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  ISLANDERS

  Brandon Enns

  Copyright © 2016 Brandon Enns Registered with Writer’s Guild of Canada 2016. All rights reserved Published by Brandon Enns 2018.

  No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale. This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

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  Dedicated to you.

  “Too many people are thinking of security instead of opportunity. They seem to be more afraid of life than death." - James F. Byrnes

  Chapter One - Stefan

  Stefan's thick matted hair shifted in a tunnel of wind. The shades of blue and green appeared layered, the ocean water clear as a crystal ball. His yacht carved through the hypnotic water, leaving a wake in its path. He could spot his island in the distance, a mound of green, sitting there, waiting for him. The tidal data recorded over the past twenty years indicated that it was unlikely his island would flood. If so, it was of little consequence. The insurance on his assets on the island came at a reasonable premium due to said data. If insurance ceased to exist, it still would not have caused much worry. Lost millions would be replaced with more millions. As silly as it sounded, he had felt himself changing after the second meditation session he had tried two years ago. It was miniscule, but there was a shift. It was easier to see that now. Throughout extensive meditation training, he had taught himself to supress the satisfaction he would get from feeling secure due to money or the tools that protected his money. No matter how small or minor the situation, it was important to experience things free of assured outcomes: something as simple as cooking a new meal for the first time; walking in a neighborhood with the graffiti, buildings with decaying facades, and the smell of marijuana; going on a road trip without GPS; or investing in a new start-up company because he believed in the owner and not necessarily the business model and its market. Baby steps.

  Stefan was the son of a hedge fund tycoon. He rarely made decisions for himself, and if he did, they weren’t truly made by him. When provided any sort of opportunity, he was paralyzed by his instilled lack of independence. After joining his father's firm fresh out of Columbia with a business degree, Stefan discovered in a hurry that he was empty and unfulfilled. The business degree was sure helpful though. It'd be a good thing to have as a fail-safe in the event he left the family business or if a meteor larger than the 2008 housing market came and obliterated the US economy. Yes, surely those with degrees would be the only ones to survive the aftermath of that troubling scenario.

  His path had been laid out for him to swallow down like yet another dry martini. Suits and meetings with potential clients. Lunches. So many lunches. Then there were the meetings with other A-list Columbian students licking from the palm of his hand like docile house cats. He was their connection. A connection to opportunity; that opportunity being a piece of his dad's company’s pie, and in turn, a piece of every client’s pie. 'Bring your money to us. We know better than the rest.' Twitter news flash—they’re all the same; corporate imagery and sincerity so well-practiced that they almost sound sincere.

  Everything about it was unimaginative, uninspired; a waste of breath. It felt . . . wrong. Everyone experiences the feeling. Many ignore it. It takes effort, painful fucking effort, but people ignore it and carry on, telling themselves it's the right move, that the feeling will pass. It never really does. It hollows you out, creates dead space inside. Perhaps portions of the soul go missing. Science will explain in due time.

  When his dad sold the firm to semiretire and work as a consultant and private investor, Stefan inherited a large chunk of money, strictly for tax purposes, but his money nonetheless. He was to continue in his father's line of work, marry a beauty, have two kids, maybe a golden lab, pool in the backyard, all-access pass to the finest gentleman clubs where boy-men would gather to drink two-hundred-dollar scotch and talk about the treacherous service on their last trip to the Bahamas. The mai tais would be too sweet, caviar not caviary enough, the steam room not steamy enough, and the massages without enough tug.

  No more cigar smoke, stock markets, high-rise suites, boardroom meetings, fancy cars, and most of all, no more fake people. Stefan couldn't fathom a life like that. If he didn't get out, he'd drown in it until the day came that it all was good.

  So what does a twenty-six-year-old who just had a falling out with the old man and has an unlimited amount of cash do? He buys an island off the coast of Belize to live on remotely and operate as a resort. But this would be no ordinary resort. Stefan had special plans for his island. The bill was $8.2 million. Inconsequential.

  Stefan didn't have a name for his paradise yet. Perhaps naming it would be too pretentious.

  Hands on the steering wheel, he felt like a very stupid god, creator of his own world. He was confident that with the right touch, it could all become something very special.

  Stefan pulled out a captain’s hat and plopped it on his head. He called out, his voice carrying over the water. Freedom was real. Straight ahead, he could see the perfect circular shape of his island and to his left were massive walls of grass and rock. Southeast was Ambergris Caye where he had come from, which wasn't that far from Belize mainland.

  The sight of it all made him laugh. He was giddy. He moved to the stereo and pressed play, his iPhone hooked up via auxiliary. Flooding the speakers was the theme song to Jurassic Park as he hollered again. “Da na na na na, Da na na na na.”

  He was a fool. A very happy fool. Nearing shore, he had to shit in the worst way. He'd pinch it off until he docked, then he would christen the island with a vile NYC dump. From now on, all bowel movements would be balanced and earthy thanks to his supply from the garden and lack of access to fast-food. He would likely steer clear of the beef in Belize. If need be, he would order from a Canadian supplier.

