be a hood, moving quickly through the trees.

The drone flew back to the villa. It remained at a distance, but it was close enough to film Trevor leaving the villa. He walked with broken, inconsistent steps, almost as though he was drunk. The drone closed the gap, the lamppost on the dock giving her a better visual. In his hand was a black gun, and there was blood all over his shirt. She stepped out of the room and back up the stairs with her gun in hand. Her phone vibrated, stopping her halfway up. Another text. “Bury him. Northeast corner. The cross along the edge will suffice. A fresh grave is required.”

A fresh grave? As in there are existing graves there?

If Stefan had understood her when she shot him, maybe he’d hang on long enough for a fake burial. She continued up the stairs, preparing the best instructions to whisper to him, planning how she would approach his body to make it look like she assumed him to be dead. Erin turned the corner and stopped. Only blood smeared across the floor remained. He was gone. Another text came in. “You lied.”

“Please!” she shouted, looking around at the ceiling frantically to get their attention. “Take me instead!” Another text. “Not how this works.”

“Then give me time!” Her voice was hoarse. “I’ll find him. Let me bring him to you! Yeah, you can finish the job!”

“You’re on your own.”

The ambiguous response made her sick. Erin looked up at the ceiling again. “Just… give me time to fix this.” She ran out of the bunker this time, no automated locks to stop her.

She felt so exposed out in the open. Erin stepped onto the docks, the floats underneath the dock shifting her back and forth, her wobbly legs wanting to give way. The gun was heavy.

She stepped inside the villa and fell to her knees. Skye’s throat was slashed open and her skin was gray. There was so much blood. All she could see was the blood. She leaned forward on her hands at the foot of the bed. Her hands made perfect prints in the blood on the floor, warm and smooth, almost causing her to slip flat on her face.

She rose to her feet and stared at her dead friend with her hand over mouth. How would he have responded when Skye told him she couldn’t do it anymore? Couldn’t do it to her friend… She tried to convince herself it was someone else, but she knew. Trevor murdered Skye.

Leaning over the dock and washing her hands, the red drifted away into the ocean blue, leaving only her reflection. She couldn’t just leave Skye there, but she had no choice.

The walk back to Stefan’s bunker was quiet. Only the palm trees spoke in the wind.

Trevor stood outside the front door of Bruce’s cabin. What to do? He wasn’t exactly Special Forces. He held the gun out from his side awkwardly, paranoid about shooting his own foot or worse. He reached for the doorknob and turned it. He threw the door open.

Bruce sat in his Lazy Boy recliner, facing Trevor. The only element missing from the moment was a 360-degree swivel in the chair. Bruce didn’t appear startled in the slightest.

He had a mug in his hand. “It’s decaf. I have regular if you like?”

The image of Skye’s open mouth stained his mind. “Start with why,” said Trevor.

Bruce pulled a lever and his feet kicked out in a more relaxed position. “Why what?” he said. “I told you I got nothing to do with your relative’s tricks. Don’t have time or the care for it.”

“You killed her.”

“Killed who now?” He pushed his feet back down and clicked the footrest into place, leaning forward with concern. “You better tell me what in the hell you’re talking about.” Bruce’s eyes were hard, his wide brow narrowed.

The man was a sociopath. His mannerisms were on point on. They were believable. “Are you lying to the guy with the gun?”

“Are you gonna tell me who is dead or not?”

“You know, you son of a bitch.”

He leaned back in his chair, an understanding seeming to resonate within him as he took another sip of his coffee. He set it down on a stand next to him. “The who of it doesn’t matter. What matters is what will come next.”