“Eric, my boy!” Doyle laughed. “I thought you’d survive. I could see it in you, you understand. You weren’t just some bloody native. No sir! You had good sturdy bones. Tough, you know. Right to your bones. A good Englishman, I could tell.” He limped forward. In his right hand was his samurai sword, its once glistening blade, dark with filth. “It’s like Churchill once said, my boy. If you’re going through hell, keep going!” Doyle lifted up the sword and gave it a little flourish in the air. “You and I,” he said, leveling the sword at Eric. “You and I. Through all those bloody savages! Imagine that, will you? Cut a bloody swathe right through them, didn’t we, boy?”
“Yes,” said Eric. He pushed Lucia away from him, hoping she would go to Birdie and get her away from him. When she moved, however, Doyle flashed his dark eyes over her.
“What’d you bring her for?” he asked, his accent dropping. “Fucking savage. You’re not thinking of ruining the island for us, are you, Eric?” He lumbered forward again, his sword pointed at him. “You thinking of bringing this fucking spick slut to the island? You going to raise a goddamn family of half spick mongrels on our island!” A white worm wriggled out of the corner of his mouth and stuck there, its little head tasting the outside.
“Calm down, Doyle,” Eric said.
“Remember,” Doyle said, picking up his accent again. “Remember, this island is our new beginning. It’s time to get everything right. A new order. From the island, it all begins. This time we do it right, Eric. There’s no room for savages. This time we won’t try to save them. There will be no burden, not any longer. It’s just us, my boy. You understand, right?” Doyle’s sword wavered and then dipped down. His bloody eyes pleaded with him. “You understand it can’t happen again, right? It’s got to be the last time. It has to be.” His voice was small and pathetic. Then he drew in a great breath, groaned, and stood upright, straight, tall and thick as a bear. “We must have order,” he stated forcefully. His eyes focused on Lucia, who was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.
Just then Birdie came out of the tent. She had the shotgun in her hands.
“You leave us alone,” she said, her voice low and ominous. The shotgun looked like a cannon in her hands. Her tiny finger was on the trigger.
Doyle turned to her. His face contorted with hatred and rage. Raising his sword, he yelled, “Traitor!”
Birdie shot. The gun flew out of her hand, and she fell to the ground.
Doyle hardly moved, but he was hit in the side. Doyle’s face burned with fury. “Traitor!” he boomed again, and lunged forward.
Eric dove toward him and hit his side. Both of them fell to the ground. Eric felt sick from the smell of him as he struggled to get the sword from his hand. Grasping with both his hands at Doyle’s meaty fist, he still couldn’t loosen his grip on the deadly sword. Doyle’s strength was unstoppable. Doyle reached back his other hand and clubbed him once on the shoulder. Pain rushed through him, but Eric clung to the sword hand. If he let go, Doyle would cut them all down. Doyle picked up his fist to hit him again, when he saw Lucia grab it with both hands. For a moment, he seemed subdued, with Lucia on one hand and Eric on the other.
But he was far too strong. He jerked up to a sitting position, and then, with a cry of anger, he pulled Lucia forward with violence, sending her flying through the air. Watching her hit the ground, Eric felt wild with rage. With all his strength, he punched Doyle in the face with his left hand. Eric felt bone crack and flesh tear. But Doyle did not seem to be hurt. Instead his own left hand crashed down into Eric’s chest, and, helplessly, Eric let go of Doyle’s sword arm to clutch at his chest for breath.
Doyle pushed himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch. It bent under his weight, and, once he stood again, to his full height, he now flourished a sword shaped like a capital C.
Regaining his breath, Eric pounced to his feet and then moved to stand between Doyle and Birdie. Doyle lunged forward with a gurgling call, swinging his bent sword. Eric stepped back, away from the sword, and then he dove again at Doyle.
This time Doyle’s bulk held steady. Eric felt great arms lift him from his feet. Doyle had dropped the sword, and was now crushing him in a terrible embrace. His strength was massive and horrifying. Eric cried out in pain as Doyle’s grip ripped open his back again. He nearly blacked out, but he struggled back to the light, feeling sick and weak. If he lost consciousness, he would either never wake again or he would awake to find both Lucia and Birdie killed. He fought to keep the darkness from consuming him. It was like drowning in an immense inky water, in which he thrashed to keep from the darkness.
He heard a splashing sound and realized that Doyle had carried him into the lake. Suddenly his body was lifted and shoved brutally under the water. Eric saw only one glimpse of Doyle’s dark face before it dissolved into water and waves. Eric held his breath. He could feel Doyle’s iron grip now around his neck.
In a panic, he kicked out with his legs. He kicked at Doyle’s bad leg. He thrashed in the water like a fish. But Doyle was as immovable as rock. There was the pain in his chest and the swelling in his head. The soundless darkness approaching. And the final thought: I was right, I’m going to die in the lake without ever setting foot on the island.
Then the light came to him.
Eric gasped for breath at the shore of the lake. Doyle had let him go. Air pushed in his lungs and his eyes focused away from the darkness.
Doyle stood in the water up to his thighs, looking toward the island. His hands were in the air.
“So much water!” he called as if he had never noticed it before. “I never saw it so beautiful before.” He staggered forward into the lake.
Watching Doyle, Eric suddenly heard the click of a gun. He turned to see Lucia standing near him, at the shore, with the shotgun pointed toward Doyle. Eric shot to his feet and pulled the gun up toward the sky. Lucia looked at him with fury in her eyes.
“Look at him,” he told her. “It’s over.”
Doyle waded further in the water. “The island,” he said. “The island.”
“We should shoot him just to be safe,” Lucia said.
Eric shook his head. “We shouldn’t shoot anyone,” he said. They watched as Doyle began swimming in great, flapping strokes toward the island. The strokes began to slap at the water. Then they came less often until they stopped altogether. Doyle floated face down in the water. Eric looked down as Birdie joined them.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you kill him, Eric?”
“No,” he said. “The Vaca B killed him.”
They were silent for a few moments, watching Doyle’s body float in the lake.
Finally Lucia said, “Let’s get him out. He’s polluting our water.”
They burned Carl Doyle that night on the shore of the lake. After covering his body with pine boughs and wood, they lit the fire and then stood back. Lucia and Birdie didn’t stay long, but went to make dinner.
Eric stayed. He listened to the fire roar as it consumed him. Eric himself was consumed by the thought, who was this man? Where had he come from? He remembered that first night they had spent with him. He had been strange but not bad. How much of what happened was Carl Doyle and how much of it was the Vaca B? Eric didn’t know how to feel about the man who now burned before him. He was relieved. He was a little sad.