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  He looked over at Quinn to make sure she hadn’t seen what he’d done.

  She hadn’t, and was now slumped over the body, her cries muffled.

  We’re all going to die, Herm thought. All of us.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Herm stood in the open doorway, watching the jungle through the rain and his own uncontrollable tears. Behind him, Harper sat in the corner just where he’d left her, silent and staring into oblivion. Gino had regained consciousness twice but only for short intervals, slipping away quickly each time. A rifle still slung over his shoulder, in his hands, Herm held the machete, its blade and handle still covered in Dallas’s blood and tissue. For several minutes he’d tried to work every scenario he could imagine, fighting his way through the tsunami of emotions coursing through him. What if Quinn didn’t come back? What then? He remembered the look in her eyes, the rage, and couldn’t help but wonder, what if she did? He couldn’t shake the vision of Dallas’s headless body lying there in the mud.

  “My…” His voice caught in his throat. “You were my friend,” he said softly, quickly wiping his tears. His face drifted through Herm’s mind, his smile, memories of the times they’d spent together. Not many people had ever been kind to him, but Dallas had always treated him with respect and as a true friend. Herm had never felt like he deserved it, and even less so now, because Dallas had died the way he lived, as the best of them. “It’s okay, man,” he whispered. “It’s okay now. You’re free.”

  But it wasn’t okay. Not for the rest of them. The past, good and safe times they’d known, it was all over now. Everything was over now.

  Breaking through the jungle, Quinn emerged, moving in long, purposeful strides through the pouring rain, her face stone. Clutching the ax, she moved across the outpost without looking his way, and closed on the two smaller structures they’d earlier surmised were most likely used as storage units. Both huts had been largely reclaimed by the jungle, wrapped heavily in vines and plant growth, but without hesitation and barely slowing her stride, Quinn swung the ax at them again and again, and with each angry and violent swing, more and more overgrowth was cleared.

  Herm let the rifle slide off his shoulder, placed it on the floor then staggered down the remains of the porch and into the rain. Even when he joined her, Quinn never stopped or acknowledged him. Using the machete, he began to help. There was something incredibly freeing and cathartic about swinging that giant blade, slamming it down into the vines and growth without remorse, hesitation or even the slightest concern, and with each blow, he felt something inside him stirring, growing, empowering him with things he never knew he had inside him.

  When most of the brush and vines had been hacked apart, Quinn stuck the ax into the mud then began ripping it free and tossing it aside. Herm continued helping, using the machete to cut away the last of the clinging vines until the two small huts were accessible.

  They both waited a moment, breathing heavily as the rain soaked them down. At one point they made eye contact, and that was enough. No other words needed to be spoken just then.

  Taking up the ax again, Quinn smashed the doors to each hut.

  As they’d suspected, they were used for storage. One housed nothing but a series of large sealed drums. Gasoline. The second was filled with various supplies, and boxes of ammunition piled on the floor, and a series of makeshift shelves fully stocked with old rations, cans of various food and tins of rice meant to last for long periods of time in the field. On the floor was a large crate, the top pried off long ago. It had once been filled with grenades, but now there were only four.

  Though she’d never handled such things, Quinn grabbed the grenades without hesitation and started back to the officers’ quarters. Herm tucked the machete in his pants, gathered as much food as he could carry then hurried along behind her, checking the jungle as he went to make sure that thing hadn’t reappeared.

  At the entrance, along the railing around the remains of the porch, several of the small containers they’d found and positioned about as rain-catchers were overflowing. Quinn took one, drank it down then returned it to the railing. The second she brought with her into the quarters.

  Once inside, Herm placed all the cans and tins on the floor then hurried outside. He returned with a container full of rainwater. After squatting down and offering it to Harper, who refused, he took a long drink himself.

  “Be careful with those grenades, they’re more than likely still live,” he said, his voice barely audible above the rain. “Some of this food’s probably edible. Won’t have much taste, I wouldn’t think, but—”

  “Hold him.”

  Herm forced a swallow. “What?”

  Quinn knelt down next to Gino, who was barely conscious, and placed the ax alongside her, still within reach. “Hold him,” she said again, pouring water from one of the rain-catchers over her hands, cleaning them as best she could.

  “Quinn, I—”

  “Hold him.”

  When Herm looked into Gino’s eyes, for the first time he saw nothing but pain and fear. Taking him by the shoulders, he pressed down with all his weight then gave Quinn a nod.

  “A compound fracture has a higher risk of complications and infection,” she said flatly, as if reading from a manual. “I need to wash it out, get the dirt and loose bone fragments out, make the wound clean as possible. Then I have to position the bones, put them back into place, realign them, and apply a splint to keep them stable.”

  Gino, who had broken out in a heavy sweat, nodded groggily, his eyes barely open. “Do what you have to do,” he said, his voice weak and slurred.

  The screams began the moment she poured water into the open wound and began scooping out the unattached fragments of bone. She worked meticulously and without emotion, ignoring his cries and begs for her to stop as she followed her training and, gently as she could, took the snapped bone between her fingers and pushed it back down into place.

