Page 108 of The Island

Owen’s chin was jutting out and he was biting his lower lip the way he did when he was set on doing something. Olivia was sitting up now. She was going to try to do something too.

Oh my God.

“OK, OK. Look, I’m sorry,” Heather said. “Please don’t shoot. I’ll get up. I’ll get up slowly and I’ll call Owen, OK? You were right. He’s in the bush waiting for me. I’ll get up now, OK? And I’ll yell for him to come.”

Jacko nodded and took a step back from her while keeping the gun pointed at her head. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You’re quite the bullshit artist, aren’t you? But I saw through you,” he said in a snarl of triumph.

She stood up awkwardly, blinking in the sunlight, and stumbled two steps toward the machete lying in the sand. Jacko didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. What could she do with death only a hair-trigger-pull away?

She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Get away, Owen! Run! I have a plan! Run!” she screamed.

Owen hesitated.

“Get away from here! Run!” she yelled.

Jacko turned and saw Owen vanish into the undergrowth. “You really are one stupid bitch, aren’t you?” he said. He deftly flipped the rifle, took half a stride forward, and clubbed her in the face with the butt. The brass cover on the wooden stock caught her on her left cheek and left eye.

She staggered backward, tripped over her feet, and collapsed.

Her forehead was bleeding. Blood was pouring out of her nose. The cut on her foot reopened.

“Come back, you fat little shit!” Jacko yelled and ran after Owen.

Heather tried to get to her feet. Her left leg responded but her right had a mind of its own. The landscape was swimming. Her head throbbed. She spit blood.

Swayed.

Two horizons. Two suns.

The day seemed to pulse its wings. The wind picked up.

Thick wool carpets of heat.

Unappeasable sunlight.

Olivia had risen and was scrambling after Jacko.

“No! Wait!” Heather said. She rubbed her eyes.

There was the sound of a gunshot.

Her heart missed a beat. She couldn’t breathe.

She stood on the machete handle. She picked it up and hobbled after Jacko.

The crow was still watching her from the lightning-struck eucalyptus tree. Still waiting for the body.

She reached the mangrove bushes.

“Little bastard. Won’t get far, I tell you that,” Jacko was saying into the walkie-talkie.

He was walking back toward the beach.

Walking through the trees.

The wind freshened even more.

Didn’t he hear that roaring?

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