“Yeah, I’ll do my best,” Trey said. He rushed out the door with John. He grabbed his machete on his way.

  The night air felt cool. He could still hear the waves crashing against the beach. Pausing, he stopped and looked toward the sky. The proliferation of stars amazed Trey. After a second, his mind cleared, he redirected himself toward where he thought the source of that piercing shriek had come from.

  Treading carefully, senses on heightened alert, Trey advanced around the backside of the house. He heard a dog barking somewhere. Had he known there were dogs? Trey pushed the thought aside. Pausing with his back against the cool tin side of the house, he slowly peeked around the corner.

  Though it was hard to see in the low light offered by the moon, Trey could just barely make out the silhouette of a feminine form, cowering on the ground by a shed, curled up in the fetal position. He could hear the woman crying softly.

  Glancing around, he slowly moved forward. Trey didn’t see anyone, or anything, else lurking about in the shadows. But, as he’d become acutely aware, that didn’t always mean nothing was there.

  He reached the woman. Bending down, he tapped her on the shoulder. She cried out. The poor soul began flailing her arms about blindly. Trey knelt down, digging one knee into the soft soil and put a finger to her lips, commanding her to remain silent. When she looked up at him with her vibrant green eyes, Trey felt instantly reminded of his wife, Melody. A powerful array of emotions washed over him, which he only barely managed to suppress.

  Pointing, Trey gestured for the woman to head inside the house. He didn’t ask her what she’d seen that had startled her. He figured he’d find out soon enough.

  Watching the woman as she hurried away, Trey tried to keep an ear out for any signs of imminent danger. Hearing nothing, he turned and began looking for the door to the small wooden building he was in front of. Assuming that this was the shed John had referenced, containing all of the weapons, he wanted to get inside.

  It turned out that he did so just in time.

  Suddenly, a group of around twelve people began rushing forward. They moved with a certain group cohesion that indicated a heightened level of operational integrity. These were mostly military people. Dressed in all black, with helmets and boots and ballistic kneepads, they carried long rifles similar to Trey’s purloined M16. One of the individual troops captured his attention, however, if only for a fleeting moment. There was something both feminine and familiar in their movements, their stride, that seemed in stark contrast to the bulkier, more machine-like marching of those around the person. Just enough of a difference, though almost imperceptible, that it stood out.

  Shaking his head, Trey remained where he was. He stood there, immobile, frozen by fear and shock, watching through the small crack in the partly open entryway. He gripped the small rusted metal handle from the inside, forcing himself not to shake. If that door happened to creak, it could signal the ominous forces gliding through the darkness.

  Trey wondered where they’d come from. How they’d managed to get here, laden as they were with heavy armor and military-style weaponry. The only thing that jumped into his mind was the armory.

  And that’s when it clicked. The person that he’d picked out of the menacing crowd. That one dissimilar individual that hadn’t fit.

  It was Melody.

  Panic ripped through him, spreading like a wildfire through a grassy box canyon in July.

  Flinging the door open before he even realized what he was doing, Trey looked around, swiveling his head frantically back and forth. He didn’t see a back door to the house. Looking upward, he noticed a faint jaundiced light emanating from a second-story bedroom. A white gutter led up toward the roof, passing within inches of the small opening.

  Trey didn’t think twice. He acted.

  Climbing up the slick plastic-like gutter pipe, Trey winced each time it shifted or creaked under his weight. He got a few feet up, however, before it actually fell.

  He groaned. Landing on his back, he felt a sudden, sharp pain pulse through his side. Trey wanted to cry. The area just above his butt seemed to be aflame. But he turned over onto one elbow and slowly pulled himself up, disregarding the extreme discomfort. He knew he needed to get into the house.

  The question was: how?

  Looking up at that faint yellow light, Trey felt his hope slipping away. His father was in that house. Sofia could return at any moment, only to be ambushed by armed militiamen. His only viable way off this island, even if John was a bit of a treacherous, double-dealing douchebag at times, also happened to call that structure home. He needed to get inside. And going around the front seemed out of the question.

