Last Resort (15 page)

“Get out of here!” I hurl a rotten papaya at it.

The dog scurries back, barks some more and receives another hurled papaya for its trouble. Tail between its legs, the mutt vanishes into the bushes from which it came.

“Our brave hero,” Gwen jests, to which, grinning, I bow elaborately.

We resume scavenging for edible fruit; the bushes rustle again—this time much louder than before.

A look of dread on all our faces, we watch the bushes violently sway from the movement within, and then, as swiftly as it started, the movement ceases. There is no rustling—no sign that just a second ago the row of bushes shook as though rocked by an earthquake. There is complete silence.

“What the bloody hell?” Pamela nervously looks to us and then back at the bushes.

Then the bushes seem to explode, belching forth something from my worst nightmares: a pack of wild dogs, ravenous and coming our way. A German shepherd, fangs bared, leads the pack.

“Run!” Gwen screams.

On the far side of the farm lies a hill that leads to a roadway. Sprinting for the hill, legs pumping furiously, I look back to see the pack closing the distance. I am the first to reach the hill. It is not an easy climb. Clumps of long grass dot the hillside interspersed with patches of dried dirt that crumbles beneath my feet, making it difficult to ascend. Gwen is right behind me assisting Pamela. The dogs are so close I can see the muscles ripple beneath their skin, their fangs gleaming white, eyes locked on their target.

“Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” Dellas races, Rhodesia bouncing in her arms. The frightened wails of the child are nearly as loud as the voracious growls of the pack. Rhodesia is right to wail, for looking backward, she sees what Dellas does not: the lead dog is about to bridge the gap between them with a final leap.

Scrambling on their hands and knees, Gwen and Pamela reach the top of the hill.

“Hurry, Phillip!” Gwen cries.

I can make it. If I throw everything I have into climbing this hill—I can make it. But Dellas and her child are doomed. The pack knows this. I cannot leave them to die. I grab a rock and pelt the German shepherd with it to minimal effect. Throwing the rock buys Dellas a second, nothing more, but a second is all I need to grab Rhodesia. The dogs are all around us, jaws snapping, leaping, and colliding with each other. They crash into me; I grip a clump of grass to save myself from tumbling into their midst. Should I fall I will never rise again. From above, Gwen and Pamela heave rocks onto the pack. Dellas screams in pain; the jaws of the lead hound sink into Della’s exposed calf. A well-delivered stone from Gwen smacks the big dog on the skull. Stunned, it releases Dellas.

I am nearly at the top. Two dogs try to pounce on me, but the soil crumbles beneath them and they slide away. Pamela reaches for Rhodesia and I hand her off. Bleeding profusely, Dellas begs for help. Tears stream from her eyes. I jump to her side and kick one of the hounds away, and then together we reach the top of the hill.

There is no tree to climb, nor building to take refuge in, but a minivan, the type used to transport guests to the resorts, lies one hundred yards away on the side of the road. Gwen is already halfway there. There is no way Pamela can outrun the dogs and reach the minivan while holding Rhodesia.

“Go, go,” I yell to Pamela. “Give me the baby.”

Without hesitation, she passes the little girl to me. Running for the van, I turn to see the German shepherd clear the hill. It looks both ways, no doubt verifying the whereabouts of its prey, and then lopes after us. In a second, the other dogs clear the hill and join the chase. Gwen cannot get into the locked minivan. She grabs a chunk of asphalt from the side of the road and smashes the driver side window. She rushes into the minivan—Pamela and Dellas immediately follow. The German shepherd is close enough that I can hear it panting and the click of its claws on the road.

Gwen hangs out the driver side door, waving frantically for me to hurry. Almost there. I find a last reserve of strength, nearly throwing myself forward, and dive into the minivan. The massive hound comes with me, fangs lunging for my face. Rhodesia falls to the floor, out of the animal’s reach.

“Shut de door!” Dellas screams.

“I’m trying!” I shout, kicking and punching the dog, and punctuating each kick I yell, “Get! The! Fuck! Out!”

