Phil Williams - 2050 - Psycho Island

Summer held the wheel steady, watching the compass. Sunlight filtered through the ocean above her. She was near the surface, only four feet down, the flat-black pontoons keeping her from sinking to the bottom. Fish swam in schools, darting this way and that, as if they were controlled by the same brain.

She’d started going west for just a minute to put some distance between her and the Netas on the beach. Then she went north, exiting the bay. Once safely in the ocean, she turned the submarine east. She’d be on this heading for nine hours, then she was supposed to turn south for another forty-five minutes. Then she’d arrive on a beach in the Virgin Islands, about seventy miles away. Hopefully . She knew the coordinates and the times weren’t perfect. She also knew there was a possibility that she wouldn’t have enough juice to make it to the Virgin Islands. What if the batteries weren’t fully charged? We didn’t test them. The UTV was plugged in. But that doesn’t mean it was fully charged.

Summer vacillated between giddy excitement and nervous terror. She daydreamed about holding Byron again and seeing her father. She also knew she wasn’t out of the woods yet. Summer worried about the naval blockade. What if they made it back before she passed? They’d sink her for sure. She had visions of drowning and suffocating in the cramped submarine. Summer began to hyperventilate. She put her face to the air intake. Fresh sea air came from the snorkel. Relax. It’s all in your head. Think of something else.

Her mind drifted to the dead. Freddie Jr. and Joy. Just children . Javier and Gavin. Roger and Willow. Connor . Her eyes were glassy as she thought of her fiancé. They’d had that brief reunion on the beach, and that was it. The Aryans had taken him, and Derek had killed him in the arena. She hated Derek for killing Connor, but she didn’t want Derek to die either. As much as she wanted to believe Derek was a monster, like the rest of them, deep down, she knew he wasn’t. But he’s probably dead now, and so is Fred.

She forced herself again to think about something else. She glanced at the watertight box. Summer thought about the video. Roger thought, if the world saw the video, they’d close the island prisons. She wasn’t sure if that was true, but she’d try. She had to get to Panama. The Darién Province. She had to find Steven Parker Jr. and Silver City.

Roger thought Dad went there.

Naomi followed her husband down the stairs. “Alan, wait.”

But he didn’t wait. He slammed the front door in Naomi’s face and hurried to their car.

Naomi opened the door and called out again. “Alan, would you please wait?”

Their Toyota was parked along the street, directly in front of their Georgetown townhouse, only ten paces from her front door to the car.

Alan climbed into the car and slammed that door as well.

Naomi had never seen him so angry. She took three quick steps toward the car, and it exploded, blasting Naomi backward, her body slamming against the front door. Naomi lay on the ground, groaning, her face and chest burning, her ears ringing.

Up and down the block, car alarms blared with the force of the blast.

By the time Derek reached the islet, he collapsed on the beach, coughing and spitting sea water, his arms and shoulders burning from the swim. His T-shirt and pants stuck to his skin. Derek had asked Gavin about the islet once. It was visible from the fort. Gavin had said it was uninhabited.

Before the hurricanes, it was a public park. After the hurricanes, the only bridge connecting the islet to the mainland was destroyed, and, with the constant flooding, the place was of little use to anyone. Even now, after the minor hurricane, two-thirds of the islet was covered in seawater.

Derek staggered away from the beach, into a grove of coconut trees, worried that he was visible to the Netas. He hid behind a tree and peered across the bay to the fort. Netas in army uniforms patrolled the beach and the fort walls, but it didn’t look like anyone was coming for him.

He was thirsty. Thankfully, he still had the knife and scabbard attached to his belt. He found a few decent coconuts, cut them open, drank the milk, and ate some of the meat. After his fill of coconuts, he explored the island. He found the remnants of playground equipment and gazebos standing in two feet of seawater. He found old stone buildings and a small fort, like a miniversion of the one across the bay. The jungle snaked in and around what was left of mankind. His most important find was a massive mango tree. He ate ripe mangos until he was full, then returned to the coconut grove.

Derek peered out from behind a coconut tree, checking the Netas again. More men had arrived at the fort, but they still didn’t appear to be looking for him. After eating, he felt exhausted. Derek removed his wet boots and socks, took a few steps onto the beach, and set his wet footwear in the sun, behind a piece of driftwood. He went back to the coconut grove and lay in the sand.

He felt a stiff pang of guilt. This is my fault. I brought the Aryans and the Netas to the fort. Tears welled up and slipped down his face. He drifted off to a fitful sleep.

Derek dreamed of the dead. Fred and Willow. Roger. Gavin and Javier. Summer’s fiancé. The dead everywhere. Butchered with bullets and machetes. They came to him in his dreams and asked him why. Why were they dead? Why was he still alive?

Rebecca had been distraught when she’d seen Derek slumped against a pile of concrete, his intestines in his lap. She’d spent much of the day in bed. She wanted to be alone.

Of course, it wasn’t actually Derek, but what difference did it make? Derek was dead; Jacob was sure of that. He just couldn’t prove it, and, if he couldn’t prove it, Rebecca would always wonder, and Jacob would have to live in Derek’s shadow forever. This was better for Jacob and Rebecca. Now they could move on.

For security purposes, Cesar’s men communicated with their home base in Venezuela via a sophisticated ham radio. They had a strict communication schedule that changed daily. Cesar promised to relay a message to their home base, to contact the ship Jacob had hired to return to the Virgin Islands to retrieve Jacob, Rebecca, and the mercenaries. Their trip was over.

Jacob sat in the break room with Rob and Billy. They ate MREs, spaghetti and meatballs, the conversation sparse. Jacob never felt comfortable with manly men, preferring the cerebral to the brawny.

Rebecca stuck her head into the break room. Her eyes were puffy, and the tip of her nose was red. “I’d like to go to the beach,” she said to Rob.

Rob stood from his chair. “You ready now?”

She nodded.

“You want some company?” Jacob asked.

Rebecca lifted one shoulder. “It’s up to you.” She turned on her sneakers and headed for the exit.

Rob grabbed his rifle and hurried after her.

Jacob sat quiet for a moment, the only sound was Billy smacking his lips as he ate. Jacob stood from his chair. “I guess I should check on her.”

Billy stood and said, “You’re the boss.”

Billy escorted Jacob to the beach, his rifle pointed down. The narrow pathway had been littered with downed trees. They found Rob on one knee, scanning the beach with his scope, Rebecca twenty feet away, sitting on the sand, watching the two-foot waves. The storm had cleared, the sun making an appearance. Palm leaves, seaweed, and driftwood littered the beach.