Mad Utopia

An unnatural chill hung over the beach, making for a miserable end to a very bleak day. The mother ship was lost, more than half the crew dead. Maurice longed for the comfort of a fire but Omar refused to allow one. The Philippine Navy was still patrolling. Running lights of a corvette passed not far offshore less than an hour ago.

“I have never been so cold in my life.” Maurice rubbed his hands on his arms for heat. “This is unreal.”

“It is Hantumaya,” Gema, replied. Gema picked at his cold rations as he glanced nervously about. “This is her island. We should never have come here.” Gema jerked his chin towards the shoreline, where their glorious leader, Omar, sulked. He lowered his voice. “He has killed us all, coming here.”

Almost as if he heard, Omar lurched to his feet and stalked back toward the rag-tag encampment. Fortunately he headed for the other cluster of men, and kicked Santos in the foot to wake him.

“Wha?” Santos jerked up.

“Relieve Sam.” Omar thumbed towards the trees, where they had hidden their inflatable skiff. The other skiff had gone down along with the pirate’s mother ship in a hale of 30mm fire. When Santos failed to move fast enough Omar kicked him again.

“I’m going.” Santos scrambled away from his commander, got to his feet, and headed for the trees.

“Omar killed her family,” Gema whispered to Maurice. “Ten years ago. Just off this island. This shore is cursed.”

Omar shot them a look. Gema held his breath, but evidently Omar heard nothing, or else let it pass. After staring at them for a moment Omar moved on to relieve himself at the water’s edge.

A strangled cry arose from the trees. They all leapt to their feet as Santos came rushing out of the brush in a panic, shouting, “Dear Mother of God!”

“What, you fool?” Omar grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“Sam!” Santos pointed back toward the jungle. “He’s dead. The boat!”

At that they all rushed toward the trees, guns at ready, for the skiff was their only way off this island.

Sam sat propped against a palm tree, as if lounging at his ease. A homespun garrote firmly held him place. While Maurice stared at him in disbelief a cry went up from Dominique, wailing about the boat. Maurice tore his eyes away from Sam’s and saw the skiff had been sliced to ribbons. There was no hope of salvage.

“She is here,” Gema whispered.

“Who?” Dominique asked.

“Maya Johnson.”

Omar stepped over to him and shoved the barrel of his .45 up to Gema’s temple. “Enough of that talk. I cut her throat personally ten years ago. She’s dead. You say that name again and I’ll do the same to you.”

Gema swallowed hard.

“She has Sam’s Kalashnikov!” Dominique suddenly realized. He and Ali immediately started firing into the brush. It was all Omar could do to get them to stop.

“The damn Navy is still out there you idiots! Do you want to bring them down on us?”

Gema shot Maurice a look that suggested that it might not be the worst plan.

“Form up,” Omar ordered. “Three each. Dom, Santos, and Ali stick together. Gema. Maurice. You’re with me.”

“What are we going to do?” Santos asked.

“We’re going to find the mother that did this and skin him alive.”

“In the dark?”

“Yes, you son of a cow, in the dark. Do you want him,” he emphasized the masculine pronoun, “to pick us off in the night? Go that way. He can’t be far. Don’t shoot unless you’re certain. We don’t want to kill each other.” He shoved them off, glaring after them until they disappeared into the trees. Then he waved to Gema and Maurice to follow, and headed in the opposite direction.

“We have to get out of here,” Maurice mouthed to Gema as they fell into line. Gema slowed just a bit, so that Omar began to out-pace them. They had almost lost sight of him when shots rang out, off in the jungle. A bullet tore through the brush, hitting Gema in the arm. They dropped to the ground immediately. Omar crawled his way back to them.

“Those idiots are shooting at random!” Omar hissed. He rose to his knees, cupped his hands to his mouth, and ordered them to stop shooting. Another bullet tore through the brush and he flattened himself once again.

“She will have us all,” Gema said, as Maurice applied a tourniquet.

Omar pointed his .45 at Gema once again. “I told you, she is dead.”

Maurice moved like lightning. The rock hit Omar in the temple. He did not bother to wait to see if he was dead. He grabbed his friend and headed back towards the beach, staying low.

He found a rocky area and hunkered down. There they waited out the night.

When daylight came he made his way to the skiff, gathered the necessary materials, and scurried out onto the beach. He felt dreadfully exposed, but had no choice but to linger long enough to make sure the fire took. Once it was going he threw on some heavy slabs of rubber to raise a lot of smoke.

Just as he was about dash away he saw Omar standing at the edge of the trees, looking at him. Then he realized that Omar was not standing there. He was propped up, like a scarecrow. Then he saw her, sitting off to the side, apparently unarmed. The scar on her neck was obvious even from that distance.

Their eyes met. He understood. He hurried back to the rocks and waited for the arrival of the Navy.

He and Gema were her messengers.
—
©2010 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.

