Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

“Where are the other two Aryans?”

“We shot ’em outside.”

The Aryan’s body inside the fort jerked and seized, going through the death throes.

Derek returned to the makeshift hospital. He approached the scene, careful to stay out of the way. Gavin provided compression.

Summer checked his pulse and said, “He’s gone.”

Derek looked at the dead men on the tables and the pool of blood beneath them. He didn’t know which one was Luther and which one was Ollie.

Derek squinted into the darkness and the rain, his rifle poking through a gun port. The group was now on high alert, with all able bodies manning the walls and the entrances. Nobody said it, but Derek had felt the hard stares. After all, it had been Derek’s idea to steal from the Aryans.

“Are you awake?” Rebecca asked.

Jacob opened his eyes. “How could I not be?”

The rain peppered the front of the bunker complex. Jacob and Rebecca’s room was along the front, so they heard the pounding rain. The roof was earth-sheltered though and protected from the weather. The rain had started that evening. Cesar had said it was a hurricane but probably only a category two.

Rebecca rolled toward Jacob, putting her arm across his chest. The bed was a queen. It felt very small compared to their king at home. She kissed him on the cheek and said, “Thank you. Most men wouldn’t do this. I love you.”

Jacob kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

“Do you think they’ll find him?”

“I don’t know, but I need you to promise me something.”

Rebecca lifted her head from his chest.

“If he’s gone, you have to let him go. We have three children who need us. We have to move on with our life … for them.”

Rebecca nodded. “I know.”

Most of the group was in the common area. The heavy rain from the night before had intensified into a hurricane. It was no longer safe for men to patrol the walls. A few guarded the entrances from the inside, but they doubted the Aryans were coming back in this weather.

The tables and chairs had been arranged in a horseshoe pattern for the meeting. There’d been talk of leaving San Juan and going to the jungle as soon as the storm passed. Many group members thought the Aryans would be back with hundreds of men, if not thousands.

Roger stood front and center. “I think the Aryans who attacked us were scouts. I think they saw an opportunity to steal from us, maybe kidnap a woman, but they didn’t realize that we’re heavily armed. The Aryans might come back. They might not.”

Gavin raised his hand.

“Go ahead, Gavin.”

Gavin stood and said, “This is the second time we’ve been attacked by the Aryans in less than a week. I think they followed us from the fort when they took Eliza. They saw us in our canoes when we stole the MREs. We’re being targeted. It’s just a matter of time before they show up here with more men than we can handle. I think we should go to the jungle as soon as the storm passes.”

There were murmurings among the group and anxious faces.

Roger held up his palms. “Hold on, everyone. We can’t let our emotions make our decisions for us.”

The group quieted.

Roger continued. “First of all, living in the jungle isn’t necessarily safer than this fort. We have forty-foot walls with rifles and gun ports, and the ocean and the bay protecting us. We have cisterns full of fresh water. Other groups are hunting and gathering food in the jungle. If we encroach on their territory, we’ll have conflict with people who know the jungle better than we do. More important, we have to remember the big picture. If we ever want to leave this island, we have to launch the submarine. If we can launch the sub, I’ll make the world see the truth about this place.”

About half of the group agreed with head nods, the other half glaring at their leader, not buying what Roger was selling.

“The US government will be forced to investigate. They’ll be forced to rescue us.” Roger looked at Fred and asked, “How soon can we launch the sub?”

“We have maybe one more day’s worth of work. Then, once we get the batteries, we can launch,” Fred said.

“But we don’t have the batteries,” a man said, his arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah,” another man said, agreeing.

Roger held up his hands. “As soon as the hurricane blows over, we’ll find the batteries. Hang in there for just a few more days.”

After the meeting, Roger met with the scavenger crew in private. They stood in a makeshift bedroom, the heavy rain and wind muffling their voices.

“This has to stay between us. Do you understand?” Roger made eye contact with each of them: Summer, Gavin, Javier, and Derek.

Each of them nodded or said yes.

Derek still avoided Summer’s gaze, and Summer stood as far from him as possible.

Roger said, “I didn’t want to cause a panic, but you’re right, Gavin. As soon as the weather clears, the Aryans will be at our doorstep, and I don’t think we have the numbers or the ammunition to defend this place from a large organized group.”

“We have to leave,” Gavin said.

“And abandon the sub?” Roger said, shaking his head. “If we don’t launch the sub, we’ll lose it. And we’ll lose whatever chance we have of ever leaving this island. We need those batteries now .”

“We all know who has the batteries,” Derek said.

“It’s a suicide mission,” Gavin said.

“That’s what you said about the MREs.”

Gavin shot Derek a look that could kill. “And now we’re all gonna fucking die because of it.”

Derek didn’t respond.

“The Aryans were already watching us before we stole from them,” Roger said.

“As long as we’re on this island, we’re all on borrowed time,” Derek said. “I don’t know where the Netas are, but, if someone points me in the right direction, I’ll try to get those batteries.”

“I will too,” Javier said.

Summer looked at Javier, then back to Roger. “What other choice do we have? I’m in.”

Gavin blew out a breath in disgust. “ Shit . None of you are going anywhere without me because you don’t know how to get there.”

Naomi sat in her home office on Saturday night, watching the weather on her laptop. She liked to stay updated on world weather events. It helped when debating climate-change legislation. Another hurricane in the Caribbean. Only a cat two, but it would bring heavy rain to the Gulf Coast in a few days. Her cell phone buzzed. She smiled at the number and swiped right.

“Hey you,” she said, her voice sultry.

“Hey yourself,” Vernon replied.

“Missing me?”

“Always.” Vernon paused for a beat. “I just sent you an email.”

“Give me a minute.” Naomi put Vernon on speaker and checked her email, finding Vernon’s had a link to a news article. The gist of the story was contained in the title, Man About Town Supports Naomi Sutton. The Man About Town, aka Gregory Gaines, was the most influential independent political vlogger in the United States and possibly the world. “This is unbelievable.”

“Donations have been through the roof since he endorsed you,” Vernon said. “This is huge.”

Naomi clicked the link and scanned the article. “Did he contact our campaign?”

“No. He endorsed you on his own, no strings attached. He sees what I see. A politician who actually cares about the people. We have a real shot at beating Corrinne. I’m so proud of you, Naomi.”