Richard DuBois - Last Resort

The dread that gnaws at my gut must be nothing compared to what Gwen feels. If I die, it will be quick. But Gwen…

A clap of Action’s hands is the signal to attack. So many thugs leap into the water the surface of the lagoon becomes as wavy as the open sea. Conner shouts something unintelligible. Everything is motion and noise. Thrashing bodies churn the water. Elderly women screech and flee back to the bungalows as though there could be any safety there.

“Now!” Gwen hurls a lit Molotov cocktail over everyone’s head. It lands with deadly accuracy into the packed midst on the other side of the bridge. As a ball of fire explodes, shrieks unlike anything I ever heard pierce my ears. Flames engulf the men from head to toe. Burning men fall into the water to douse the flames. Men at the front of the mob, including Action, avoid the fire, but the frantic, burning men behind them push them all into the lagoon. Pamela steps to the front of the group of defenders and hurls her spear straight into the open mouth of a machete-waving thug.

Several thugs reach our side of the bridge. Conner swings his long handled axe with both hands, smashing the skull of one marauder to a pulp. Another marauder tries to climb onto the bridge. Gwen buries a kitchen knife in his forearm.

Action paddles back to waist deep water. “Kill ‘dem!”

The rest of the marauding horde still on land bypasses the burning segment of bridge and plunges directly into the water. Trudging towards us, they shove the floating bodies of their comrades aside. We hurl bricks and rocks at the men. Behind me, someone cries for help as two thugs pull him from the bridge. Robby rushes to his aid, but the man goes under and does not come back up. Marauders swim at us from all sides. Our Molotov cocktails are useless at this close range. We resort to hand-to-hand combat. My weapon is a hammer that I found in the tool shed. A man lunges from the water, grasping for my legs. I tumble down. As he tries to pull me into the water, I hit him once on the top of his head. Instantly, he spasms violently, losing his hold of me. I push him back into the water where he drifts away face down.

Everything is a blur. Conner stalks the edge of the bridge. Men fall before his axe like wheat before a scythe. While Pamela hurls rocks at the struggling swimmers, Gwen stabs at those trying to clamber onto the bridge with us. A few marauders opt to avoid the heavily defended bridge altogether, swimming instead directly for the resort. The few that make it to the resort are bludgeoned to death before they get out of the water.

As quickly as it started, the battle stops. Action stands on dry land, hands hanging at his side, fingers curled as though ready to strangle someone. They cannot take the bridge, and the lagoon is too vast and deep for them to wade across. On the burning bridge segment, several bodies blacken in the flames. Bodies float all over the lagoon. Gwen is on her knees, gasping for breath. Conner stands as he did before, axe in hand, challenging Action to attack again. On the opposite side of the lagoon, the rest of the marauders trudge out of the water and mill about.

One of them says something inaudible to Action, perhaps suggesting they launch another assault, perhaps advising Action to retreat. Whatever he says, Action does not acknowledge him. He stares at the handful of us on the bridge, and then turns around and storms away. Within minutes the rest of the marauders follow him, dragging their injured, and forsaking their dead.

Conner lets out a raucous cheer, followed by all the elderly guests lined up at the resort who clap and hug each other. Gwen lies on her side and weeps.

The morning is as bright and beautiful as any other on Isla Fin de la Tierra. At a distance, one would assume our resort was a slice of paradise. Only upon closer inspection, would you see bodies floating in the lagoon, or see the guests wandering around looking as raggedy as scarecrows.

Ravenous after the harrowing battle of the previous night, I walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute—why is everyone already here before me, and why did they alter the arrangement of tables? Instead of rows of tables, the tables now form a giant square with an open floor in the center. One of the sides of the square contains the raised step the band played on. Now, instead of a group of musicians standing on that step, Conner sits there on a large rattan chair. The immediate impression is of a king on his throne overlooking his court. To drive this impression home, Conner’s axe, the symbol of his power, lays at his feet.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Conner sees me approach and motions for me to take a seat. “We’re having a meeting.”

I take an empty seat next to Nelson.

“Where’s the food,” I whisper to him.

He leans close. “You’re guess is as good as mine. I just got here a minute before you.”

“What we accomplished last night can’t be overstated,” Conner stands and addresses all of us in a relaxed yet authoritative tone. “We showed those miserable sons of bitches that this resort is not an easy target. We will not fall like the hotel across the bay.”

Many of the guests nod vigorously. Something in the way they look at Conner makes me uneasy. It is a look of blind trust and adoration. I imagine a parent would give such a look to a doctor who saved the life of their child.

“Make no mistake about it, this is not over,” Conner pauses for added significance. “The islanders will be back. We must be ready for them. Now I know we’ve all heard the rumors… our homes are gone, our families dead. Maybe those things are true. I pray to God they aren’t. In the meantime, there’s some things we know for sure. There is no sign that anyone is coming to rescue us. At this point, until given reason to believe otherwise, we have to assume that no one ever will. That means we’ve got to get serious about defending ourselves. Yeah, we did good last night, but you can bet the next time they attack they won’t be so disorganized. We also have to get serious about our food supply.”

A murmur ripples amongst the guests.

“How much food do we have?” A middle-aged man with white, wiry hair and nervous blue eyes asks.

Robby sits near Conner on a less ornate chair, much like a second-in-command. He rises to speak to us. “How much food we have depends entirely on how quickly we consume it.”

“That’s right,” Conner agrees. “We’re in no danger of starvation—so long as we follow a few simple rules. From now on, we don’t eat whatever we want, or whenever we’re hungry. We will serve food at specific times, and in rationed amounts. The all-you-can-eat-buffet is over.”

“Who rations the food?” Pamela asks.

“I do,” Conner pulls a chain from around his neck upon which dangles a key. “This is the key to the supply room. From now on, anyone wanting food has to come to me.”

In shock, I say to Jonas, “How could you agree to this?”

Jonas opens his mouth, preparing to answer, but the words disappear and he hangs his head.

Ignoring Jonas, I turn to everyone else in the restaurant. “I agree we should ration the food. You might recall I was the first to suggest the idea, and at the time, many of you laughed at me. We can ration the food without it being under one person’s control.”

Several people agree with me, albeit more quietly than I prefer.

Conner puts his hands on his hips and flashes a smile that is all teeth and no mirth. “Fine. Let’s say we follow your suggestion, Phil. How are you gonna enforce it? I suppose you expect everyone to be on some kind of honor system, taking no more than their fair share. Do any of you actually believe for a second that would work?”