THE FINAL
When she woke up, Dylan was nowhere to be seen, it gave her a minor panic attack. It took her several tries before she was able to fumble one of the matches on the drawer to light, and get one of the candles to light. She moved the small light around, but save for her, it was empty. She felt something cold nag her naked body.
The satellite radio was still on the drawer, still broadcasting its directionless signal, but there was no other chatter. The Remington rifle was still there as well where she’d left it, against the wall of the cave. But Dylan was nowhere to be seen.
A horrible thought crossed her mind, only because she had gotten to know him as well as she’d gotten to know herself. She hadn’t told him what she was about to do, back when they had been tied to the tree. She knew how he would have taken it. But now she couldn’t escape the possibility that he had gone and done something similar.
Reckless idiot, she wanted to scream, but she saved her energy, and put her clothes back on. Dylan’s little cave was a perfect hide-out; you couldn’t see it until you were almost on top of it. But as he had reminded them, they were dealing with a seasoned poacher, someone who knew the wilderness just as well as they, and had devoted his life to tracking animals through it. If anyone else could find the cave, it would be him. She felt a lump grow in her throat, even as she gripped the rifle and marched toward the entrance.
“Dylan, where are you?” she asked, but only the wind replied.
It was daylight, and she gauged the sun to be almost directly above them. There was a small patch of blood near the white rock of the entrance, and she feared the worst, but realized it was probably Chris’. Dylan’s hands, even when he transformed back into a human, had been sticky with it from holding the old bear. Even when they’d made love, some of it had smeared off on her thigh. She felt unclean, warped by sweat and blood and semen and dirt and fear.
She followed the path, back up to the cliffs. Below she could make out the surf. It had settled a bit since this morning, and the sun was bright again, almost as if had forgotten its rain and thunder and temper from the night before. A bird tweeted somewhere distant.
From this vantage, she could make out the beach where Chris had been shot the first time, and where he’d injured the first poacher, that fateful day. Everything started from that, like dominoes falling, one after the other. Blood for blood. It was not a foreign concept, in human politics or shifter. But that never made it right.
There was something white on the sand. She squinted, trying to see through the salty atmosphere, and brought up the scope of the rifle, peering through it. It was a boat, the same outboard the four poachers – now one, she thought gritting her teeth – had come into their lives from. There were two figures, walking toward it on the sand, she didn’t need the scope to know who they were.
Reckless idiot, she cried to herself. What had he hoped to do? Parley for their lives? Or was it worse than that. She knew that only hours earlier she had calculated, bet on the same selfless strategy. He’s trying to lure the poacher away from me, she realized and cursed him aloud, her eyebrows narrowing into daggers and not caring if they could hear her or not.
No, not like this. Dylan was a hypocrite. I’m not losing anyone else, he had said. And neither am I, you bastard. Her fists bunched at her sides as she slung the rifle onto her back and took off running, her jeans creaking with each long-legged jump she took down the path toward the distant beach. I’m going to beat the crap out of him before this ends, she thought, scrubbing her cheeks with the back of her hand to keep the tears at bay and her vision clear, even as she skidded over tree roots and bypassed switchbacks, sailing through the air and landing hard on the balls of her feet.
“Just you wait,” she panted.
***
The sand felt good under his feet. He had left his shoes back in the cave with Sarah. He knew she might hate him for what he’d done but he hoped she would understand. But maybe that’s precisely why she would hate him for this. They were one and the same, equal in their passions. It was why they had been such a good match, he reflected, and couldn’t help but smile even as Arthur behind him urged him toward the crude skeletal frame of the outboard down the beach.
His arm ached where the poacher had pulled it behind him. It might even have been dislocated, he couldn’t be sure. His fingers were numb and tingly, and a dull pain swamped his whole right side. It hadn’t taken much more than a quarter hour of searching to find the poacher; he’d been clumsily following their trail through the underbrush.
To be honest, he wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish, only to make sure that whatever happened, the rifle-heavy poacher didn’t find Sarah. When he stepped blindly out of the cover of the trees, his arms raised and face passive, he almost expected the older man to kill him there and then. But Arthur had had other plans, and Dylan could only grunt in pain and exhaustion as he was shoved face down in the dirt and his arm pulled brusquely up behind him. The fishing line that wrapped his wrists behind him now was sharp, and had already dug into the flesh like filaments of flame. He felt blood pooling in his slightly curved palms, dripping off his fingernails.
“Move,” Arthur commanded again, stabbing him in the back with the point of his rifle.