Mighty quiet lately. Too quiet. Larson strained eyes and ears to try and penetrate the dark. Only the vaguest silhouette of the forest stood out at the edge of his vision, a darker stain on the moonless sky. Nothing moved – not man, beast nor even air. It was beginning to spook him.

“You hear that?” he asked JoJo.

“I hear nada,” JoJo answered, leaning forward to try and strain his ears more. “What ‘cha hear?”

“Nothing,” Larson answered, scanning the darkness before them. “That’s just it, man. Nothing. Nothing, with a capital N. We should hear something. Man, even the crickets are quiet.”

JoJo looked over to him with an expression that said, Stop it man, you’re freaking me out. But before he said anything the stillness was broken by the sound of a snapped twig. They both immediately tensed, all eyes forward.

“You hear that?”

“I heard.” Larson hissed. He put his finger to his lips in warning. Both men now had their weapons at ready. They stood there – listening.

“We should call in a flare,” JoJo whispered.

Larson seriously considered it. It was hell not knowing if they were out there, creeping ever closer. But a flare was just as likely to give away their own position as to paint any bogeys that might be exposed on the open field between them and the forest. And he sure as hell did not want to give away his position. Maybe Murphy or Helen could see something. Ken Murphy and Howard Macey were on their right flank. Helen Jackson and Azumi Iwasaki were on the left. He opened up a channel on his headset.

“Hey Murph, this is Larson. You read me?” He spoke in a very hushed voice.

“Yeah, I got you buddy. What’s up?”

“Can you see anything out there?”

“Negative. Can hardly see my hand in front of my face. How about you?”

“Same here. Thought we heard something a minute ago…”

There was a little chatter on the other end. Everyone could hear over their headsets, but comms protocol limited an open mike to just team leads, to help keep chitchat down. “Yeah,” Murphy replied. “Mace thought he heard something too.” Larson and JoJo exchanged anxious looks.

“Helen?”

“Yeah, I’m still here, Larson.” Helen checked in to let them know she was alright. “We didn’t hear anything down this way.” Of course they all knew that did not mean a thing, so the news brought little comfort.

“Ask her if she’s doing anything Friday night,” JoJo urged, poking at Larson’s elbow.

“In your dreams,” Helen snorted, having picked up what he said.

“Cut the chatter, people,” Mother Hen broke in to scold.

“Well, stay alert, folks. I’ve got a bad feeling tonight.” Larson closed his mike. He shot JoJo a look, and JoJo just grinned.

“Worth a try,” he insisted.

“She’s got a kid,” Larson pointed out.

“So? I like kids.” He grinned all the bigger.

“You’re hopeless.”

JoJo shook his head, no. Hopeful. Not hopeless.

They both returned their full attention to the yawning darkness before them. What they wouldn’t give for just a little moonlight. The silence was getting downright oppressive.

“Tango Six! Tango Six!” Helen’s urgent voice broke into their earpieces. “Request a flare. Now!”

There was a sudden burst of fire off to the left. Larson and JoJo lurched forward, weapons raised, desperately searching for something to shoot. Beams of light cut through the night, slicing madly about from Helen’s position. Was she crazy? They had turned on their flashlights – a dead giveaway!

“Helen, cut the lights!” Larson shouted into his mike.

“Oh my God!” More rapid fire. Then a scream.

“Helen? Helen!” There was no answer. “Azzi? Answer me, man!” They held their weapons ready, feeling completely useless. They could not just shoot in the general direction, though it was tempting as hell.

A bright white flare exploded above the position of Tango Six flooding the field with light. They began shooting immediately. Hulking figures lurched to the ground and scrambled back towards the forest, keeping low so that there was no clear shot. JoJo leapt up and ran to the top of a small rise, firing and screaming obscenities all the time. Larson ran after him and threw him to the ground just as return fire danced about their feet. JoJo tried to fight him off, but Larson managed to keep his grip while hauling him further down behind the cover of the low hummock. Support fire now came from both sides as Tango Four and Tango Seven covered them. It was all Larson could do to haul JoJo, still struggling, back into their foxhole. They both collapsed against opposite walls, panting hard.

There was a little sporadic fire back and forth for a few minuets but it quickly died out. As usual the bogeys quickly withdrew deep into the safety of their forest, gone as quietly as they had come. Sounds of the night returned. Insects began to chirp.

After a few minuets Mother Hen called roll, going straight down the roster. Larson jerked up when he heard his call. “Tango Five?”

“We’re OK,” Larson responded, eying JoJo, as if unsure this answer was correct.

“Tango Six?” No response. “Tango Six? Tango Six, do you read?” There was an extended silence. “Tango Seven?”

“Roger.”

JoJo punched the ground, hard. Larson reached out, as if to comfort him, but pulled back awkwardly, unsure how to act. JoJo looked up at him, tears in his eyes.

“She had a kid, man.”