Richard DuBois - Last Resort

Conner smirks. “If you’re lucky enough to reach Barbados the captain will send for help.”

“No I won’t,” de Salle grunts, and turns to the rest of us. “Begging your pardon, but give them their supplies or no one will hear of you.”

So, the captain has a shred of decency after all.

Conner scowls. “Two bottles of soda and a box of crackers. If you ration it out it can last for two days.”

Some of those bound for Barbados begin to argue, but de Salle nods his head, accepting Conner’s terms. Robby fetches the soda and crackers for the departing guests.

Don and Amy do not look back as de Salle’s men row them to the sailboat. They raise anchor and from the bow of the ship the captain bids us goodbye by doffing his ludicrous hat.

Twilight. Holding back the curtains in the sliding glass door in the empty bungalow next to mine, I step aside to allow Dellas to enter. The bungalow belonged to a grey haired restaurateur from Pittsburgh and his trophy girlfriend. They were among the first aboard Captain de Salle’s boat. In their haste to depart, they left the bungalow in horrible disarray. Food encrusted plates and soiled laundry clutter the place. It does not matter. Dellas is obviously relieved to have a roof over her head and food for her daughter.

Rhodesia clutches Dellas’s hand and looks about the room, uncertain what to make of this new home.

“Now we’re neighbors,” I say, and then joke, “And if you need anything, a cup of sugar, milk, tea—whatever, just knock on my door. You want me to help you tidy up this place?”

She places her daughter on the rumpled bed. “No, but tank you. Dis place will do very well.”

As I leave, I glimpse Alexandra standing on the beach facing the sea. She wears a long silk dress that billows behind her in the wind. Foaming waves lap around her bare feet. Both hands clasp at her chest, much like a body in a coffin.

“Alexandra,” I call to her but she stares at the horizon so intently that she does not hear me.

I stand next to her. “Hey, Alexandra.”

She turns to me and it is clear from the vacant look in her eyes that she has no idea who I am.

“Why didn’t they take me?” her voice is so soft I strain to hear.

Now I understand why she stares at the horizon; she fixates on the spot where de Salle’s ship disappeared from view.

“Never mind Barbados. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with Conner?” I try to coax her back to reality.

Staring at the sea again, she ignores my question and says, “Why didn’t anybody ask me if I wanted to go? My jewelry is just as good as theirs. Look, see.”

She opens her hands to reveal several common seashells. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

I do not know what to say, but she smiles at me, awaiting my answer.

“Yes… yes, they’re lovely,” I say.

She beams with triumph. “See, then I could have been on that boat, too. I don’t like it here anymore. I want to go home.”

I nod. “We all do.”

She sighs. “I’m tired now.”

Without another word, she turns from me and treads through the sand back to the open backdoor of her bungalow. Conner leans against the doorframe, watching us. When Alexandra reaches him, he turns into the darkened room, gone from view, and Alexandra follows him.

Banging pots and shouts of alarm snap me out of my slumber. I sit up in bed, naked, and fumble for my shorts. Torchlight glides past my window as people run past my bungalow. Outside, I find Nelson running towards the lagoon. Curtis, heavily winded and looking about ready to faint, tromps behind him.

“They’re attacking!” Nelson explains to me, though I need no explanation.

Across the lagoon comes a cacophony of hooping and yowling, like a pack of ravenous hyenas, but the sounds come not from animals but from men. It can only be Action and the other marauders. Near the lagoon, Robby clangs pots together to alert everyone.

“A couple of them tried to sneak across where the bridge is burnt out,” he breathlessly tells me. “The moment I sounded the alarm all the rest of them showed up. There’s got to be fifty of them.”

At least fifty torches bob amongst the shrubbery on the far side of the lagoon. There are so many torches that the cliff wall at the back of the resort glows orange. If the thugs intend their cacophony of animal sounds to intimidate us, they succeeded spectacularly. My rubbery legs threaten to buckle beneath me. Wild-eyed old women dressed in flimsy nightgowns, their hair matted and gnarled, run in circles, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do.

“Phillip!” Gwen rushes towards me with an armful of Molotov cocktails. “They’re trying to cross at the bridge. We’ve got to stop them.”

I grab more bottles of gasoline from the stack and catch up with Gwen.

We are badly outnumbered. Unlike the resort defenders, all of the marauders are young and strong. We stand no chance in open combat with them. If the marauders cross the lagoon, it will be a massacre.

More than halfway across the lagoon, Conner stands at the end of the bridge. Wielding an axe, with his head high, Conner acts as a lightning rod, drawing the murderous mob to him. Rather than disperse and try to cross the lagoon from several different points, thereby making it hard for us to prevent them all from getting across, the mob converges at the tip of the burnt out bridge. They mass together, torches held aloft to form a giant, incandescent dagger pointed at the resort.

“Hide the bottles,” I say to Gwen as we place them behind Conner. “I don’t want them to expect this.”

Robby and all the younger guests join us brandishing our self-made weapons. We use our bodies to shield the cluster of unlit Molotov cocktails from view. Roughly twenty-five feet of water separate us from the mob. Many in the mob wield machetes taken from the papaya and pineapple farms; others wield pitchforks, small knives, and even crowbars. Packing onto the stub of bridge that remains on their side of the lagoon, they cluster to the charred, crumbling edge of their bridge, but they do not attack. They hoot and holler—an ungodly chorus, howls of the damned—but they come no closer.

Pamela clenches a rudimentary spear, legs planted firmly apart. Her chest heaves from the exertion of running to get here, but she does not seem exhausted. She seems enraged. These men killed her husband. This is the moment of her revenge.

My heart pounds and my mouth feels as dry as an old piece of leather. I wish I stood as valiant and eager for battle as Conner does. Instead, I reckon where I can hide in the resort if we are overrun.

The howling intensifies, builds to a crescendo, and the mob points their machetes at us, stomping in gleeful anticipation.

“Phillip, I’m scared,” Gwen looks upon the jeering horde with terror.

Then, as though flipping a switch, the howling stops. The mob parts. Action steps to the front. In his fist, he grips the neck of a wine bottle. Standing opposite Conner, Action takes a long, contemptuous swig from the bottle, wipes his mouth, and lets out a satisfied sigh.

“Hey, Yankee man,” Action addresses Conner. “Give us food and drink and we spare your lives.”

“You want our supplies? Come and take it,” Conner brandishes his axe.

The firelight cast deep shadows on Action’s gaunt face making him appear ancient, deathless, his eyes deep pools of malevolence. The men around him tense, each one waiting for the command to strike. Action takes another swig from the bottle, and then says to Conner, “You like stories, Yankee man? I have a good one for you. One time I catch a big fish—a fish too big for my little boat. Looking at dis great fish, I say to myself, ‘Action, you will feast tonight.’ But first, I have to get de fish home. So I tie it to my boat and row for land. Dat is when de reef sharks come. Now, de ting about de sharks, Yankee man, is dey are quick and dey come all at once. Dey rip into my catch, every one taking a little piece,” he makes a motion with his hands like teeth snapping together. “Soon, only de bones are left. Dat is how we will take your woman, Yankee man. We will kill you last so you can watch as we take her, watch as she begs for death.”