Page 73 of Lost Paradise

Zane shouts something, and everyone follows his lead. We’re all dashing through the undergrowth, dodging branches and praying I don’t trip over. I’m the running madman whizzing through the jungle with everything on display, but it’s not exactly aerodynamic.

As we continue running, everyone takes turns shouting at each other, guiding our path through the darkness and urging each other forward. It seems somewhere out there, beyond the trees, lies the invisible border that they keep shouting about that’s supposed to separate us from the cannibals' territory.

Obviously, they discovered something in my absence. It’s exactly what I already warned them about from the very beginning.

Bloody wankers and fairies. If they actually took what I said to them seriously, they would have already known about it.

“Everyone!” Mr. Coldwell yells. “Behind these marks!”

Finally, we reach our supposed side of the island, the air thick with tension as we come to a sudden halt, hoping whatever's out there will hold. Eve and Byron insist it will.

Gasping for breath, our hearts pound with exertion. We exchange wary glances at each other, and our minds race with a mixture of relief and confusion.

Moments later, the cannibals emerge from the darkness, their faces twisted in fury as they approach, their eyes burning with a primal rage. But as they reach the invisible barrier, they come to an abrupt stop, their movements halted by an unseen force.

I watch in disbelief as the cannibals pace back and forth along the border, their frustration evident. They shout and gesture wildly, their anger apparent, but they dare not cross the barrier.

Grabbing the spear from Eve, I walk up to the border.

“Astro, no!” Mr. Coldwell shouts.

“These bastards needto die,” I say, looking at them straight in the eye.

My first kill was at 16. It was my father’s way of hardening me, getting me ready for the firm. But I was introduced to death from a much younger age. I was fourteen when I started to accompany my dad and older brother on their jobs. Most of the time, it was a pure business transaction. Other times it was to exact revenge or punish some sod for trying to cheat the firm.

So, looking at these savages who tried to toast me and still stand here with the hope that they’ll succeed makes me want to stab each one of their black beating hearts.

Rid the world of this filth.

Bloody human cockroaches.

“They’re all lined up. It would be too perfect of an opportunity to miss.”

“We do not kill unless necessary, and right now is not that time,” Mr. Coldwell booms out his final decision on the matter.

“If they were to ever cross this line, they would outnumber us,” I say.

“But they can’t fight now. It would be an unfair fight.”

“What kind of pisspot fighting prat are you?” I stare at him in disbelief.

“One who wants fucking answers as to why you and Jack venture into their territory? You brought this all on yourself and endangered everyone else.”

“No one forced you to risk your precious lives to save me.”

“If you prefer to be their next dinner, then fucking cross over and do so. But when you're on my side, I have rules, and you stick to them. Don’t like it? You know where the border is.”

Coldwell is raking on my bloody nerves. The strong itch to murder someone tonight is prevailing.

“Who the fuck put you, leader, eh? This isn’t your land.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and his mouth draws a straight line as his jaw twitches.

“You want to challenge me on that, Doukas?” Mr. Coldwell's voice cuts through the air, laced with a daring challenge as he strides forward, locking eyes with me, his gaze piercing and unyielding.

"It's no challenge," I retort, my own voice firm, though a flicker of uncertainty dances within me. "Not when you're fully dressed,and I'm not."

As if in response to my words, Mr. Coldwell begins to undress, each garment shed with deliberate precision until he stands before me, bare and unapologetically confident, mirroring my own state.

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