Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

She shook her head again.

Derek checked the cylinder of the revolver and handed it to Summer. “Revolvers are easier for your first time.” Derek showed her how to grip the gun. “You have four shots left. Line up the front and back sights and squeeze the trigger.” Derek showed her how to line up the sights. “Don’t point it at me or yourself.”

Summer looked at the revolver in her hand like it was an alien object.

“What are we doing?” Javier asked.

“I’m gonna shoot those guys and take their rifles,” Derek said. “Hopefully, you two will back me up.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know.”

“We need a plan.”

“I’m all ears.”

“We could take the canoes and get outta here,” Javier said.

“We can’t leave everyone,” Summer said, whispering. “We have to go in.”

“But we need a plan,” Javier hissed in response.

“They won’t be expecting anyone,” Derek said. “It’s an ambush. That’s our plan.”

They crept through the open back entrance, Derek in front, Summer next, and Javier bringing up the rear, a knife in hand. A few candles flickered up ahead. Men clustered around the submarine.

“You’ll never get off the island.” Fred’s voice was low and gravelly.

“I thought you were the mechanic,” a man replied.

Summer recognized the voice from their initial beach landing. The same man they’d stolen food from. Wade Wallace.

“I’m not fixin’ shit for you,” Fred said.

There was a thud , and Fred groaned.

Derek crept forward, inching closer to the light. As they moved closer, they saw the scene more clearly. Fred was held at gunpoint. Willow lay on the stone floor, motionless, blood flowing from a head wound. Her arm was outstretched, reaching for her motionless baby, only inches from her grasp. Roger lay on his side, holding his stomach, blood covering his hands. Summer counted five Aryans.

Despite being outmanned, Summer and Derek had the advantage of surprise and the added advantage of darkness. They could clearly see the Aryans, but the Aryans couldn’t see them. Also, the Aryans stood, but Fred and Roger were on the ground, which lessened the chance of a friendly fire accident.

Derek stopped about twenty yards from the men. He moved to his stomach, his handgun held out front. He motioned for Summer and Javier to do the same. Summer lay on her stomach, next to Derek. Javier was behind them.

Derek whispered in Summer’s ear, “Start with the guy on the right, then make your way to the middle. I’ll start with the guy on the left. Go for the heart. Line up the sights, use the floor to steady the gun. You shoot when you’re ready.”

Her hands were shaky. Summer used the stone floor to steady the revolver as Derek had instructed. She tilted the gun upward, just a little, lining up the sights. She squeezed the trigger, the pop causing her to flinch. Derek fired immediately afterward. The Aryans fired a few wild shots into the darkness, but the bullets were well over their heads. Derek and Summer kept firing until they were out of ammunition. Summer wasn’t sure if she’d hit or missed, but three men lay on the ground motionless, and two others cried out in pain.

Derek stood and crept from the shadows, holding his knife. Summer and Javier followed him, their knives also in hand. Summer was startled by the carnage. Two men were killed with headshots, one shot between the eyes, the other had a hole in his neck, both lay in expanding pools of their own blood. The third lay on his side, his shirt drenched in blood. This was the man Summer had shot. She’d aimed for his chest and had shot him in cold blood. Summer felt sick.

Fred lay in the fetal position, but he didn’t look to be hurt. Roger was still on his side, holding his gut, his breathing shallow. One of the injured Aryan men was Wade Wallace. Derek marched directly toward him and stabbed him in the chest. Summer and Javier stood, frozen and horrified by Derek’s brutality.

They didn’t see the other Aryan man who was wounded but still alive. Another gunshot rang out, and Javier slumped to the floor. Fred was immediately on the Aryan, beating him with his bound hands like a single club.

Summer ran to Javier. She removed his shirt, cutting it with her knife, revealing a small hole in his chest but a bigger exit hole, similar to Gavin’s wound. She took Javier’s shirt and pressed it to the exit wound. “Hold on, Javier. Hold on.”

Derek was with Roger, kneeling, holding a shirt to Roger’s stomach. He’d copied Summer’s attempt to stop Javier’s bleeding.

Roger sounded delirious. “Go to … Panama. Steven … Parker.”

Fred stopped pounding the now-dead Aryan. His hands and face were bloody from the spatter. He went to his child and scooped his lifeless body from the floor. Fred sat with his dead wife, rocking his baby, tears streaking through the blood on his face.

Summer tried. Derek tried. But there was no OR to fix them. No EMTs or ambulances. No transfusions or modern medicine. Javier was gone in minutes.

“He’s gone,” Summer said quietly. She let go of Javier.

Derek turned to Fred—still holding Roger’s stomach wound—and asked, “Are there any more threats?”

Fred shook his head and said, “Everybody’s dead.”

“What happened?”

“They attacked a few hours ago. We fought ’em off, killed at least two hundred men. Almost got ’em all.” Fred exhaled heavily. “But we ran out of ammunition. We tried to fight ’em with knives, but they just cut us down.” Fred’s voice quivered; his eyes were glassy. “They killed everybody.”

Summer went to Derek and Roger. She checked Roger’s pulse. “He’s gone.”

Derek removed his bloody hands from Roger’s body. He stood and walked a few feet away, his back to Summer and Fred. His head hung for a minute. His upper body trembled, but he didn’t make a sound.

Fred placed his dead son in Willow’s arms. He staggered to his feet. Summer hugged the man, or maybe it was the other way around. After a moment, they disengaged, their eyes red and puffy.

Derek wiped his face, turned around, and approached Summer and Fred.

Summer said, “We need to check for survivors. You never know.”

Summer, Derek, and Fred walked through the fort, through the war zone, poking dead Aryans with the barrel of their rifles, making sure they were dead, also checking their fallen comrades for nonexistent pulses. Two-year-old Joy had died in the arms of one of the men.

He had been shot multiple times in the back, one of them going through and through and killing their little girl, the child raised and loved by the group. Upon seeing the lifeless little body, Summer sank to her knees and sobbed. Fred was right. Everyone was dead.

Derek and Fred stood over Summer, silent, heads bowed. Once Summer stopped crying, Fred helped her to her feet.

“You two should leave,” Fred said, glancing from Summer to Derek. “They’ll be back.”

Derek cleared his throat. “Roger said somethin’ about Panama and Steven Parker.”

“That’s where he was gonna take the video footage.” Fred shook his head, his face twisted in disgust. “That’s not gonna happen now. All this for fuckin’ nothin’.”

“We have the batteries,” Derek said.

Fred snapped to attention. “Then we have to do it now. We’re runnin’ outta time. The naval blockade’ll be back soon.”

They hurried back to the submarine. The sub was heavy, even without the pontoons attached or the batteries adding extra weight. The three of them struggled and heaved and cursed but they managed to carry the submarine to the water’s edge. The rain stopped. The first rays of sun provided dim light through the dark clouds.