  As she realigned the bones, Gino’s screams finally ceased and he passed out. Once his body had gone limp Herm let him go and sat back, hands to his head. He’d never heard anyone, male or female, scream like that.

  Blood bubbled up out of the wound, draining residual dirt and bone chips.

  Quinn removed his tank top, wrung it out then wrapped the wound with it. Standing, she wiped her eyes and face and drew a few deep breaths. Then she grabbed an overturned chair and smashed it to pieces. Taking two flat chunks of wood that had once constituted part of the seat, she positioned them on either side of Gino’s shin and instructed Herm to hold them in place.

  Once he’d taken over, she left, returning a moment later with two long lengths of heavy vine, which she used to wrap and tie the pieces of wood to Gino’s leg.

  “He’s fucked,” Herm said. “Isn’t he.”

  “We’re all fucked.”

  “Quinn, I—”

  “Don’t.” She wiped the blood and fluids staining her hands on her shorts, adjusted the cups of her bikini top, then took the old tin of water Herm hadn’t finished, and held it out to Harper.

  “Labels are all faded, and they’re in Japanese anyway,” he said a moment later, “but we’ve got food here, such as it is. Rice, most likely, probably some kind of meat. Beans, maybe some fruit. Won’t know until we crack it open.”

  Quinn pushed the water at Harper again, but she looked right past her.

  “She’s done,” Herm said. “There’s nobody home.”

  Crouching, Quinn put the container to Harper’s lips and poured some into her mouth. Most dribbled out over her bottom lip. “Make sure Gino gets water.” She handed the cup to Herm. “Even if he’s unconscious, wet his lips with it.” She grabbed her ax. “When he wakes up, give him small sips. He probably won’t stay awake long, but when he does wake up, make sure he drinks.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To take watch.” She looked out the doorway to the jungle. “We’re going to do what Gino said. Defend our position.”

 
; “What if it doesn’t come?”

  “It will.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Then we’ll go find it…flush it out into the open…and kill the fuck.”

  “I’m not sure it’s alive.”

  “To do what’s it doing, what it’s done, it has to be alive in some sense.” She watched the rain a while. “And if it’s alive, that means it can die.”

  “How do you kill something that’s already dead?”

  “You annihilate it,” she said in monotone, “eradicate it from existence.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  Quinn gave no answer, just kept watching the rain and jungle.

  “What happens when it gets dark?” he pressed. “No more fire, no light.”

  “We wait. We watch the night. We defend our position.” Hoisting the ax up and over her shoulder, she finally looked down at him. “Or we die trying.”

  “We’re gonna die anyway,” he said softly.

  “Yeah.” Quinn moved to the doorway, her back to him. “I know.”

  ***

  It’s the beauty she remembers most. The sun, the way his hand felt in hers.

  They stand at the water’s edge, watching the waves slowly roll in, gently lap the sandy beach at their bare feet. Overhead, seagulls caw and circle, some landing on a nearby stone jetty, others riding the waves further out. The sea air is crisp and clear, the breeze off the ocean refreshing. The heat is high but there is little humidity. The perfect day, she thinks. The perfect day with the perfect man.

  As if he can read her mind, he looks at her and makes a funny face, the kind he’s made for years that always makes her laugh even though she’s seen it thousands of times.

  Okay, she thinks, maybe not perfect, but close enough.

  She remembers it all, this day, their conversations, their leisurely walk along the beach, watching the birds and the waves, and for long stretches just holding hands and saying nothing at all. It is in those quiet moments where she realizes how deep her love for her husband is. There is no need for words or gestures, the simple act of being together is enough. Together, they are whole.

  What she doesn’t remember, is the white clothing both wear. Even as the visions unfold before her, she questions it. She remembers wearing jean shorts, a tank top and sandals. She remembers him wearing khakis, sneakers and a t-shirt. So why are they both clad in white, knee-length hospital johnnies?

  They would never wear such things, but neither seem to care.

  After a long winter, the sun is back, the warmth has returned, and since the beach is within walking distance of their home, it is a trip they like to make often, before summer is in full swing and the beach becomes crowded and noisy, a different experience altogether.

  As a little girl, she read all the fairytales, heard all the love stories.

  Now, she’s as close to living one as she will likely ever get. Their life together may not be perfect, but they’re happy—genuinely happy—and that’s more than most can say.

  “You’re such a romantic,” he tells her, smiling gently.

  “And you’re not?”

  He shrugs. “There are worse things.”

  “Guilty of some of those too.”

  They laugh, snuggle closer and continue walking along the beach, feet sinking in the wet sand.

  “I love you,” she tells him.

  They stop, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her the way he always does. First her forehead, then the tip of her nose and finally, her lips. “Love you too.”

  And then it all goes wrong. Something is wrong, something…something is wrong and she doesn’t know what it is but she can feel it moving through her like a snake, coiling and nesting within her.

  Something falls from the sky.

  The birds. They’re falling from the sky. One, and then another.