  Briefly, he considered calling out for help. He could just ask someone to maybe throw a rope down or something. But then something caught his eye. Trey saw footprints. Following them with his eyes, he noticed that they led to… a small door, almost hidden from view, depressed as it was in the earth. He realized those were the lady’s footprints, the one he’d encountered just prior to the arrival of the menacing militia.

  Glancing toward the heavens, Trey couldn’t help but indulge the eerie feeling that maybe, just maybe someone or something in the celestial realm was watching over him, working tirelessly to protect him.

  Casting the superstition aside, he moved. It hurt to do so. His back and tailbone screamed with pain. Trey forced himself, however, to walk forward, albeit slightly hunched and holding a hand to his butt, groaning with each new step. The stench of the cellar attacked his nostrils as he neared the door. Trey paused. The stink was still so bad that it could overpower the stifling pain inflicted by his fall.

  Knowing he needed to go into that basement space at least one last time, Trey steeled himself. He took a deep breath. For a moment, he stood there, listening to the distant waves, feeling the soft caress of the breeze. Then he grabbed the damp metal handle, cringing at the viscous feel of whatever goopy substance had formed on the curved edge. He pulled open the door and stumbled down the tiny steps. Trey almost fell but caught himself at the last moment.

  The old woman was nowhere to be seen.

  Trey rushed forward toward the wooden steps that would lead him back into the interior of the home. Stopped just before he got to the landing, however, he remembered the freezer. Pinching his nose with his left thumb and index finger, Trey hobbled over to the machine and hastily extracted the last remaining bag of ice. Then he hurried upstairs.

  “What happened to you?” John asked, his eyes widening in surprise when confronted with the sudden appearance of Trey. The village leader stood in the small corridor, his body language tense. He smiled, but the gesture didn’t transfer to his facial expression. “Thanks for reminding me. I’ll have to lock that,” John said.

  John moved around Trey, sidestepping him, and fiddled with a small rusted silver metal lock. He clicked the mechanism into place and then sighed.

  “There are a bunch of…”

  “Guys with guns?” John asked, smiling with wry amusement. “Yes, Trey, we’ve heard.”

  “Well, I think one of them is my wife,” Trey said. The words sounded distant. He couldn’t quite believe he’d managed to utter them.

  “That sucks,” John said. He remained standing there, but his attention seemed scattered. The village leader glanced toward the front door. “Jake should be back by now,” he said.

  “I JUST TOLD YOU MY FUCKING WIFE MIGHT BE IN THAT MILITIA,” Trey said. He grabbed John by the shoulders, turning the man so that they were face-to-face.

  “What would you like me to do, Trey? You want to go out there and wave a white flag, tell these folks with guns there’s just a great big misunderstanding?” John asked.

  “Whatever happened with the light?” Trey asked, his frown tight. He needed to calm down. To think. Nobody’s interests were served by him engaging in impulsive outbursts. “And do you have any… ibuprofen?” he asked.

  “I have a remote thingy,” John said, holding up a bulky cream-colored device. It was rectangular in shape and only had a few gray buttons on it. “It’s directed toward the front of the house,” he said.

  “Ibuprofen?” Trey asked, his patience wearing thin. He needed something to help with the pain, or else he wasn’t going to be nearly as effective in combat. He leaned against his machete for a second, trying to ease some of the pressure on his lower back.

  “Go upstairs. My wife should be in her bedroom, getting herself and Cindy prepared. They have a first aid kit. There should be some sort of analgesic in there,” John said. “By the way, you never mentioned what happened.”

  “I tried to climb a fucking gutter, John. I’d hit that light right about now, if I were you,” Trey said. He hobbled away without bothering to wait for a response. If he spent any more time around John right then, he’d flip out.

  One shouldn’t flip out with a machete in their hand.

