A few guards, standing outside the landing craft said, “Put your hands through.”
Derek complied and was rewarded with the removal of his cuffs. Connor did the same. Some jockeying occurred among the prisoners for positions to have their handcuffs removed. A fight broke out, one man beating another with his bound hands, then kicking him until the man stopped moving.
The guards made no attempt to intervene. The fight and most of the bickering occurred toward the front of the hull. A large bearded man moved toward the back, away from the fray. In the dim light, his pale skin almost glowed. He wore wire-framed glasses, one of the lenses cracked.
“Connor?” he asked.
“Mark?” Connor replied.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Mark said, smiling.
Connor clenched his fists. “This is your fault.”
“It wasn’t me. Javier …” Mark shook his head, his smile gone. “I don’t know what they did to him to make him talk.”
“They didn’t do anything to me.”
“They waterboarded me.” Mark hesitated for a moment. “The worst experience of my life.”
Connor was slack-jawed. “Jesus.”
“Have you seen Summer?”
Connor’s eyes were like saucers. “Is she here? On the ship?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I saw her with the women when we were loaded in Baltimore, but I didn’t get a good look. Have you seen Zoe or Javier?”
“No. You think they’re on this ship?”
“I don’t know. Zoe might be. Javier was arrested before us. He might already be on the island.”
Derek knew Summer was Connor’s fiancé and Javier and Mark were Connor’s friends from their conversations over the past four days. “We can try to find them when we get on the beach,” Derek said, interrupting.
The pale man looked at Derek with a Who-the-fuck-is-this-guy? expression.
Connor then motioned to Derek. “This is Derek. He was my roommate. Derek, this is Mark.”
“Nice to meet you, Mark,” Derek said, extending his hand.
They shook hands, Mark’s palm soft and sweaty.
The landing craft started to move, the conveyor belt under the hull propelling the landing craft into the water. Once in the water, the motor rumbled to life, chugging toward the island, the craft rocking up and down with the choppy waves.
It was stifling hot inside the hull of the boat, preheating tempers. Outside, the water was bright blue, like a postcard. The approaching beach was white sand but littered with seaweed and upturned palm trees and other unidentified debris. No fastidious hotel staff to clean the beaches from the succession of hurricanes. Beyond the beach were the ruins of high-rise hotels, with vines snaking up their crumbling facades.
The landing craft’s ramp lowered, filling the hull with bright sunlight. Water lapped over the ramp. A loudspeaker blared. “Exit the front of the craft.”
The men shuffled forward, some pushing, eager to exit; others hanging back, hesitant. Splashing and raucous voices came from the men as they jumped into the water. Derek stepped over the man who had been beaten to death. The large pool of blood near his head slickened the steel floor.
Connor and Mark stuck together, the crowd separating them from Derek. He jumped into the hip-deep water, soaking his pants and boots. When he looked back to the landing craft, two men remained inside the hull, afraid or unwilling to exit. A slot opened like a gun port, then came muzzle flashes, the loud pops making Derek and many others flinch. The two men still in the landing craft dropped like sacks of potatoes.
Small waves nudged the men toward the beach. Once on the beach, Derek surveyed the area, trying to locate Connor and Mark. Male prisoners crowded around a group of females, already arguing and jostling over the fair prizes. Another boat of females landed on the beach. Connor and Mark ran toward the boat, about fifty yards away. Two women sloshed through the water and into their seemingly familiar embraces. That must be Summer. And that must be Zoe, Mark’s sister. Groups of prisoners eyed Connor and Mark, clearly coveting the women in their arms.
Derek saw movement in the shade of the palm debris and hotel ruins.
Men appeared on the beach. Then more men, hundreds if not one thousand tan men, most of them wearing shorts and nothing else. They held knives and machetes and zip ties and rusty handcuffs. A few had rifles.
Despite their tans, these men were all Caucasians, nearly all of them tattooed. Some were covered in ink from head to toe, others marked up on their forearms or calves or upper arms. A few had neck and face tattoos. Most featured a swastika as the centerpiece of their body art. Some of these men were thin, others muscular, but none of them were obese.
In comparison, the motley crew of prisoners in blue uniforms looked like pigs led to the slaughter.
The swastika men fanned out in an arc, surrounding their prisoners. One beefy man stood front and center on the stump of an old palm tree. He was one of the few men who were obviously well-fed. He spoke to the crowd of prisoners, but Derek was too close to the sea to hear the man, his words drowned out by the waves.
Many prisoners put their hands behind their backs, submitting to the swastika men and their zip ties and handcuffs. Others started to run, and this started a chain reaction of prisoners running for their lives, and the swastika men converging with their machetes and knives. Connor and his friends ran toward Derek, but Derek didn’t wait. He ran in the hardpacked sand along the beach, away from the melee.
The swastika men tackled and subdued prisoners, binding their hands behind their backs. They slashed a few prisoners with their machetes, but their intention wasn’t to kill. It was to capture. Derek’s wet boots felt heavy as he ran, weaving his way in and around the human traffic.
He looked back and caught a glimpse of Mark and Zoe being taken by gunpoint. Then Connor was tackled, but Summer still ran, two men giving chase. She was headed in Derek’s direction, toward the beach but forty-yards behind.
Derek continued to run, glancing back every few seconds to check on Summer. She slowed in the soft sand, her chasers also slowing. One of her chasers grabbed another woman, wrestling her to the ground. A skinny man blocked Derek’s path with knees bent, his machete drawn, ready to strike. Derek stopped ten feet from the man, eyeing the rusty blade. The man tossed zip ties at Derek’s feet.
“Put ’em on,” he said.
Derek waited for a wave to retract, and he ran for the sea, diving into the surf. Once beyond the waves, he swam perpendicular to the shore, his clothes and boots weighing him down. Derek was dog-tired, and he’d only swam thirty yards or so. He glanced toward the shore to see if it was safe to return to dry land. On the beach, Summer lay in the hardpack, struggling, a man straddling her and another tugging at her clothes. Derek swam toward shore, a small wave catching him and boosting him to the beach.
The two men were too mesmerized with their prize to notice Derek running from the surf. Derek tackled the thin man who held her arms. Derek pulled the man into a chokehold, the blade of his forearm digging into the man’s prominent Adam’s apple. The thin man gasped, his face turning blue. Summer struggled with the other man. She kneed him between the legs, and the man rolled off her, holding his crotch, rocking back and forth in pain.
Summer ran from the scene, down the beach. Derek let go of the thin man and chased after her.
“Summer,” Derek called out.
She glanced back to Derek but still ran.
“Summer,” Derek said again, catching up. “I was Connor’s roommate on the boat.” He took a few gulps of air. “I’m Derek.”