Richard DuBois - Last Resort

No one speaks up to support my suggestion.

Conner continues. “Tell you what—I’d give it a week and all the supplies we have would be gone if we try it Phil’s way. Listen to me people. The food is our life. Without it we die. In a situation like this, we need a strong hand.”

Conner’s words seem to sway any who had objections, and if any still agree with me, I doubt they have the backbone to defend the point. Robby is not the only one backing Conner. At a quick glance I count at least ten other people—mostly middle aged men and their wives/girlfriends—who have thrown their lot with the strongest man. Curiously, Alexandra is absent.

Robby details the meal schedule: three times a day with long, hungry gaps in between. He does not ask for feedback or approval. Conner stands beside him, hands still on his hips, nodding occasionally, watching us, and practically daring anyone to raise an objection.

“From now on we’ve got to think like a team,” Conner picks up where Robby leaves off. “And there is no “I” in team.”

I cannot believe he actually laid this tired, corporate pep talk cliché on us.

“Anybody who still has any supplies back in their bungalows needs to bring it to the supply room as soon as this meeting is over,” Conner continues. “I don’t care if it’s something as small as a breath mint. If one person hordes food it’s a crime against all of us. Another thing, every one of us has got to contribute something to the resort every single day. That means catching fish, making weapons, patrolling the grounds, cooking, cleaning, so on, and so forth. We can’t afford to carry any dead weight. Anyone hording food or failing to contribute to the welfare of the resort will be considered an enemy of the resort.”

Conner does not elaborate what will happen to those considered “enemies of the resort.” The threat hangs in the air.

With any naysayers successfully intimidated, Conner softens his stance, “Look, I know this is hard and none of us expected to live like this. The only way we will survive is by working together.”

Working together, I immediately discover, means following Conner’s orders without question. Robby, Conner and a handful of their supporters dispense what counts as our morning meal. My share amounts to a cup of plain red beans and a cup of flat, warm ginger ale. Robby informs me that my duty is night patrol, dusk to dawn, along the lagoon.

“You’re the first line of defense,” Robby tells me. “Take two pots with you on patrol. You see anyone trying to come across the lagoon you bang the pots together. Got it?”

He does not wait for my response before he is onto the next person, doling out assignments. Conner tells Gwen that she is on fishing duty.

“But I don’t know how to fish?” Gwen says.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he hands her a bowl of beans that is twice the size as anyone else’s. I can tell that Gwen notices the difference, but she says nothing.

Curtis glances at his meager meal and balks. “This couldn’t feed a pygmy.”

Conner walks over, eyeing Curtis’s ample belly. “By the looks of it, Slim, you could stand to skip a meal or two. From now on, you’re on fishing duty. You and your… friend,” he glances derisively at Nelson.

Conner walks away and Nelson whine’s to Curtis. “But I don’t know the first thing about fishing.”

It is going to be a long day.

At the far end of the shore, Curtis drapes his massive bulk over a low-legged beach chair. His thick calves splay out in front of him, toes buried in the sand. He wears a tropical print shirt, unbuttoned, exposing the enormity of his red belly and his droopy man breasts covered in white hair. There was a time when I would cringe at such a sight, but over the past several weeks, I have seen enough cellulite, varicose veins, and hairy potbellies that I am nonplussed. Curtis wears a ratty canvas hat, a strip of white zinc across the bridge of his nose and a sour expression.

He fans his face with his hand. I am shirtless, too, my shorts barely hanging onto my hips. Several yards out into the sea, Nelson awkwardly paddles about with flippers, goggles and a spear, searching for a fish. Nelson removes his goggles to check his position in relation to the shore and sees me observing him.

“Nelson, I would have thought after all this time you’d have gotten the hang of it,” I quip.

“What’re you talking about?” he hoists a mesh bag that appears to hold two or three fish. “This should make a fine supper tonight.”

“Yeah, except it took him all day just to catch that,” Curtis says, his voice low.

Nelson walks to shore as gracefully as possible considering the massive flippers he wears.

“Here, look at this,” he opens his bag of fish with pride.

“They’re a little puny,” Curtis teasingly lifts one by the tail for inspection. ‘Not exactly a feast fit for a king.”

“You’ll have to forgive my companion,” Nelson says to me with mock indignation. “His appetite exceeds his fishing ability.”

Curtis gives a melodramatic sigh. “It gets tiring swimming around out there, waves slapping me around, jabbing a spear at those little fish. And those buggers are fast! There must be an easier way to dine. I wish we could just order room service.”

“We are room service,” Nelson grins and helps Curtis to his feet. “We should get our prize haul to the kitchen. They’ll need it for tonight’s meal.”

The three of us, in no particular hurry, walk towards the restaurant.

Curtis shields his eyes against the setting sun and says, “I wonder what day it is.”

“I lost track of the calendar a long time ago,” I add. “It’s actually ironic if you stop to think about it.”

Nelson arches a dubious brow. “That you lost track?”

“That anyone bothers trying to keep track of time at all,” I answer. “I mean, what’s the point? Who cares? There are no hours, nor weeks or months. Hell, we don’t even have seasons here. The only thing we have is daylight and darkness.”

We take a few more steps, and then completely ignoring the point I just made, Nelson says, “Jonas has a calendar. He could tell us what day it is.”

“And if Jonas tells us that it’s Wednesday instead of Thursday will it make a damn bit of difference?” I retort a bit more sharply than needed. “It’s been what… a month since we lost all power?”

“Maybe a little under a month, I think,” Curtis reckons.

“OK, a little under a month, and since we lost power you know what?” I hold up my arm with the only working wrist watch at the resort. “I hardly look at this thing. There’s no reason. I get up, patrol till dawn, go to bed when the sun comes up, and do it all over again.”

Nelson looks thoughtful, and then says to me, “Young man, since you’ve lost all interest in time, can I have your watch?”

I pull my arm back. “Not a chance. Someday, I may need to trade this watch for a slice of bread.”

I am only half joking. Hunger is a constant companion; at least my cheekbones and jaw line look fantastic.

Our chuckles subside.

“The people who sailed for Barbados…” Curtis trails off. “Do you think they made it to Barbados?” He scans the sea as though anticipating their ship to appear at any moment. “We should have heard something from them by now. How long does it take for help to come back from Barbados?”

“Maybe things in Barbados are as bad as they are here,” Nelson suggests, though I detect a note in his voice that he does not believe it.

I think of Don and Amy, and then I recall Dawson Hartford’s warning about the radiation clouds hovering over the ocean. Grim thoughts fill my head, but I keep them to myself.