  Grabbing the wooden rail, Trey slowly made his way up the short flight of stairs. When he got to the top, he paused, nearly out of breath. He hated this. The familiar, nagging sense of helplessness and dread filled him. But he pushed it aside. The only thing that mattered now was results. If he was going to die, at least he’d take a bunch of the enemy with him as he exited stage left.

  Assuming that the room containing the wife and daughter duo was the one with the light on, Trey moved toward it. He almost laughed at the irony. Here he was, about to go into the room he’d tried to climb into not long ago. If only he’d seen those footprints sooner, he wouldn’t have fallen. And, thus, wouldn’t have needed to go visit with Cindy.

  Knocking on the door, Trey pushed his ear against the surface. He heard voices inside. Pulling back only at the last minute, he smiled when it opened. “Hi, John sent me to get the first aid kit,” he said, waving one hand awkwardly.

  The wife offered him a silent, accusing glare. She stood there for a long second, open hostility emanating from every pore. She clearly hadn’t forgotten how Trey had humiliated her husband not long ago. Finally, after the quiet had stretched itself long enough, the woman nodded. “Stay there,” she directed him. Then she moved into the interior of the capacious bedroom, slamming the door shut in Trey’s face as she left.

  “Wow,” Trey said. He widened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.

  The stout woman returned after a short hiatus, shoving a small red metal box with a white cross atop it into Trey’s hands. She didn’t stop to say anything once the package had been delivered, preferring to once again slam the door.

  This time, Trey managed to anticipate the move, taking a step back so that he didn’t nearly get hit in the nose with the closing door. He smiled, shaking his head. Opening the kit as he descended the stairs, Trey found several small individual packets of ibuprofen and aspirin right on top of the stack. There were also little rolls of gauze, some plastic containers of antibiotic gel, and some more site-specific items like water purifying tabs and the like.

  “Nice wife you have there,” Trey said, encountering John at the bottom of the stairs.

  The village elder only laughed in response.

  Suddenly, they both darted their heads toward a frantic slamming against the cellar door. Whoever was there was slamming against it so hard, it rattled the frame and jangled the small lock. John and Trey carefully walked toward it, the village leader holding a bat at the ready. They shared a look. Each nodded in unison. Bending forward, John unlocked the door, stepping back immediately.

  “What the hell,” Jake said, rushing forward, three young men following immediately in his wake.

  “Where’s everyone else?” John asked, ignoring the anger exhibited by the boys. One held a bow, with a quiver of arrows peeping up above his bare shoulders. The other two held melee weapons, a bat and another machete.

  “They’re in the other house, dad. Why bring them all here, to be in one place?” Jake asked. Then he smiled. “The girls wouldn’t shut up and do anything I said, anyway. It was just easier to let them hide over there,” he said.

  “Okay, well…”

  “STACK UP.”

  Everyone turned their attention toward the front door. The bold, stentorian command had come from just outside the house. The militia was about to breach the door.

  They were about to attack.

  Chapter 8

  Trey grabbed the gasoline.

  He was about to start a fire.

  Blindly ignoring the fact that his wife very well could be, probably was, in that crowd waiting for the order to barge in with malicious intent, Trey bent over, pouring a line of gas from the plastic container onto the ground in front of the door. He backed all the way up to the edge of the living room.

  The intense pain in his back ripped through his body, threatening to sidetrack him. Trey willed himself to ignore it. He needed to focus. Everyone in this humble little island home depended on him being able to keep tight control over his faculties right then. To feel pain in that moment would mean a sure death sentence.

  And there was no clemency of Sapphira Island. There would be no last-minute phone calls offering pardons.

  Looking at Harry, sleeping soundly, his soft snores offering a stark contrast to the agitated state of the humans milling about around him, Trey felt conflicted. “Get him to the basement,” he said. Within seconds, two of the boys who’d accompanied Jake rushed over, gently lifting him and carrying him downstairs.