He hasn’t killed me, Dylan thought. That might mean he had a chance yet. Or it might mean that whatever fate awaited him would be even worse, even more prolonged. It didn’t matter. Through the damp blood-crusted sweep of black hair he let himself glance at the distance white cliffs to his right, further up the island. Sarah was safe, and had the satellite radio. Help would come, he was certain of it. Everything else was secondary.
“Why are you doing this?” Dylan grumbled, hoping to ease the poacher behind him. His ribs still hurt every time he was prodded. “You could just… go… leave… why…”
“You broke my boy,” Arthur replied, curt and to the point. “Well, not you, but that big bastard. And, from the looks of ’im, he offed Kyle too. Am I wrong about that?” His prisoner only sunk his head, and that was answer enough. “Thought so… but it doesn’t matter. I wish I’d been the one to put a bullet in that bastard’s neck, but Kyle got to him first… so be it, that’s how I’ll remember him. But you…”
“What about me?”
“You’re something else. Not… not even human.” He spat on to the sand. “I’m achin’ to find out what makes you tick. I’m not in the habit of taking trophies alive… but you, I’ll make an exception.” There was no joy in his voice, just a complacent sort of sagacity, as if he were carrying out his actions according to some script. “After that, I’ll come back and find your little girlfriend… she’s not going anywhere.”
“She’s dead,” Dylan said softly, trying to infuse his voice with sorrow.
“I saw her alive and shooting. Nice try,” he said.
“One of you got in a lucky shot… she…” he stopped, giving a necessary pause, “didn’t make it.”
The poacher stopped, his gait suddenly interrupted, and Dylan prayed that his lie had worked. He knew that in all likelihood, all he was doing was buy time. “That’s a shame,” the man said behind him, sounding glummer than normal.
Dylan felt another stab of the gun in his back as Arthur coaxed him toward it. “Don’t suppose you’d mind telling me where we’re going?” he asked, trying to sound jovial. Fuck him, if I have to die, I’ll die smiling, he thought. He wondered if it was a good sign or not that he was getting accustomed to his eventual death.
“I said move. Get in,” Arthur shouted.
Dylan closed his eyes and tried to push the outboard toward the crash of waves. His feet sunk into the sand again and a breath of cold water splashed against his heels. It felt good, it meant he was still alive.
“Now,” the poacher said, “let’s go.”
Dylan shrugged and was about to retort when he saw a glint of movement behind Arthur. No, was his first thought. He thought it would have taken Sarah at least another half hour to discover he was gone, and by then, he would have been long gone. He cursed again when Arthur sensed the movement of his gaze and looked behind him.
Sarah moved out of the cover of a huge fence of downed interlocking pieces of driftwood, her black tank-top and jeans standing out against the white bleached wood. She was missing her headband, and Dylan was surprised to see how long her bangs actually were. Black spikes arced down over her eyes, shielding the dangerous glare that she cast in their direction. She walked forward, one foot following the other, refusing to break stride.
Tight against her shoulder, Kyle’s Remington was like another part of her arm, something fixed that had become as integral to her own identity as any other limb. It was the one thing standing between the poacher and her, and even Arthur strained at the sight of her, lifting the muzzle of his own gun and pushing Dylan in front of him.
“Keep your hands up, or I’ll launch your brains across the beach for the gulls,” Arthur coughed, his voice croaking. “I mean it.”
“Yeah,” Dylan growled.
Sarah kept her own gun raised, refusing to lower it, and didn't stop walking until she was fifteen feet away, and even then, she waited for Arthur to speak. Several tense moments passed. Even using Dylan as a shield, he was vulnerable. But she only had one shot and she’d have to reload. He still had five in his semi-automatic clip, and one in the chamber. I have the high ground, but still…
“You got guts, girl,” he observed, “now why don’t you turn around and take that pretty ass back into the woods? You don’t want to be here right now…”
“You got that damn right,” she said, positioning the rifle harder against her shoulder. “Now let him go. And I’ll consider not putting this shell through your brain pan.”
“Big words from a small girl. You think you can get me… you’ll have to go through your little boyfriend here, first.”
Sarah seemed to pause and looked up over the rim of the scope and nodded at Dylan. His face was freshly bloody again, the gash on his head had reopened. The job she had done on his stitches had come undone, no doubt when he’d given himself over as a prisoner. She flinched.
“What do you think about that, Dylan? Do you mind terribly if I put a bullet through you, long as I get the fucker behind you?”
He smiled under his black locks and let out a grim chuckle. “Not one bit, love.”
