Crossroads, page 8
part #1 of Hollow Island Series
“Does it meet your approval?” asked the guard, half-bowing in mockery to Gembel.
John Wayne gave him a hard kick in the pants and said, “There’s a lesson waiting to be learned in there. See if you can find it.”
Gembel stumbled toward the cell and caught himself in the doorway. He turned to look at Nash. In a slow, slurred voice, he said, “Evil triumphs when good men do nothing.” He spat at Nash but missed badly. The guard elbowed him in the gut and Gembel fell to the cement floor, striking his head against the back wall.
With his eyes closed, Gembel started to shake. Nash couldn’t tell if it was a seizure, or if Gembel was being dramatic. He took a step forward to check him out … and the heavy metal door slammed shut right in front of him.
“He needs help,” said Nash. “Medical attention.”
“Every single time,” said John Wayne, rolling his eyes. “Fifty times I’ve hauled him in here and fifty times he’s played some hound and hare game.”
He motioned for the guard to lock the door, and the guard obeyed.
Speaking loud enough to be heard in the cell, John Wayne said, “I was gonna say one day, but our drunk friend needs to learn a lesson for White Hat here. Make it three days. And if my young pard here comes and tries to take him out early, double the time and take away all of his rations.”
Gembel would die in six days with no rations. He was already frail, undernourished, and beat up. That part about taking away rations might be a bluff. The reason behind this whole show of force was so that John Wayne could teach Nash a lesson.
John Wayne walked out, leaving Nash staring at the metal cell door.
The sick feeling in Nash’s gut was worse than the kick he’d taken there yesterday and worse than stacked lies. It was physically as painful as the lies had been, but with the added salt of a guilty conscience.
If Gembel did this every time they brought him in, then he was just playing Nash. There were no sounds of seizing, but that could be because of the huge metal door. And as badly as Nash didn’t want to be played, it would be worse to stand back and let a miscarriage of justice happen here.
Nash hurried out of the jail. John Wayne would blow a gasket, but he’d gone too far.
When he caught up with his trainer, Nash hit his shoulder from behind. “John Wayne,” he said, coming to a stop in the street, ready for the confrontation. “We need to let him out. At least go in there and check on him.”
“Training’s over, piker,” called John Wayne, not stopping, not even slowing down. “Now leave me alone.”
Nash wondered if he’d heard him right. Training was over? He remembered John Wayne’s face from a few minutes ago when he’d come out of the market looking for Nash. Somewhere deep down, John Wayne felt some sort of responsibility for Nash. This act had to be a bluff.
He hustled to catch up as the cowboy huffed down the gravel street. “You’re stuck with me for thirteen more days,” said Nash, trying to lighten the mood.
“Apparently you already know everything there is to know.” They turned down a narrow street with no markings on the buildings.
“What happened to two weeks of training?” demanded Nash. He didn’t want to talk about this now, but he knew John Wayne wouldn’t talk about Gembel until they solved this.
“Two years isn’t long enough to convince you that your old morals don’t apply here. It’s just a matter of time until you get yourself killed, or worse, get me killed.” He stopped in front of a door underneath a wooden sign with a cat on it. “I meant what I said about that drunk sumbitch. You open that door and it’s yours and his funeral.” He tapped on the door with a single knuckle.
The door opened immediately and a lace-clad woman with a seductive grin motioned John Wayne in. Before entering, John Wayne looked Nash up and down. “I wash my hands of you, piker. Congratulations, you passed. Now leave me alone.”
The door closed, leaving Nash alone in the street knowing he had failed.
6
Never Befriend the Oppressed
<< Hollow Island is approximately 100 miles by 35 miles. If the U.S. Territory of Puerto Rico had become a U.S. State, it would have ranked 49 out of 51 in size.
hollowisland.com/stats >>
Nash stared at the door his trainer had just gone through.
It was no joke; Nash was on his own.
Hollow Island’s population was around a half million people, with twice that many cameras. The city of San Juan surrounded Nash, squeezing him. Zero friends, zero money in his pocket, and zero ideas of where to go and what to do.
As he staggered away from the door, he tried to take stock of his situation.
At least he wasn’t dead after that fight yesterday. He had his dream job, even if he had no idea of how to do it. And at least he wasn’t locked in a windowless cell, unconsciously smashing his own head on a cement floor.
Nash’s body craved more food, but his gut was still sick thinking about what he’d just been a part of.
If he went back to the jail to try to help Gembel, it would only make matters worse for both of them. Every time he tried to help someone, he succeeded only in making things worse.
Nash needed to find a way to push the poor drunk from his mind. He needed to get somewhere away from San Juan, find a new situation and start fresh. Again.
He reached an intersection and looked down the three streets. The market held nothing for him at this point, so it was down to two options. Nothing in training or on the island so far had prepared him to be able to make the choice between one road and the other.
Some of Goodchild’s words from training rang through his mind in that rich Scottish accent. You’ll face decisions you can’t even conceive of now. And once you choose your path, lads and lassies, it’s hard to undo that choice. So, which road will you walk?