  “How the hell did you safely jump out of that window upstairs?” Trey asked, directing his attention toward the village leader’s son. He wasn’t asking out of mere curiosity; Trey was beginning to form a plan. In its incipient, rudimentary stages, the strategy seemed crude and untenable. But he thought it could work if Jake provided the right information.

  “I just jumped,” Jake said, shrugging.

  “Okay, well, do we have any sturdy rope or anything in the house?” Trey asked. He was kind of improvising, making his new plan up as he went along. “We need to go upstairs. Because once I light this off, it’s going to smoke up this area, and light up most of the stuff in its path,” he said. “Including people,” Trey felt it necessary to clarify that point. “We can use the bowman to shoot a few of the stragglers, then we can retreat through the second floor,” he said. He glanced toward the door, wondering what the armed folks were doing on the other side of it. “Not everyone is as… agile as you, though, Jake. So, we need some way to get us old folks out the window safely,” he said.

  “One thing’s for sure. We can’t go that way,” Trey said, nodding toward the front door.

  John spoke up from the front of the packed-in crowd. The village leader stood near the kitchen. “Let’s all hurry upstairs, then. Rogan, get ready with the bow,” he said.

  Trey met up with John after the others had done as instructed, moving quietly upstairs. The issue of the rope hadn’t yet been resolved, however. “What’s the deal? You okay?” Trey asked quietly, his eyes focused on the front door. If they barged in right then, the whole plan would likely collapse. They’d all be dead. He felt a tinge of amazement that the crew hadn’t seized the initiative and already moved. He didn’t know if that hinted at something, perhaps their operational inefficiencies, or not, but he thanked his lucky stars once again for offering him just the slightest bit of luck.

  “We have rope everywhere, Trey. We live on a damn island,” John said, smiling. “And, no, I’m not okay. You’re about to burn down my house to kill a bunch of goons with guns.”

  Then John walked away. He returned shortly thereafter holding a pleasant surprise. He handed the Molotov cocktail to Trey. “You can do the honors,” John said.

  Trey smiled. He looked into his cohort’s face with a newfound sense of appreciation and respect. “I couldn’t love you more right now, man,” Trey said. There was something special about a friend who offered you a weapon as a gift. Especially when it came right before initiating an engagement with the enemy.

  They went upstairs, with Trey standing in front of Rogan. “I’ll brush past you after I throw this,” he said, leaning back and revealing what he held in his hand. The boy smiled. He possessed the first faint traces of facial hair. With deeply suntanned skin, a hooked nose, and a large, well-defined upper body, the young man possessed a vaguely sinister appearance. There was something about him that hinted at the barely suppressed lethality brewing under the surface.

  It was one of those odd, rare occasions where Trey just knew instantly that he liked the kid. Something about him, perhaps in his demeanor or the relaxed, composed way he carried himself, even though it was clear he knew what was about to come.

  Redirecting his focus back to the coming battle, Trey tried to think about what he could do to possibly save his wife. He knew she was in that militia. The way she walked was far too familiar to him. He somehow doubted that they’d send her as part of the initial breaching formation. Melody wouldn’t be in the vanguard. Even so, Trey couldn’t be certain. There was no way for him to know if he might accidentally kill his own wife.

  And that confusion scared him.

  Casting it all aside, he waited. Trey’s nerves danced. His body shook. He felt thirsty. His throat seemed dry. His eyes moved back and forth, like they were trapped in a pinball machine. He wanted the violence to begin. And, yet, he wished fervently that this would all just end. Let this be the epic final battle, the finale, the grand denouement that would seal their fates forevermore.

  BANG!

  When they broke through the door, the report was so loud, it caused Trey to stumble. If Rogan hadn’t caught him, Trey would have fallen. Gathering himself, Trey struck a match and lit the cloth fuse dangling limply over the open edge of the bottle. He tossed it down the stairs blindly.

 

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