Sirens shatter morning routine and prisoners sneak glances at the guards. They don’t want to be caught pausing in their work. Even such a small infraction can lead to a whipping. No one returns from a beating whole and too many have suffered the tearing flesh and cut muscle. Even the mind will be injured by the whip. It obliterates safety scaring body and soul.
On Islas Tres Marias the island itself is the prison cell, the ocean the prison walls. Inmates traverse the island after work hours supervised by brutal guards who have all the fire power they need to kill everyone many times over. Get too close to a jeep or guard uninvited and they’ll shoot.
Today Checo’s crew is working maintenance within the small town housing guards and administrators. The town is a donut hole within the island prison surrounded by high security fencing and all the support staff and their shopping needs to live a typical mainland life. But they’re not living a mainland life, thinks Christopher. In their own way they too are imprisoned on Islas Tres Marias.
Siren still howling, Christopher wonders what’s the emergency? Fat Luis stands in his jeep listening to the radio. He shouts, “A sailboat infiltrated the perimeter.”
Christopher’s heart races with the possibility of escape. He prays let this be an American ship. He knows it’s not a fishing boat. The Mexican fishing community, with the threat of incarceration, respects the one mile boundary. It’s an invisible border following the curvature of island topography.
There has never been a moment Christopher accepted imprisonment. Leaving the work site with the excuse he needs a bathroom break he makes his way down a dirt street slipping past an exit. Security doors are designed to provide only a departure. They are not guarded with men. They are reinforced steel, automatically locking and monitored by surveillance cameras.
Christopher is in a race to beat El Jefe to the intruders. Once he’s passed the gate and hidden within in the trees he begins to run. He’s been waiting for an opportunity, a moment of confluence; the right time and circumstance dovetailing that will allow him to escape. He knows there is an expiration date on his life. He can’t wait around to find out the exact day. The siren is still wailing as Christopher runs. He is running for his life and freedom. He is running to his family. Their worry and grief are his burden interlaced within his mind and heart.
Already his throat is dry, eyes squinting in the tropical glare. On a sigh he races through a shaded part of the trail. Within the mottled light of trees and brush he sprints for the largest beach on the island. At each cross road of divergent trails he takes the southern track of packed dirt. Trees overhang. Brush and thorns reach out to scratch his arms and legs. Skirting salt pits, agave farms, sleeping quarters and kitchens Christopher does not want to be caught running the paths during work hours. Prisoners harvest agave on the northern parts of Islas Tres Marias. They have the largest sleeping quarters and eating stations. Paths connecting the groups are interspersed with hidden marijuana farms and outdoor kitchens brewing the agave pina for tequila.
Arriving at the coast he runs parallel to the south beach. He stays where brush interspersed with trees meet the tall grass and sand. Sunlight vibrant and strong in a cloudless sky beats down on him. The intensity of the tropical sun, in conjunction with intense exercise and no water is dangerous.
Already he’s feeling the effects of dehydration. I’ll have to risk it. The stakes are freedom and my life. I’m in a race to find my way off this dungeon and keep those trespassers from getting killed.
Once aboard the launch El Jefe will be required by Islas Tres Marias topography to follow a long peninsula. Christopher navigates a more direct route running and crisscrossing jungle paths. Dirt foot paths no wider than two people across intersect with each other like deer trails leading from the administration city to inmates sleeping quarters, cafeterias, work sites and beaches. Feet pounding and breath rattling in his chest and ears Christopher stops. Hunching over, hands on knees, head drooping, he sucks in as much air as he can. He thinks it’s a long shot I’ll make it to the beach before the launch.
If he hugs the tree line parallel to the south beach he should continue to be out of sight. Christopher dodges boulders, digging deep for more speed. His breath is ragged. Blood roars in his ears. Pounding feet clang all the way to the top of his head. Focus, freedom, focus…
Filtered through intense tropical glare, across sparkling white sand and diamond studded water, Christopher can see a twin mast sailboat. Sails stowed, a quarter mile up the beach. Intense glare off water gives him an instant headache. His foot catches on an exposed root. His power wrenches him forward, the root holding him back. The result slams his body, flat out, into the dirt. The air leaves his lungs with a “whoosh.” Spitting out dirt he lifts his head to see polished decks, gleaming metal. The boat gently rocking flying the stars and stripes, Yes, American! Christopher is a quarter mile to freedom.