This particular challenge was definitely a decision Nash hadn’t conceived of. So which road would he walk now? Apparently, the coward’s road, where he crawled away with his tail between his legs and pretended like there weren’t evil people in the world. The road where he couldn’t make a difference because he was too new and inexperienced.
In his mind he was back to that sweltering day in New York. He’d been too hesitant that day as well. And it was his fault Karolina had been hurt. His fault for offering the chance to yield instead of finishing the fight. He should have known men like that would take advantage of the opportunity—and of Karolina.
And what had he told himself when he’d immigrated? That it would be different here. That he wouldn’t hesitate when someone needed him.
To the right lay the jail. To the right lay the risk that he might make someone’s life so much worse it could lead to death. And to the right lay the opportunity to make the difference he’d always planned.
To the left lay a street he’d never been on. A fresh start where he could get his feet under him. There had to be a hundred other mango trees in this city where he could sit down to catch his breath and eat another free lunch.
Sitting under a mango tree while people needed him was not what he’d come to Hollow Island for. Nash couldn’t sit back and let evil men have their way. No matter what happened today, Nash needed to walk a road with his head held high. It was time to befriend the oppressed, and damn the consequences.
“I’ll stand up,” said Nash out loud, then took the street to the right.
The jail was only a minute’s walk and when Nash approached it, fear seized him. Slowing his pace, he considered whether the fear was for himself or for Gembel. Opening that cell door would open other doors for both of them, doors that most likely wouldn’t turn out well for either of them.
They could deal with that later, even if Nash had to help Gembel get to another city where he could live out whatever months he had left.
With a deep breath, he hardened his face, barreled in and stormed over to the guard, who sat in the corner, leaning back in his chair and whistling. His eyes widened and he started to lower the chair, but Nash reached him first and kicked one of the elevated front legs of the chair. The guard windmilled his arms, but it didn’t stop him from slamming back into the cement ground, hitting his head with a crack. It was the same sound Gembel’s head had made on the concrete, and Nash found it satisfying.
Earlier the guard had looked all tough with his scarred face and two Rangers on his side. Now as the man shied away from Nash, he looked like a scared child, right down to the whimper on his face.
“Keys,” said Nash, bending close enough to smell the breath of a man who’d lost his faith in dental hygiene the day he immigrated.
The guard fumbled at his waist unproductively where the keys hung from a metal clasp.
Nash grabbed the key ring and yanked. Bits of metal clinked on the walls and floor as the clasp broke and the keys came free.
When Nash took a few steps away, trying a key in the lock of the solitary confinement door, the guard said, “John Wayne is gonna hear about this.”
“I’ll tell him myself,” said Nash, realizing in the moment that he had to stand up to his trainer at some point. He tried another key.
“You don’t want to mess with John Wayne,” said the guard, sliding back against the wall and using it to stand. “He’s killed for less.”
“That’s the rumor,” said Nash.
He slid a key smoothly into the lock and twisted it. With a satisfying clank of settling steel, the mechanism released and Nash pulled the door open. The odor of urine enveloped him.
Gembel Saatia lay on the floor where he had been when the door had closed. He wasn’t convulsing any more. He wasn’t moving at all, and he had turned a pale shade of blue. As Nash’s eyes adjusted to the dim cell, he saw gooey foam around Gembel’s lips.
“Hey,” said Nash, rushing to his side and shaking him. “Gembel? Open your eyes.”
Gembel’s head lolled to the side, his eyes wide and glassy.
Nash put his fingers to Gembel’s throat. No pulse, no breathing.
“Wake up. Wake up!” Nash shook him harder, but it just made the dead man’s head and limbs wag back and forth.
How long had it been? Eight minutes? Ten? Nash thought back on the basic first aid he’d been taught in training. There was no way Gembel could come back after being dead that long, but maybe he hadn’t stopped breathing right away. Nash was here, so he would do what he could.
With the fleshy part of his fist, he pounded once in the center of the chest as hard as he could. It made Gembel jolt, but when he checked a pulse again, he found nothing.
Next was chest compressions, so Nash found the center of the sternum and started pumping. As ribs cracked under his palms, one line of that old disco song went through his head on repeat to the beat of the compressions.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive …
In training when they’d practiced on dummies, the song hadn’t felt this morbid. Still, he kept pumping as the words played on a reel. It was all he could do. If compressions didn’t bring back a pulse, Gembel was dead. No 911, no paramedics, no emergency room.
After what felt like two minutes, Nash checked for a pulse again.
There it was! Pounding away in time with Nash’s own racing heart!
No, wait. Nash took a deep breath, pulled his fingers away, and then laid them gently at Gembel’s throat again.
Nothing.
Gembel’s color had improved, now more white than blue, but he wasn’t breathing.
Nash clasped his hand together, one over the other, and felt them settle into the groove in the center of the sternum. That groove hadn’t been there before; it was an indentation from Nash’s pumping. The dummies he’d practiced on in training had been very realistic, even down to the amount of pressure required to compress a chest and the cracking of ribs, but they hadn’t had this palm-shaped impression.
