Page 1 of Beaches

CHAPTER ONE

“How many days?” asked the man leaning against the tree. The blistering sun was beating down on them, but that wasn’t so unusual. It was either blistering sun or torrential rains. There seemed to be nothing in between. Clouds were in the distance, which meant they’d be enduring another storm.

“I don’t know anymore, Vic,” said his friend, shaking his head. They were both so thin he wondered how they were still alive. The steady diet of whatever lizard or fish they could catch and kill, plus the coconut, papaya, mangoes, and occasional ration washing ashore from a random crate washed off a ship, or a load from a sunken ship, was very little to write home about.

That is, if they could actually write home.

He looked at the notches on the small cave they’d shared for almost three decades now. Line after line after line etched into the rock of their home. Outside were the names of those who had gone home. The hard way. Fever, dysentery, pneumonia, all of it. It all took them before their time. They were the only three left.

Three men out of dozens who had been left to rot on an island somewhere in the Pacific. They didn’t even know where in the Pacific, only that it took their captor days to get to them. Of course, they hadn’t seen him in more than a month, but that wasn’t unusual either.

He showed up randomly last September. It was random because he usually came in May and August, leaving the other drops to his men. Sometimes, they would drop off other prisoners. Sometimes, they would actually leave them rations of some sort or blankets. They never knew what sparked his generosity or not.

This time, he arrived, did what he came to do, and then left. This time was different. This time, he left someone for them. A woman.

It was just him, Vic, and Calvin back then. Calvin was a big black dude who had an infectious laugh and was always quoting the Bible. They weren’t sure how he could still believe in God and the good in everyone with what was happening to them, but they tried.

“What are you doing?” Damon asked their tormentor. “Don’t leave that woman here. Don’t do this to that poor girl.”

They were all too weak for their bodies to respond to a woman, but he knew, at some point, it would happen. She couldn’t have been more than mid-twenties, long brown hair and the biggest brown eyes Damon had ever seen.

She looked positively terrified.

“You may need her to satisfy your urges in the near future. If she could produce children, that would help me tremendously,” he smiled. Turning, he boarded the helicopter that took him to the waiting yacht more than a mile offshore. The poor woman just stared at him.

“We won’t hurt you,” said Vic. “What’s your name?”

She looked at the three men in their ragged clothing and shook her head. Backing up to the shoreline, they held up their hands.

“Honey, don’t go in the water. We’re surrounded by razor-sharp coral reefs and sharks. You’ll never make it. Don’t be afraid. We swear we won’t hurt you. I’m Vic, that’s Damon over there, and that big fella is Calvin.”

“Wh-why am I here?” she whispered. They could barely hear her above the surf and wind. The storm was coming in quickly, and they needed her to trust them so that they could get her to safety. It would cool things off, but it also could drown them all if it were severe enough.

“Because that man is a sick, twisted bastard,” said Calvin. “We have to get into cover. Come on, honey. There’s a cave up there that we’ve been using. It’s not much, but we’ll all be dry and warm. We even got a fire.”

Calvin held out his hand, but she shook her head erratically as if terrified or tormented. Maybe both. Maybe she wasn’t right in the head. Lord knows that their tormentor was a master at altering the mental stability of men and women.

Not wanting to pressure her, he nodded at the woman, understanding that she must be more afraid than they believed. He started walking, and Damon followed. A few seconds later, he turned to see her following Damon and Vic following her.

By the time they reached their sanctuary, it was blowing something fierce. Their one rule had always been to ensure that they had fire. Constantly. Fire meant heat, food, signaling, everything. It was their saving grace. They’d been given a box of matches, of which they’d made good use of, saving dozens of match sticks for emergencies.

Over the years, they’d salvaged numerous items that had washed ashore on their little island. Bottles of wine, canned goods, even clothing. Twice, a raft had floated up, torn to shreds by the reef but making it useful as a signal flag.

The problem was there were no planes flying over. None. In the thirty years that Damon had been on the fucking island, he’d seen only two planes. Two. He wondered how that was possible.

While Calvin warmed up two cans of beans, adding some fresh fruit from the island, Vic poured the woman a glass of water. When she reached for it, he noticed the markings on her wrists. He stared at them, then up at her face and back at the others who were watching.

“He wouldn’t even let me kill myself,” she whispered.

“Honey, we’ve all been there,” said Damon. “But killing yourself won’t get back at him. Living will. We’ll find a way off of here one day. You’ll see.”

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“I’ve been here almost thirty years,” said Damon. “Vic and Calvin came shortly after I did.”

“He said there were more. He told me fifty men would be clawing at me,” she said in a shaky voice. Damon shook his head.

“I promise, we are the only three. No one is going to claw at you. We’re all old enough to be your father.”

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