  He angled left between the island and the ridges to the left. Up ahead was a docking station. He glided in with plenty of room and killed the engine just as he pulled up to the padded edges of the dock. There was no sign of Arnie, his housekeeper for the time being. Stefan tied off the boat and hauled his luggage off. He stepped off the dock and paused, taking in the view of palm trees and birds circling above.

  Walking through the trees with a permanent grin on his face, he entered a clearing; a perfect circle of an opening accompanied by three separate homes. To his left was an old cabin that belonged to Bruce. Up ahead and north was his quarters, a stylish and modern home that he would now refer to as his “bunker”. Its sleek gray siding was reminiscent of where a sophisticated serial killer might live. Very American Psycho.

  If he were to continue east, there was a duplex-style home. It looked as though it was plucked from East Village and plotted on sandy land. Both homes were designed for a luxury stay, which Stefan had gone back and forth on during the developmental stages. He wanted his guests to be impressed, but he was also concerned that it would draw away from the true purpose of his island— adventure. The 360-degree area of beach surrounded his circular eighty-five acres—a rocky shelf for some of the best scuba diving; snorkeling directly off shore in the bright turquoise-blue water; va
rious campsites and short, but scenic trails; zip-line traversing the entire island; the hot springs; the rocky cliff with a natural smooth-surfaced waterslide (Stefan had a special material installed to make the sliding soft and slick); not to mention the ‘lover’s nest” out on the water.

  He knocked twice and waited for an answer at the front door. He couldn't hear anyone for a while, until finally, footsteps. The door opened, and Stefan assessed Arnie’s tired face. Arnie was a laid-back hipster living on mainland, but he was from the States, one of the northern ones; Stefan could never remember which. They had met while Stefan was on vacation with some buddies from back home, and drunken conversation led to private islands, which led to Arnie touring him around to view some of them. None of the others compared to this one.

  But now, Arnie's eyes were bloodshot and puffy around the edges. He looked rather disheveled and irritated about something.

  "Arnold! Protector of my utopia!"

  He seemed confused. "You're here already?"

  "As scheduled."

  "Right. Right." He looked over his shoulder, but remained standing awkwardly at the door as though he was waiting for someone else.

  "You all right? Looks as though you just hurled."

  "No, I'm good...I just—I didn't realize you were coming this soon."

  "Well, here I am."

  "Yeah." After a beat, Arnie chuckled strangely. "I'm just not ready to leave." Another chuckle followed. "So peaceful here you know. I can finally think straight."

  "Oh? Having troubles in Belize, Arnie?"

  More perplexities contorted his tired face. "Huh? Oh, no not really. Just living life brother. Floatin' on a breeze."

  "Smoke a little weed there, Arnie? And by a little, I mean all of it."

  "No, no. I'm off the stuff. Messes with my clarity."

  "Right. Who needs to think clearly when life is one big vacation?"

  Stefan furrowed his brow in response to the vacant stare that flattened out over Arnie's clammy face. "You okay?"

  "Of course. I'm fine." He chuckled.

  "You're good to take the boat back to Ambergris?"

  "Yeah. I could do that. What are you guys doing tonight though?"

  "You guys?"

  "Yeah, your friends are here?"

  "No. You're taking them in tomorrow. Remember?"

  "Oh. Right."

  Mushrooms. Must be mushrooms.

  "How high are you, man? Can I trust you with my boat?"

  Arnie’s grin widened and he shook his head. "You can always trust me, brother. I am at your service, as always." He tipped his pretend cap. "Just let me grab my bags."

  He abruptly closed the door on Stefan as he was about to follow him in. Stefan pulled on the handle, but it was locked.

  It took him five minutes to open up again and he walked straight passed Stefan with sudden urgency in his step.

  "Need a hand getting out?"

  "No! No, I got it." He continued walking without even turning back to acknowledge Stefan.

  "Hey! Don't forget about my guests you burnout! Call me on the SAT phone before you leave!" Stefan shouted.

  As he walked into his beautiful home, he was questioning his decision to form any sort of partnership with Arnie. It wasn't that he had any stake in his business, but he would potentially be interacting with future guests, and he didn't need some whacked-out wannabe-surfer on drugs in charge of the safety of his guests. He'd make a change after the test trial.

  The kitchen was beautiful, all stainless steel appliances. He opened the freezer to find it had been stocked with vegetables and seafood. Maybe Arnie was good for something, he thought. Tonight he would have red wine and scallops pan seared in butter and garlic with a splash of lemon. I think I'll pair it with a chardonnay. Maybe merlot...Or I could do old-fashioneds.

  For now though, he needed to unpack and get his ass outside. The sun was waiting for him, beating down with immense heat with a subtle breeze swirling around, waiting to gently kiss his face or his bare ass. He could do whatever he pleased. It was his island.