There was nothing to do but go another round, so that’s what Nash did. After a couple of minutes, he checked a pulse again. Still nothing. Another round.
After the third round, Nash was exhausted. He slumped from his knees to his butt as he reached for Gembel’s throat again.
There was no pulse.
In training they’d told him that three rounds of compressions would bring back anyone who was savable. Nash wasn’t ready to give up, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do another round of quality compressions. If there was someone else there, he could trade out, but it was just him and the guard.
Nash looked over and saw the man standing a couple feet back from the cell with an unconcerned expression on his face. A billy club hung from one hand.
“Your turn,” said Nash, standing and facing the guard.
“What? Fig that. I’m not touching him.” The guard took a couple steps back, bringing his weapon up across his chest.
“You’re doing it or I’m going to take that club from you and beat you until you’re as blue as this man was a few minutes ago.”
The guard’s eyes flashed across Nash’s gun and he said, “You little punk, like to see you try.”
In two steps, Nash crossed the ground between them and landed an elbow above the guard’s eye on his unscarred side. The billy club fell from his hand and Nash snatched it out of the air.
“How’d that feel?” asked Nash. “If you liked it, stand where you are. If not, get in there and try to save this man.” He raised the club, fully prepared to let the guard taste it if he didn’t move.
The guard moved.
“I don’t know how to do it,” he grumbled, kneeling next to Gembel and rubbing his swelling eye.
“You saw how I did it,” said Nash. “One hand over the other, straight up and down.”
The guard grumbled as he did as he was told, and started into half-hearted compressions.
“Deeper,” said Nash.
Still grumbling, the guard ignored him and kept doing one centimeter compressions when he needed to be at about five centimeters.
“Deeper,” repeated Nash, jabbing the guard in the ribs.
“Ouch!” he pulled his hands back and covered the spot where he’d been prodded.
Nash poked him again, just above his hip bone. “Deeper!” Nash poked him again when he didn’t move fast enough.
The guard jumped into action, compressing Gembel’s chest like he meant it.
Nash resisted the urge to prod him again.
After a couple of minutes, Nash told him he could stop. The guard collapsed back against the wall.
Still no pulse. Nash had to accept the fact that Gembel was dead. Gembel was dead and Nash could have done something about it if he hadn’t hesitated.
“No great loss,” said the guard, catching his breath where he sat.
Nash stood over him, weighing the billy club. “You really want to push my buttons right now?”
The guard winced away from Nash. “Watch it, boy. If I shout jailbreak, I’ll have fifty men here in seconds.”
Nash stepped back and put his hand on the heavy metal door. “Go ahead and scream. Maybe in a few days, someone will bring you something to eat.” He started swinging the door shut.
“You’re making the wrong friends, Ranger” called the guard. “And the wrong enemies. People like you never figure out how things work here, because they don’t last!”
The door clanged into place like a bell and Nash turned the key. From inside the cell, the guard was yelling something about being locked in with a dead body.
Nash had no sympathy. “I don’t like this cell,” he said, and snapped the key off inside the lock. He threw the keys onto the ground and rang the bell before walking out. Let them come and dismantle that special cell to rescue the guard. Nash hoped it would never house another prisoner again.
Just as the guard had said, men were rushing toward the jail from nearby buildings. He walked past them without even looking at them.
“Where are you going, Ranger?” demanded one man. “There’s a jailbreak.”
He kept his face down, hoping soon there would be a broken jail.
“Forget it,” said another man. “He’s one of those Rangers. Didn’t even stop a theft right in front of his face.” The man spat toward him.
“He’s not the coward one, who Chiel told us about is he?” asked his companion as they passed out of earshot.
Arguing with them would do no good, and he really didn’t care what they said. Everything he touched went wrong, so why bother?
Nash found himself back at the same intersection where he’d made the decision and he stopped again in the middle of the street. What had all that accomplished? Nothing. It wasn’t a victory. And it wasn’t like the guard would learn some lesson from a few bruises in his side or being locked in a cell for five minutes. If anything, Nash had just made more enemies for himself.
A man was dead, and it was partly Nash’s fault. Everyone who knew him hated him. And he was becoming famous for failing to help people instead of helping people and failing to become famous.
He just wanted to slink away and hide under a rock.
He could. This intersection would take him wherever he wanted to go.
Gembel, on the other hand, would never stand at any intersection again.
Nash needed to finish this page of his story before he crawled off and felt sorry for himself. Confronting John Wayne wouldn’t be any sort of victory, but it had to be done.
He wouldn’t crawl, he wouldn’t sneak behind John Wayne’s back, and he wouldn’t slink away like a scared little worm. Nash was going to let John Wayne know what he’d done and what he’d found in the cell and give him a chance to talk it over. Then they were either going to come to an agreement on terms Nash could agree on, or they would part ways.
7
60 Seconds
<< “Better to die in honor than live in cowardice.”