She repositioned her aim. Behind Dylan, Arthur shifted his feet, wondering if he’d really pushed the couple far enough that she’d be willing to risk an exit wound on her love all in the wild chance of pegging him. No, it was madness. But that look in her eyes, wasn’t that also madness? He snarled.
“I’ll let you go, princess,” he said, trying to compromise. “All I want is him.”
“Then we’ve got one thing only in common,” Sarah grated. “You’re out of time. Make your damn decision or I’ll go through with my mine.”
Dylan let out another chuckle. He had to hand it to her, she could speak as sharp as anyone he knew, and he could feel the pride and confidence in the poacher behind him shrink. “What do you say, poacher?” he breathed huskily. “Care to wager on how crazy she really is? Truth be told, even I’m not a hundred percent certain.”
Arthur swore behind him. “Shut it. Listen up! I’m in control here and I’ll be damned if a skinny ass whelp of a bit-”
Dylan flinched, his eyes snapping shut and open again as Sarah discharged her rifle. A wet sound behind him followed by a heavy thud and Sarah cursed and shouted something at him and he ran towards her. “Move!” Sarah screamed at him, he dared to look behind him.
Arthur was struggling on the sand, cursing to high heaven, and holding the side of his head, which was a bloody mess. She had waited until the last moment to fire off a single shot when the fractional side of his head had been visible over Dylan’s shoulder. The bullet had glanced off his cheek, causing the poacher to reel backwards, and peeling back the flesh like the skin off a grape. The shockwave of the bullet had probably caved in the eyeball too, and some white and wet and indiscernible was leaking down the ruined cheekbone.
“Bloody goddamn fucking-” they heard the screams filter out into the bay, followed by two more gunshots. The sand to the left of Sarah’s foot exploded in a tiny crater. The other shot gone wild. He was half-blind now, but he was still able to level his good eye down his semi-automatic.
Dylan and Sarah were almost at the ridge of the driftwood when a third shot rang out and Sarah let out a scream and toppled face-first down onto the sand, gripping her thigh. Fresh blood oozed from it, and Dylan knelt down over on top of her, trying to block any incoming bullets with his body while helping her onto his shoulder.
“Leave me. Go!” she screamed.
“We’re a bit past that now,” he chided her.
She looked up at him. We both live or we both die. A moment, and she nodded, grunting with pain as she clung to his shoulders and another shot rang out, smacking into the wood beside them.
“Give me the gun,” Dylan said, letting her down beside the wooden shield. She was breathing heavily, both hands clutched at her thigh. Through the ripped denim a large red stain was already widening, and there was fear written clearly across her glazed expression.
“It’s… it’s uh, it’s deep, I think…” she said, trying to collect herself. She’d had more first aid training than him, and he saw the businesslike side of her struggle to keep control. “Might… might have hit an artery… gotta tourniquet… it… quick.”
Another shot rang out, this one closer. He dared to look around the corner. The poacher was stumbling toward them, one hand holding his rifle, the other his face. A torrent of blood was streaming onto his clothes, and a gaping bloody crater glared from a sightless socket.
Dylan swore and ripped off his shirt, wrapping it around her thigh, high up near her groin, and she screamed in pain as he tightened it, and wound a piece of driftwood through the knot. He twisted it like a valve. She almost lost consciousness, struggling noiselessly and her eyes rolling up in her head as she gasped. My love, I’m sorry… stay with me.
“Good…” she cried, “it’s…”
She passed out and Dylan closed his eyes against his own tears and kissed her lightly on the lips. They tasted like salt and ash. Another shot, this one coming through a small hole in the driftwood above Sarah’s head. He growled. The bleeding looked like it had stopped but he couldn’t be sure.
“Time to finish this,” he said resolutely to himself and stood up, gripping the stock of the gun and cranking another shell into the barrel with blistering complicity.
He came out in full view and heard one of the poacher’s bullets whizz past his leg. He was screaming indecipherable curses, a burbling mess of pain and adrenaline. Even if Dylan left him now, he’d probably perish from the blood loss.
“Come on!” Arthur taunted, stumbling to one side and shooting. The sand exploded in front of Dylan’s feet, but his eyes were stapled on the poacher.
Calmly, Dylan raised his own gun, even as Arthur expelled the last bullet in his magazine, and several other empty clicks signaled he was fresh out of ammo. Dylan let out a slow breath and let the poacher’s face come into view on the scope. He squeezed.