  His steps were quick and heavy thudding down the stairs into his basement. The hallway was long, with several rooms along the way. Two bedrooms, one bath, a theater room at the end, and just to the right of it, a special room. The long hallway was somewhat haunting in its dated styling, comparable to a home of a 1980s middle-class bungalow, contrasting the sleek and modern furnishing of the upstairs. Two-thirds of the way down the hall, Stefan turned into his bedroom.

  His bed was positioned in the center of the room. On the other side of the wall was a massive mirror with two sinks; to its left his shower, to the right a toilet. To the right of the bed was a steel door protruding only a few inches from the wall. There were no decorations.

  Stefan began unpacking, leaving neatly stacked sections of his clothing along his bedside. He then lined up his shaving kit supplies out on the counter by the sink in particular order. He pulled the latch on the steel door and entered a small cold storage room. The room was surrounded with wine shelving, an endless selection of bottles waiting to be tasted. Stefan grabbed a bottle and stopped to look at a slender door at the far end of the room.

  ***

  Stefan sat in his “backyard” drinking straight from the bottle, half of it now gone. The fire crackled and spat sparks at him that he dodged. He heard rustling coming from the old cabin. It was Bruce, the old man, making a fire of his own. Bruce had lived on the island with the previous owners. Part of the deal involved keeping the old man, but Stefan liked him anyway. He was quiet and kept to himself, but had a very direct demeanor that Stefan appreciated.

  "Should I go over?" Stefan spoke aloud to himself. "No, it's all right. He doesn't like his nights interrupted. You need a good night’s sleep. Big day tomorrow…Big day." His voice wasn't loud enough for Bruce to hear as Stefan more or less muttered to himself. "Do me a favor will you?" He swirled the wine in the bottle. "Don't bombard our guests with your plans right away. Let them get settled in." Stefan tipped the bottle of wine back. "Yeah. Yeah, okay." He tipped it back once more. Once the wine slid down his throat and into his chest, he could feel his eyes grow tired. His time in the water had played him out. He liked what he saw in there, though. There were plenty of colorful fish that would be sure to satisfy the visitors. He was excited, but ready for bed.

  Chapter Two - Arrival

  Stefan's head hit the pillow crammed full with anxious thoughts. Three a.m. rolled around and sometime after, he drifted.

  He shot up in bed two hours later, his heart pounding. He turned his head toward his doorway and froze. Shadows of a man hovered in the doorway absent of light; the presence staring at him. It didn't have the correct shape. I'm still dreaming. His head was so unclear that he couldn't make two cents as to what was occurring. The further he leaned to the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the entrance, the more he realized it was the moonlight through the basement window reflecting off the steel door to his storage room. He rose to his feet and walked toward his opened bedroom door. Did I leave it open? I normally close it.

  Stefan chortled and closed the door. He had always been prone to nightmares as a child, and had been a sleepwalker all the way through and into adulthood. He had found, however, that his late night wanderings were usually attributed to high stress, often related to his conflicting feelings of school and his life's path. There were many sleepless nights because of this.

  Originally, he was concerned about the prospect of sleepwalking on an island in the middle of nowhere with the potential of going for a late-night swim, but ever since deciding to leave his unfit life behind, the sleepwalking had stopped completely.

  He put his head back on the pillow and told himself to quit being such a coward.

  ***

  He had to move. There was no time. He had to set the perimeter. Stefan popped up. No time to get dressed. He had to act fast.

  His bare feet stepped on sharp branches, scraping, stabbing. The cool sand shifted under his feet.
I must get…something. What am I getting again? Line the perimeter! Prepare for defense! The island night was not real; it was a mix of movement, of feelings without any order. Time…Time was all Stefan could feel. It coursed through his veins and filled up his lungs. He was racing toward the shoreline with a wheelbarrow. Is this a wheelbarrow? What's inside? Stefan tried to change his viewpoint, but he couldn't pull his focus away from the approaching water. He was getting close, but what for? His head was still locked in a vice, while his feet were moving swiftly. He used all of his strength to look downward. It looked like large steel traps of some kind.

  He saw boats approaching. They looked old. Almost like pirate ships. In a flash they were gone, and Stefan dropped to his knees and began setting the traps. On the edge of the wheelbarrow sat several sticks of dynamite as well. His clarity was worsening again as his heart thumped faster and faster against the clock, his time running thin. They were on their way whether he was ready or not.

  ***

  Stefan rolled over in bed to his alarm going off at seven. He recalled fragments of his dream but could already feel it fleeting from his mind's eye.

  The steam shower was invigorating. He came out feeling like a million bucks—wrong figure of speech, perhaps. Letting himself air dry, he gazed out his bedroom window, which was flush with the ground. The tropical trees made him vibrate with giddiness. He grabbed hold of a stylish short-sleeve button-up shirt, but set it aside and put on a sleeveless shirt instead. He tossed his Rolex watch in the drawer and instead put on an old Ninja Turtles digital that he had worn as a child.

  He walked down to the beach with flippers thrown over his shoulders, goggles around his neck, and coffee thermos in hand.

  The smell of his freshly pressed coffee was intoxicating, not to mention the powder-like sand between his toes and the sun reflecting off the water.