  On fire, they plummet to the earth all around them in balls of flame.

  “The birds, they—they’re on fire, they…”

  Blood seeps through their white gowns, soaking them down and plastering against them like a second skin.

  She reaches for him, her fingers dripping blood…

  The look of love on his face turns to terror and confusion as he lets her go and slowly backs away, the birds crashing all around him in a rain of fire.

  She reaches for him again, but he is already too far away.

  Someone screams. She can’t be sure who.

  It’s you, Quinn.

  She closes her eyes, hoping it’s all a bad dream and that when she opens them everything will be back to normal.

  But there is only darkness. Endless, bottomless darkness…

  Wake up, Quinn. Wake up.

  ***

  The jungle slowly came into focus.

  It took a moment, but Quinn soon realized she’d fallen asleep and had just then come awake. As it hit her, she found herself sitting in the doorway, facing the jungle, the ax lying across her lap. Back on her feet, she shook her head, hoping to dislodge the cobwebs, and looked around frantically. The heavy rain had stopped, but it was misting out, draping the island in a strange early morning fog she’d not seen here prior.

  Gino lay where she’d left him, but he was awake and looking at her.

  She couldn’t believe she’d not only allowed herself to fall asleep, but she’d evidently slept for hours. A stupid mistake that could’ve cost her and the others their lives, she thought. Wiping her mouth, she moved over to Gino and knelt next to him.

  “I thought I died,” he said groggily. “During the night. I thought I died.”

  Quinn’s hand found his forehead, confirming what she already knew from the look of him. He was burning up, drenched in sweat, and his skin had gone white as chalk. Still unable to believe she’d fallen asleep, Quinn rubbed her eyes, then gave Gino a few sips of water.

  “Shouldn’t waste it on me.”

  “Just drink it.”

  “I have a fever, don’t I?”

  Quinn inspected his leg wound. It was seeping blood and oozing other fluids. “You’ll be all right,” she lied. “Just rest.”

  “Can you get me up?”

  “Gino, you’re too weak and your leg’s badly broken. You can’t stand.”

  His frustration and sorrow palpable, he nodded. “Help me sit up at least?”

  “You should just—”

  “I don’t want to die flat on my back, Q. Not like that.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “Help me.”

  “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Already hurts.”

  Taking him under the arms, Quinn lifted him enough to slide him over to an old file cabinet a foot or so away. He cried out, groaned then went quiet as she leaned him against it, carefully propping him up.

  Sitting back on her heels, she took in the rest of the room in the low morning light, and realized they were the only two there. “Where’s Herm? Where’s Harper?”

  Gino’s head slumped forward. He’d passed out again.

  Ax in hand, Quinn returned to the doorway and looked out at the outpost and surrounding jungle. Nothing. No one.

  Moving down across the porch, heart racing and the sleep that had clung to her in these last few moments finally burning away, she forced memories of the nightmare from her mind and focused on the task at hand. Creeping around the side of the building, she watched and waited, bracing herself for whatever might come at her. But there was nothing there. She was alone.

  Sprinting toward the lagoon, she made it to the sand and took in as much area as she could. But still, nothing, and no sign of either Herm or Harper.

  “Where the hell are they?” she muttered.

  Suspicious silence answered.

  The mist moved along with the fog, making visibility difficult and giving the island a surreal, dreamlike look and feel. As if still caught in her nightmare, Quinn crept through the fog, searching for any trace of the others.

  A strange noise froze h
er in mid-step. She listened. There it was again. An odd muffled sound somewhere between a moan and a growl. Definitely human and most likely male, but she couldn’t be sure of much else.

  Stepping through a bank of fog and into a row of palm trees at the edge of the sand, she hesitated, and heard it again. She was only about thirty yards or so from the lagoon itself, and as they did each morning and every early evening, the sharks had returned, their fins breaking the surface of the water now and then as they cruised about in slow circles.

  The sound grew louder, more aggressive, then faded.

  This time it sounded vaguely familiar, but…it couldn’t be…

  The mist drifted by her, separating enough for her to see the machete stuck into the trunk of a nearby palm tree, stabbed and left there purposely.

  And at the base of the tree, two bodies.

  Herm. On top of Harper. Her bikini had been discarded and tossed aside, and lie tangled in the sand a few feet away. Through the fog, Herm’s pale and pockmarked ass rose then fell, again and again as he slammed himself between Harper’s open legs, fucking her harder and harder with each thrust, his moans louder now, urgent.

  Wrestling equal parts disbelief and nausea, Quinn moved closer, gripping the ax with such fury her hands ached.

  “Stop,” she heard herself say. “Herm. Stop!”

  Gasping, he slammed into Harper again, coughed, then lie still atop her.

  “Get off her. Now.”

  Herm rolled off. Still gasping for air, he got to his feet, pulling his tattered jeans up as he went. Staggering about a moment, he regained his balance and wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth. Lying nude in the sand, Harper remained where she was, legs spread wide and slick with cum, her eyes open and staring up at the sky, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.