Richard DuBois - Last Resort

He looks at the label on the bottle, then back at me. Several bobbing torches approach us. Bob, Dean, Robby and two other men encircle us. Robby carries Conner’s axe.

“We’re starving ourselves and Phillip hordes this,” he holds out the champagne bottle. “All food had to be brought to the storeroom. That is our law. Phillip knew he broke it. That’s why he snuck here to drink it.”

“I forgot I had it,” I explain.

Conner hands the bottle to Robby and takes his axe. “Gwen, get to your room.”

Gwen leaps in front of me. “Conner, what are you going to do?”

The other men trade wary glances, uncertain exactly what this is building to, but I know one thing for sure: They will not intervene or countenance their master. Conner seizes Gwen’s wrist and hurls her to the ground.

He advances towards me, raising the axe to strike. “We’ve got to enforce the law.”

“Phillip, run!” Gwen screams, and this jolts me from my paralysis.

Before the other men can react, I bolt towards the bungalows.

“Get him,” Conner yells.

Evading them is difficult in the bright moonlight, but white-hot adrenalin gives an added burst of speed to my gait. I am lean and agile. With the exception of Conner, they are old, out-of-shape, or a combination of both. A gap widens between us. My bungalow. I can barricade myself in there. No! They would have me trapped. I run past my bungalow and into the nature preserve. The tree canopy creates a dark refuge. Abandoning the path, I creep through the bushes and huddle near the base of a tree. Several yards away two men run down the path. I cannot see who they are, but light from their torches lances the underbrush.

“Are you sure he came this way?” It is Dean, out of breath and even more bewildered than usual.

The other man waves the torch into the darkness. I slink away from the light, holding my breath, not making a sound.

“I dunno,” says Bob. “I coulda swore I saw him come this way.”

“Maybe he’s trying to swim across the lagoon.”

“Let’s check it out.”

They continue down the path and I allow myself to exhale. Shouts come from the bungalows. More torches light the night. Where can I go? They might comb the nature preserve, foot by foot, and flush me from my hiding spot. It will be daylight in a few hours; there will be no hiding in the nature preserve, after that.

“Phillip,” Gwen calls, taking care to not to project her voice too far.

I peek from my hiding spot and creep towards her. “Over here.”

She leaves the path and we crouch near the ground. Even in the darkness, I can see her eyes are wide with terror.

“I think Conner’s going to kill you,” she pants. “We’ve got to go—leave the resort. It’s our only choice.”

I shake my head. “No, Gwen. It’s too dangerous for you out there.”

She grabs my hand. “Don’t leave me behind. Please, take me with you. Please, Phillip. I’ll take my chances out there with you.”

I cup her face, lean close, and kiss her— tender, and slow.

“He’s over here!” Bob yells, charging towards us through the shrubbery.

Holding Gwen’s hand, I run for the burnt out bridge, intending to run as far as I can down what remains of the bridge and swim the rest of the way across. Robby and two other men get there ahead of us, while Bob and Dean cut off any retreat to the nature preserve. With nowhere else to run, we dash through the restaurant to the sea, our pursuers close behind.

Gwen stumbles in the sand. I turn to help her up. Conner runs towards me, axe held over his head, eyes boiling with fury.

“Go, Phillip, go,” Gwen pushes me away. “He won’t hurt me. Go!”

I hesitate for a second, and then, with nowhere left to run, dive into the sea. Conner throws his axe to the sand, and along with Robby, dives after me. Gasping for breath, I paddle farther out, rolling with the incoming waves. I cannot touch the bottom anymore, but still Conner pursues me.

“Get back here, you little fucker!” Conner roars, and then gives a hoarse, cruel laugh.

He swims back to where he can stand and faces me.

“C’mon back, Phil,” he taunts. “C’mon. Stop being a pussy. We just want to talk to you.”

Treading water, I remain several yards away.

Conner’s men line up on the shore, watching me.

Conner waves to me. “C’mon, Phil. You’ve got to come back to shore eventually. I’m a patient man. I can wait a looong time.”

Damn it, he is right. I cannot tread water indefinitely. The longer I stay here the more exhausted I will become, but to return to shore means certain death. Robby and Conner chuckle together, knowing that all they have to do is wait. The moonlight reveals the dark line of the coast. Both ends of our shoreline end in rocky horns jutting into the sea. What lies around those rocky horns? I paddle in that direction, conserving my strength by flipping over on my back and staring up at the starry sky. God, I am so tired. I stop to check my progress in relation to landmarks on the shore, and it seems as if I have only moved a few feet. How deep is the water beneath me? What lurks down there in the inky depths, hearing my awkward thrashing, circling curiously just below me? Got to keep moving, I tell myself. Keep moving. Keep moving. With labored breath, I dare not stop—afraid I will not have the strength to start again.

Once more, I verify how close I am to rounding the rocky horn. I should be right on top of it by now. Something is wrong. The outline of the rocky horn, black against the star speckled sky, is even farther than before. What is happening? Have I been swimming the wrong way? I stop for a moment, and then, to my horror, I realize what is happening. A strong current pushes me away from the island.

“No! No!” I hurl myself towards Isla Fin de la Tierra, kicking with all my might against the flow.

It is no use. The current propels me inexorably out to sea.

Do not panic. If I exhaust myself against the current, I will drown. I recall a safety tip: The way out of a riptide is to swim diagonally. I aim for the rocky horn, but instead of swimming directly for it I swim at an angle. Several minutes pass; I am even farther from the island than before. This is no ordinary riptide. No matter which angle I swim the current pushes me away from land.

For a moment I float, conserving my energy, wracking my brain for a way out of this predicament. Now I know how a fly trapped inside a pitcher plant feels, struggling in vain to escape a watery death. After Isla Fin de la Tierra the next land mass is Africa on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. I might be able to stay afloat for a few more hours, but eventually I will weaken to a point where I will not be able to keep my head above water. Casting about, I see a black lump on the horizon. Goat Island! It is my only chance. On my current trajectory, I will miss the little rocky isle. Changing course, I take a deep breath, flip over, and swim towards my last hope for survival. Swimming diagonally, I must reach Goat Island before the current sweeps me past it. Hand over hand, feet kicking, I swim for salvation.

Despite my burning muscles and the fatigue that weighs on me, the dread certainty that my determination is the only thing keeping me alive propels me onward. Something brushes against my leg and my blood turns to ice. A moment later something else brushes against me, and this time I feel as though razors sliced my torso. Is it a barracuda? I cannot see a damn thing. How bad am I cut? I touch my skin and cannot find a cut, but the pain remains. It feels like someone worked me over with a box cutter. I hold up my hand to check how badly I am bleeding, but it is too dark to tell.