Down the beach, a flock of seagulls jolted into the air, alarmed by thunder that issued from the cloudless sunny sky. In moments, they had forgotten about it, and returned, chattering against the sand. The beach churned with waves, an endless cycle of ebb and tide.
Half an hour later, they would rush in a flock to the warm kill of a body, staining the beach with a slow runnel of blood that leaked like a tributary back into the ocean, darkening with the tide. If they had cared, the seagulls would have noticed the lack of eyes, as if some great force had scooped them from both sockets. They would have also noticed the wide expression, lips curled back in an endless scream. But these were seagulls, and they had no interest in such things.
*
Waves lapped against wood, and for as many times as she could remember in recent memory, Sarah woke up not certain of her surroundings. The sky was above her, a fractured pounding of clouds and bitten light, like ice-floes scattered against the firmament. She blinked, trying to ascertain if she were really alive. She felt a chill rush over her chin – that felt real enough.
She tried to speak, but her throat felt constricted, dry with the effort. Whatever she was lying against wasn’t solid, and it took her several moments to realize that she was in a boat. The white painted ribs of the boat crept up on either side of her like the inward ribs of some monstrous wooden fish. She could smell fish, that lake-bottom smell. And blood.
“Dyl…” she muttered.
The boat rocked again and a familiar face loomed over. He had on a bright knowing smile, despite the scrubbed side of his face, here a lingering dark umber marked dried blood. His black hair was like a dark sickle over his eyes, and the blue underneath seemed to have reclaimed its splendor. They shone down on her, and felt safe.
“You’re awake, that’s good… I thought you’d sleep the whole way,” he joked.
“Whole way… where?”
He took a moment and looked up. Then she realized that there was a humming in the air, and it died suddenly as there was another shuffling and he knelt down beside her. The boat rocked with the capricious currents and she could smell the ocean like an augury, something that was trying to tell them something, if only they had the presence of mind to listen to it and try to understand whatever deeper meaning was borne by it.
“Home,” he said at last, “but we’re still a good half day out. It’ll be many hours. You just sleep.”
“No,” she struggled against the heavy blankets that were layered over top of her, preventing her from moving. It was warm, but she wanted to sit up. “Tell me…”
A grim shadow passed over his face.
“Don’t move. Your leg is still injured pretty bad. I bound it as well as I could… it’s not bleeding, but I think there’s still a bullet or a piece of one lodged inside. You just stay still… don’t make me get out the strait-jacket.”
She ignored his casual attempt at humor. “Tell me what happened?” she pleaded.
“I ended it,” he said simply. “There’s nothing to fear anymore. It’s all over.”
She had hardly dared to hear those words spoken aloud, and from Dylan’s lips they were like a godsend. A great weight lifted off her chest and she choked out a sob of relief but it was also a sob of pain of the things they’d lost. Things they’d had to do in order to survive. She knew instinctively that Dylan bore a burden she would never be able to share. But in time, perhaps, she might help him carry it, at least a little ways.
And then there was Chris. The image of the great man appeared before her, smiling as always. She could almost smell his grilled salmon and vegetable soups. He had protected them until the very end, and she would never forget his sacrifice.
But they had lost more than a friend. She looked at Dylan, the strong edge of his jaw, the gritty look of pain that would follow him like a hard earned scar. They had lost some of their own innocence. The parable of the island, she almost wanted to laugh, remembering the last lines of from Golding’s book The Lord Of The Flies.
“And he wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man’s heart, and the fall through the air,” she enunciated, channeling some ancient childhood reservoir of memory that had long been buried under the current of adult life.
“What was that?” Dylan asked, cocking his head.
“Just something from school… I think. A story about losing your humanity…”
He nodded, not disagreeing with the moral but his face betrayed an opposition to something. “There’s more to humanity than darkness,” he said after a pause. “We’ve proved it.”
Sarah was about to ask how they’d done something like that when he bent over her and kissed her forehead. Love, she mused. Was that the one thing that redeemed them? They had survived the island, survived death several times over, to what end?
Dylan’s distant expression seemed to say it all, without saying anything. We survive because we can still love. As long as there was that, that strange imperceptible spark, kept alive in both their breasts, then maybe… maybe, she wanted to believe, love could redeem anything. Whether it was the darkness of human nature, the pursuit of revenge and blood, or even the loss of a wise true friend named Chris.
She glimpsed over the wale of the boat and saw, far off, the black ridged silhouette of the mainland; so close, and yet so far. In front of her, handling the outboard motor again, Dylan gave her a warm smile. She didn’t mind how long the journey took as long as he was there.
* *
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