The dog falls out of the car. I slam the door shut. Determined not to let me escape, it jumps at the window, thrusting its head in, but I beat it back with several kicks. The rest of the pack swarms the car, climbing on the hood, bounding at the windows, barking and snapping. A stocky, shorthaired hound climbs on the hood of the van and throws itself at the windshield. Gwen shrieks. Unable to break the windshield, the dog snaps at the air, throwing spittle on the glass. The van shakes from their assault. Face up on the floor of the van, Rhodesia cries with wild terror. Dellas picks her up. In the back of the minivan, Pamela yelps each time a dog leaps at the window, crawling from one side of seat to the other. The glass holds. Legs up in the air, I dare not take my eyes off the broken driver side window for a second.

The lead dog tries to enter via the driver side again, but the space is too small, my defense too vigorous, and reluctantly, it backs off. Gasping for breath, too terrified to speak, we watch the dogs circle us.

Chapter Twelve

The sun must be directly overhead now, turning the inoperable minivan into an oven. Rhodesia, too hot and exhausted to cry, falls into a dangerous, groan filled sleep, the kind from which I fear she may not wake. I am sweaty and shirtless; my shirt donated to make a bandage on Dellas’s calf. Pamela, held tilted on the back seat, drapes an arm over her face. Gwen sits in the front of the van with me.

Under the shade of a small tree, the dogs are a hundred yards away, lounging in dust on the side of the road.

“It looks like the lead dog is asleep,” I remark to Gwen. “He’s sprawled in the dirt, passed out.”

Gwen shakes her head. “It’s a trick. They are just far enough away to encourage us to leave the safety of the van. They know we’re trapped. Look at our options: die of dehydration in here or get ripped to pieces out there. They can afford to wait; it’s only a matter of time.”

I try to think of a way out of this. “Maybe someone from the town will come and chase the dogs away.”

“Nobody come from de town,” Dellas waves a scrap of paper left in the van over her baby’s face to circulate the air. “If dey foolish enough to come de dogs will eat dem. Only de gangstas can stand up to de dogs.”

“I’d rather deal with the dogs than the thugs,” I reply. “At least the dogs can’t open the doors.”

Gwen breathes slowly, her eyes drooping with fatigue. “There’s got to be some way to get this van started.”

“There is no way,” I answer. “It’s dead—that’s why the driver left it on the side of the road. We could wait till dark and try and make a run for it.”

“Run where?” Gwen gestures to the empty, open countryside. “We wouldn’t get twenty feet. Maybe if we ran in different directions—split up…”

“Some of us would get away, but one of us certainly wouldn’t,” I note with grim certainty. “No, we stick together.”

“We might not have a choice, Phillip,” Gwen counters, exasperation in her voice.

“No, Gwen,” I shoot back. “We have a choice. We’re human beings, for God’s sake, not sheep to be separated from the herd and picked off one by one.”

Chastened, Gwen drops the idea and looks through the dirty windshield. “What’s on the road up ahead?”

I peer through the glass. “Nothing. Open road without a tree to climb or a house in sight.”

“But the road dips down,” she is suddenly hopeful. “Phillip, we’re near the crest of a hill. A hundred feet ahead the road drops. The van is dead, but the tires aren’t flat.”

My eyes widen as I grasp what she implies. “If we can put the van in neutral and push it over the edge we can coast away.”

She smiles. “It’s our only shot. We’ll have to get out of the van and push. What about the dogs?”

I look back at the pack. “If they come for us we’ll have enough time to hop back in the van.”

I slip the car into neutral. “I’ll do it now—while I still have the strength. Get behind the wheel so you can steer.”

Instead, Gwen grips her door handle. “You’ll need my help to get this van rolling. Don’t think you can do it on your own.”

Pamela pushes her head between us. “I’ll steer.”

As usual, there is no point in arguing with Gwen. She is determined to push the van with me.

“Okay, fine,” I look at Gwen. “But the second the dogs start running for us you get your ass back in the van.”

“You, too,” she admonishes. “Don’t be a hero.”

I grin with dark humor. “Don’t worry about me. I wasn’t put on this earth to be Puppy Chow.”

I crack my door open. The dogs do not move. Gingerly, I put a foot on the road and inch out of the car while Gwen does the same on her side. My eyes never stray from the dogs, looking for the slightest sign of their movement. I reach the back of the van at the same time as Gwen. With our backs to the van, we face the dogs. The lead dog is motionless, but his eyes watch us, waiting for one of us to run from the safety of the van.