He pushes himself to his feet. Squinting into the sun his eyes hurt. Moving thru the tall grasses edging the deep curvature of the beach he’s closer to the intruders but remains hidden. In the glare of sun on water he sees the guard’s launch round the cove. A sob threatens to rip free. I’m too late.
He’s too late to warn the intruders. Too late to swim out to their boat and hide unseen. Too late to find a way back to his family and friends worried sick about him. Moving closer still by crawling through the grass he hears voices. Two women rub suntan oil on their shoulders and backs. Bikini’s! Laughter carries toward him on the wind.
Four men wrestle with the skeleton of their pavilion. Already a canvas floor is held in place with four coolers, one at each corner. In the middle are cameras. Movie-sized cameras ready to be set at their proper angles. What’s going on here? Christopher shakes his head in confusion. The launch makes its way down the peninsula and the guards will be boots on the sand in just minutes.
Anxiety skitters across his skin and deep in his belly. There must be a way to get these strangers off the island. Most of all he wants to find a way onto their boat and home to Los Angeles and his family. Brilliant blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds makes his head spin. Dehydrated from the run, “What are my options? What options?” His thoughts are jumbled and repetitious, ideas slip past him. “How can I get them out of here?” Shaking his head increasingly confused the sun, too bright, slants into his eyes. Aching, his eyelids drop closed. I’ll rest my eyes just one moment, to help me think. Think.
The launch scraps against the sand in shallow waters. El Jefe jumps off. Christopher elbows his way deeper into the thorn brush. From this vantage point bodies appear to stretch like a carnival mirror. They grow to gigantic proportions. Christopher rolls his head in anguish.
Matched stride for stride, the first guard shadows one step behind El Jefe. A second guard mans the radio. Despite risking El Jefe’s wrath the air horn blasts his displeasure. The waves of sound ripple over Christopher. Filtered by the branches of the thorn bush Christopher watches the women under the canopy shrink, covering their exposed skin with crossed arms. Four men stand arms limp at their sides. Gone are the happy smiles and laughter. Two clacks are the sounds of El Jefe’s shotgun primed. Despite being a short man, he towers over the group. Priming his own shotgun El Jefe’s guard hollers, “Hands up!”
Leering at the women El Jefe barks his order. Tumbling over each other to comply they sort themselves out to march single file toward their rowboat. Abandoned on the beach the canopy, coolers, beach chairs… tripods. With the area cleared of bodies it looks like a stage. Did they come to film a movie?
El Jefe stops and turns. Christopher cringes. He reads their mutual comprehension traversing El Jefe’s features. Firing one shot gun round, head down for the charge, El Jefe bellows, “Alto!”
The trespassers freeze. With the barrel of his shotgun El Jefe jabs the women. His gun is a scalpel slicing the women away from the group. He orders the men “Face down in your rowboat! Wait!”
Christopher’s hope for the stranger’s peaceful transition onto their sailboat fractures. Shards of sunlight break over the group spearing Christopher’s eyes. Nauseous he puts his head in the sand and vomits.
El Jefe drags the women back to the canopy. Adjusting the cameras lowering his head like a bull ready to charge, he smiles. Christopher frowns. The intruders have transformed into prisoners for El Jefe to abuse.
Unhooking the bull whip at his waist, El Jefe unsnaps his pants. The whip explodes and Christopher’s hands clench. Blood blooms, slashed across one woman’s belly and down the other’s back and buttocks. Specks, bursts of skin, fly as the whip cuts deeper. Both women are screaming high pitched sounds breaking into sobs as the whip carves their bodies. The guard silences his woman with a slap. Her body goes still.
In the desiccating heat Christopher vomits again. The sun stripping-scourging, sparks shoot off angles. He deteriorates into the astral flares. Lost in the dream, he sees his body retrieve his hidden fishing knife. He seizes El Jefe’s head, exposing his throat to the serrated edge. In his sun soaked dream El Jefe’s life drains away, the earth bright with blood.
