de Salle places his hands on his hips. “Not for you. There’s only enough for me and my crew.”
The fifteen guests lined up for the rowboat that will take them to the anchored ship all get the same idea at once and head towards the restaurant supply room.
Conner leaps ahead of them and blocks their path. “You’re not taking our food.”
The fifteen guests suddenly halt.
“It’s our food, too!” One of them argues.
Conner clenches his fist, making it clear he has no qualms about beating any of them senseless. “It’s not your food anymore. It belongs to the people of the resort. Sail away if you want to, but the food stays.”
The elderly guests hurl curses at him, but none dare try to push him aside. The rest of the guests, those remaining behind, say nothing and do not intervene. It is wrong to send these elderly people off without so much as a drop of water, but some selfish part of me—a part focused only on my self-preservation—sides with Conner. It shames me, but I must admit that I want to keep as much of the supplies here with us as possible.
Trying to keep the peace, Jonas approaches Conner, but Conner shrugs him off.
“I don’t give a shit,” Conner growls to Jonas. “They bought their ticket out of this; we’re left behind. The food remains with us.”
de Salle makes no effort to intervene. Even if he could influence the situation, I am not sure he is inclined to. He has the jewels. That is all he cares for. Don lurches to the front of the group, waving his cane with the intention of splitting Conner’s skull, but his movements are so feeble and sluggish that he stands no chance. Amy pleads with Don to stop.
Evelyn’s husband pipes up, his voice shrill and indignant, “Give us our supplies, otherwise we won’t send any help for you when we reach Barbados.”
Conner smirks. “If you’re lucky enough to reach Barbados the captain will send for help.”
“No I won’t,” de Salle grunts, and turns to the rest of us. “Begging your pardon, but give them their supplies or no one will hear of you.”
So, the captain has a shred of decency after all.
Conner scowls. “Two bottles of soda and a box of crackers. If you ration it out it can last for two days.”
Some of those bound for Barbados begin to argue, but de Salle nods his head, accepting Conner’s terms. Robby fetches the soda and crackers for the departing guests.
Don and Amy do not look back as de Salle’s men row them to the sailboat. They raise anchor and from the bow of the ship the captain bids us goodbye by doffing his ludicrous hat.
Twilight. Holding back the curtains in the sliding glass door in the empty bungalow next to mine, I step aside to allow Dellas to enter. The bungalow belonged to a grey haired restaurateur from Pittsburgh and his trophy girlfriend. They were among the first aboard Captain de Salle’s boat. In their haste to depart, they left the bungalow in horrible disarray. Food encrusted plates and soiled laundry clutter the place. It does not matter. Dellas is obviously relieved to have a roof over her head and food for her daughter.
Rhodesia clutches Dellas’s hand and looks about the room, uncertain what to make of this new home.
“Now we’re neighbors,” I say, and then joke, “And if you need anything, a cup of sugar, milk, tea—whatever, just knock on my door. You want me to help you tidy up this place?”
She places her daughter on the rumpled bed. “No, but tank you. Dis place will do very well.”
As I leave, I glimpse Alexandra standing on the beach facing the sea. She wears a long silk dress that billows behind her in the wind. Foaming waves lap around her bare feet. Both hands clasp at her chest, much like a body in a coffin.
“Alexandra,” I call to her but she stares at the horizon so intently that she does not hear me.
I stand next to her. “Hey, Alexandra.”
She turns to me and it is clear from the vacant look in her eyes that she has no idea who I am.
“Why didn’t they take me?” her voice is so soft I strain to hear.
Now I understand why she stares at the horizon; she fixates on the spot where de Salle’s ship disappeared from view.
“Never mind Barbados. Wouldn’t you rather stay here with Conner?” I try to coax her back to reality.
Staring at the sea again, she ignores my question and says, “Why didn’t anybody ask me if I wanted to go? My jewelry is just as good as theirs. Look, see.”
She opens her hands to reveal several common seashells. “Aren’t they beautiful?”
I do not know what to say, but she smiles at me, awaiting my answer.
“Yes… yes, they’re lovely,” I say.
She beams with triumph. “See, then I could have been on that boat, too. I don’t like it here anymore. I want to go home.”
I nod. “We all do.”
She sighs. “I’m tired now.”
Without another word, she turns from me and treads through the sand back to the open backdoor of her bungalow. Conner leans against the doorframe, watching us. When Alexandra reaches him, he turns into the darkened room, gone from view, and Alexandra follows him.
Chapter Fourteen
Banging pots and shouts of alarm snap me out of my slumber. I sit up in bed, naked, and fumble for my shorts. Torchlight glides past my window as people run past my bungalow. Outside, I find Nelson running towards the lagoon. Curtis, heavily winded and looking about ready to faint, tromps behind him.
“They’re attacking!” Nelson explains to me, though I need no explanation.
Across the lagoon comes a cacophony of hooping and yowling, like a pack of ravenous hyenas, but the sounds come not from animals but from men. It can only be Action and the other marauders. Near the lagoon, Robby clangs pots together to alert everyone.
“A couple of them tried to sneak across where the bridge is burnt out,” he breathlessly tells me. “The moment I sounded the alarm all the rest of them showed up. There’s got to be fifty of them.”
At least fifty torches bob amongst the shrubbery on the far side of the lagoon. There are so many torches that the cliff wall at the back of the resort glows orange. If the thugs intend their cacophony of animal sounds to intimidate us, they succeeded spectacularly. My rubbery legs threaten to buckle beneath me. Wild-eyed old women dressed in flimsy nightgowns, their hair matted and gnarled, run in circles, waiting for someone, anyone, to tell them what to do.
“Phillip!” Gwen rushes towards me with an armful of Molotov cocktails. “They’re trying to cross at the bridge. We’ve got to stop them.”
I grab more bottles of gasoline from the stack and catch up with Gwen.
We are badly outnumbered. Unlike the resort defenders, all of the marauders are young and strong. We stand no chance in open combat with them. If the marauders cross the lagoon, it will be a massacre.
More than halfway across the lagoon, Conner stands at the end of the bridge. Wielding an axe, with his head high, Conner acts as a lightning rod, drawing the murderous mob to him. Rather than disperse and try to cross the lagoon from several different points, thereby making it hard for us to prevent them all from getting across, the mob converges at the tip of the burnt out bridge. They mass together, torches held aloft to form a giant, incandescent dagger pointed at the resort.
“Hide the bottles,” I say to Gwen as we place them behind Conner. “I don’t want them to expect this.”
Robby and all the younger guests join us brandishing our self-made weapons. We use our bodies to shield the cluster of unlit Molotov cocktails from view. Roughly twenty-five feet of water separate us from the mob. Many in the mob wield machetes taken from the papaya and pineapple farms; others wield pitchforks, small knives, and even crowbars. Packing onto the stub of bridge that remains on their side of the lagoon, they cluster to the charred, crumbling edge of their bridge, but they do not attack. They hoot and holler—an ungodly chorus, howls of the damned—but they come no closer.