Without saying another word, we brace ourselves against the van and begin pushing. It does not move. My pulse is weak. My knees shake. A trickle of sweat runs down my face. Gwen grunts and pants next to me.

“It won’t budge,” Gwen rasps between clenched teeth.

“It’s got to. C’mon, Gwen, push,” I rasp and dig my heels into the cracked asphalt.

Every cell in my body focuses on moving the van. Muscles that I have not used in years tense for a final exertion. Should I fail to move the van I will not have the strength to try again or do much of anything else, for that matter, so I tap whatever hidden stores of strength I have.

Sucking the air between my teeth, I push and the van begins to move.

“It’s working,” Gwen can barely contain her elation. “Keep going.”

The wheels do a full rotation; momentum kicks in. The lead dog lifts his head. We keep pushing. The van picks up speed.

“He’s coming,” Gwen cries.

The lead dog sprints towards us, and the rest of the pack, caught off guard, hurry to follow.

“Phillip, we’ve got to get back in the van!”

While still pushing I peer around the side of the van. “We’re still too far from the drop off.”

The dogs charge at full speed, teeth bared.

“Dey coming!” Dellas screams out the obvious.

“Get in the van, Gwen,” I say.

She hesitates.

“Go, I can keep us moving by myself,” I add.

She still lingers, looking again at the charging pack.

I yell, “Go!”

She dashes for the passenger side door. I know she is in the car because the weight of the vehicle shifts. Suddenly, as we reach the drop off the van rolls so fast that I must turn around and run at full speed to keep up with it. Gwen is at the back window, screaming for me to jump onto the van. I turn for a second and see a mass of fur and fangs hurtling towards me. I jump, grab a railing on the back of the van, and turn around.

The German shepherd—eyes filled with murderous fury—snaps at my feet. Racing down the long, steep hill, the van widens the distance from the pack. The subordinate dogs refuse to let their prey slip out of the trap, but the leader of the pack knows better and quits the chase.

Laughing like a lunatic, I let out a loud cheer, echoed by the women inside the van. Wind blows threw my hair and my heart fills with glee. Sun baked hills slide past us and the dog pack disappears in our dust.

Moonlight illuminates our path. The van lies far behind us. We trudge onward, not stopping for a second, lest the dogs catch up to us. Torches glow ahead of us. At the welcoming center for the resort, two men spot our approach and step forward with torches and makeshift weapons.

“It’s us,” Gwen calls out to them. “We’re back.”

“Where’s the cart?” One of them asks. I recognize the questioner as Robby.

We lumber into the light of their torches.

Robby is incredulous. “Where’s the old man?”

“My husband is dead,” Pamela does not look at him, her voice devoid of all feeling.

Robby and his comrade glance at each other and then back to our rag tag group.

“And who’s this?” Robby nods to Dellas and her child.

“They helped us survive,” I am weary of the interrogation. “We’ll answer all your questions, but first, food, and water.”

We push past the two men and walk across the narrow lagoon bridge. Behind us, Robby blows on a conch shell to alert everyone else in the resort of our arrival. Torches flash in the darkness and I glimpse figures rushing towards the bridge. Alexandra, Jonas, Conner, Don, Amy, and many other guests anxiously await us.

I smile when I see Jonas. “Food,” I say to him, and he swiftly takes us to the restaurant and rummages in the stock room for supplies. While we tear into bowls of dried cereal and gulp bottles of warm soda, the guests gather around us expectantly.

Finally, I wipe my mouth and let out a loud belch.

“What happened to you?” Conner demands.

I look to Pamela. Her face is downturned. She seems too spent to go into details on what we faced.

I relate everything we endured, leaving out nothing. The crowd listens in stunned silence.

The moment I finish my tale, as though to put an exclamation mark on everything I just said, someone at the back of the crowd yells, “What’s that—over there, across the bay? They’re lighting a bonfire.”

We look across the sea to the other, larger resort.

“It’s not a bonfire,” Gwen realizes. “The resort is on fire.”

The main tower is ablaze, flames leaping upwards. Fire light flickers on the rippling waters of the bay. We rush down the deck stairs to the waters edge.

“Sweet Jesus, it’s burning to the ground,” Don remarks.

I spot tiny figures running back and forth before the burning building. Some figures appear to chase the others. The faint sound of screams floats across the bay.

“It’s Action and his crew. They’re killing everyone at the resort,” I say.