Broken branches pierce his skin. Stones imprint bruises. Christopher shakes his sun drenched head and the dream flees. He’s trapped and can only witness. Hovering over El Jefe he sees the Spanish Fighting Bull, the thick muscular neck and shoulders heave with sexual aggression. The rapes are quick, under thirty seconds.
Trained in the dojo’s Christopher’s inability to intercede, to save these women, is shattering. Bruised, slashed and bleeding the women are thrown into the rowboat with their companions who are shaking with shock and terror. As the rowboat retreats El Jefe and his compadre open the abandoned coolers. Christopher’s last hopes of escape deflate like a balloon losing its air. He crosses his arms over his belly to bear the pain, crouched in the sand, surrounded by thorn brush and grass. Christopher crushes his forehead into the sandy dirt.
Waving beers in the direction of their mate manning the launch El Jefe knocks the beer cap off on the edge of the cooler and drains the bottle with one long swallow. Once again the air horn blasts the waiting guard’s displeasure. He’s missed out on the fun. He’ll get a cold beer as a consolation prize. The duo fire shotgun rounds at the retreating sailboat. Laughing, they’re drunk on their dirty deeds.
Christopher tumbles into more sun stroked dreams, layered and interwoven, fracturing, prisms of light. Grass and thorns cushion him. He deteriorates into a million pieces. A brilliant flash precedes a woman floating in solar flames. Hallucination?
Oscillating, infinite variations, her voice echoes across the shattered landscape, “Who has desecrated my beach?”
Looking down the beach it vibrates grim and bleak at the site of the rapes. Pointing at Christopher, she says, “You will be mine, Redemption’s Warrior.”
Christopher’s head drops to the hot sand. He seems to be watching outside his body while simultaneously feeling each and every grain of sand rubbing against his forehead. “Redemption’s Warrior?” he mumbles.
Searing light soaks his every molecule and cell, imprinting his DNA. “The first lesson of redemption: You are alone. The last lesson of redemption: You are interconnected with the totality of life. Live the first and win the last.”
A flicker of understanding, the infinitesimal flame, an outline of light within light, she raises her arms. “I am the Divine Transmuting Flame. I hold the Cosmic Balance.”
He blinks. She’s gone.
Shaking Christopher draws in a small breath. A breath practiced in years of martial arts. Designed to break through jammed up trauma, a cleansing breath, lower respiration and blood pressure, restoring equilibrium, one, two, three breathes. He rests his throbbing head, forehead still pressed to the ground, his mouth unbearably dry. His muscles pulse with a fiery ache.
Right now, a little clearer, he needs to pay attention. El Jefe is nearby. His life is at stake. Found here they will shoot him on sight or El Jefe might hide him in an isolated cave, torturing him. Stretching out onto his belly, sand burning his skin, Christopher raises his head. The guards grapple with the cooler’s handles. They carry their bounty across the sand, a modern day treasure chest. Of the four coolers confiscated only three fit. The launch has limited space for their pirated bounty.
From his vantage point Christopher watches them push and shove. The guard left to man the launch is unhappy. Elbowing and landing punches where ever possible they push the launch into the water and jump aboard. El Jefe waits sitting in the Captain’s chair. Christopher shakes his head. They look like a bunch of clowns. Clowns with deadly toys.
• • •
As the launch speeds out of the cove Christopher runs to the abandoned cooler. He has just a few minutes. Lifting the lid reveals a dozen beers and two magnums of Champagne. Seeing the bottles packed in ice Christopher shoves his hands into the melting cubes. Splashing his face, drinking his fill, he takes an icy chunk and shoves it in his mouth like a Popsicle. Ice was a taken for granted commodity in his former life with his family. Shoving down these feelings he grabs a bottle of Champagne and three long necked beers.
Moving into the shade of brush and trees, he jogs, putting time and space away from the beach stained with violence and the other strange occurrences. He moves down the trails until he only hears bird song. Crouching back to back with a Jacaranda tree he drinks the ice cold beer. The bitter brew cannot begin to wash away his rage and futility. He rolls up the Champagne and two remaining beers in his shirt. He’ll take them to the cave, high on the cliff where he hides his pesos.