No Romance chapter 5

This is the first half of the first major action sequence in the book! The second part, chapter 6, should be posted later this week. 

Also, if you can, I need you to tell me what you think of the whole Annie mystery going on here. It's very important. 

Thanks.

Chapter 5. Escape from One Prison, Still in Another

Peter Patrovich was finally making peace with his brother, Thomas.

Though both had been given saintly names, they had not spoken in two years. Two years, three months, and fourteen days, to be precise (as well as a few hours). Unfortunately, they also happened to work at the same smuggling operation, and had done so for two years, three months, and fifteen days. (No extra hours this time; it was exact, down to a margin of error of about forty-six or forty-seven seconds.) So, for pretty much the entire time they worked at Golbez Industries, they were locked in a clause of silence. It was especially awkward as they belonged to the same toon.

            Two years, three months, and fourteen days ago, their immediate superior, who had just been promoted from the common guards, had been lost in some inconvenient, nomadic quicksand on a routine patrol. (This happens occasionally in such exotic landscapes, especially in adventure-ridden tropical jungles.) And because Peter was the only one not stupid enough to try and help the poor fellow, he had been promoted to the newly open position. By Golbez himself, no less, once Golbez had heard the story. (It made Golbez proud to be alive to hear of Peter’s quick thinking and rational behavior, so proud he even shed a tear.)
            Thomas was one of those who had tried to help their superior, Sergeant Clyde. Thomas had held Clyde’s hand in his own, pulling and tugging with all his might as Peter yelled something at the both of them in the background, something about “wriggling your legs around” and some curses about both of their idiocy. Thomas had always doubted Peter’s pronouncements, and this seemed to be the last straw. Watching a man die in such a horrible way, and feeling his fingers slip from yours as he screams and his mouth fills up with fine sand, clay, and salt water, and that while being called an idiot and some other hurtful words by your own big brother, and then watching as the person who calls you an idiot, your own brother, gets promoted instead of you...

Well, it’s easy to imagine why there would be a fight, and why Thomas would pout for a long time afterward. (“Pouting Thomas” they called him.)

But funnily enough, as these things often go, they had forgotten what they had been fighting over in the first place! They had been brought together by the Head Hermano himself, Amon Dem, who heard about their strained relations and stepped in to unite the brothers. And it was just as they were laughing about old jokes and Uncle Al and cousin Chrissy, and right in the crescendo of a tear-stained embrace, they got the news of a strange and mysterious shipment.

            “Uh, sir?” said one of the brown-skinned slave workers, clearing his throat. His voice was too timid to be heard over the hustle and bustle of the unloading in the receiving bay, however. But then again, he didn’t have to say anything. As Peter, his embrace with Thomas complete, walked out away from the receiving bay, Thomas noticed he was standing in a rather large shadow, and turned around to find the crate. He craned his neck up to see its height, then stepped back several paces and met the eyeline of the worker. The rectangular wooden crate behind him stood twenty feet tall and thirty feet long. A black stenciled stamp on its side read “Some Assembly Required.”
            “Well what the hell is it?” Thomas asked the worker, assault rifle resting casually in his hands.
            The worker shrugged helplessly and mouthed wordlessly.
            “Well where the hell did it come from?”
            “No...no idea, I do not know, sir,” said the worker, his voice shaking. In the background, a group of six other workers watched; they had all triumphed over the one in a rock-paper-scissors tournament to determine who should inform the authorities of this mysterious, mammoth shipment.
            “Open it up and see what’s inside then!” barked Thomas. Then, calling out after his brother, “Hey, Peter! Sergeant Patrovich! Come over here a moment! I think we’re going to need some authority.”
            As Peter heard and made his way back to his brother, the worker motioned for his colleagues to assist him in prying open the crate. One motioned for the crane to pull the top off, and once this was done the workers took up their personal crowbars (which were as standard issue for the slave workers as assault rifles were for the guards) and started prying open each side in turn. When pried enough, they combined their strength to let the particular side of the crate down easy. They took the dramatic route of doing the side nearest the Patrovich boys last, finally exposing, with a great THWAMP, what lay inside.
            A catapult, of all things. Large one, too, with twenty-foot long beam and massive bucket at its end, though the stopping bar was only five feet high. Some parts were loose, confirming the message on the outside of the box.
            They all stood in silence a while, blinking as they took in the sight.
            “We didn’t order this,” Thomas said, finally. “We did not order a giant catapult. I guarantee you, this is a mistake.”
            “We just unload the ships, sir,” said one of the workers helplessly. “We don’t place orders ---”
            “Then tell me where the hell the ship came from!” Peter said, cutting off the worker.

“We don’t know, we just ---”

“I need you to find out. Now, you lazy bastards!”

            All seven workers jumped, then scrambled off in different directions as ordered.
            Peter turned to his brother.
            “Isn’t it fantastic to be on such good terms again?” he said.
            “Brotherly love is a beautiful thing,” said Thomas, and the two embraced again.

---

“...amen, amen, amen!” Jack sung, finishing his improvised medley of negro spirituals with vigor and vim. In the punctuating silence he blinked, despite the darkness, and looked around, as if waiting, or perhaps hoping, for an echo to his resounding crescendo. Sadly, though, because he was alone, he could not get an amen.
            But he wasn’t quite alone, and he knew that. He was aware of our presence, watching him in the cell, and he was waiting. Waiting for us to do something. Waiting for the narrative to progress. And, continuing to wait, he slid down the wall from his sitting position till his cheek touched the cold stone floor. Here, he waited.
            But we were waiting, too.
            This thought came to him as if he were aware of these very words being written, and he slid right back on up. In that moment he determined that this cell lacked a few too many visitors. Jack had expected them to come shortly after that Vanasmas bloke came by with his threats of death and so forth, but here he was, singing to himself about “peace at last,” utterly uninterrupted.
            “I need to do something,” he said to himself.
            Bother the guard, provoke him into opening the cell to give the brash young man a lesson in pain? Would work wonderfully (as it always has), but there wasn’t any guard.
            Complain that he’s sick to the guard, or that he needed to go to the bathroom?
            No guard, he remembered. Right.
            No one to trick or win over or beat up. No one at all. And no other steps coming down the dark prison hall.
            Jack stood up quickly and went to the cell door. He pushed then pulled. It didn’t give.
            Darn, he thought, and scratched his head. They didn’t accidentally leave it unlocked. That happened sometimes. Apparently these guys here on Rainswept Isle knew what they were doing better than Jack originally thought. They might end up being a formidable enemy, maybe kind of.
            All this meant, of course, that there was some way to escape in this cell, a secret passage or some kind of ventilation shaft he could crawl through. Given that the lighting wasn’t great, he could have easily missed a hole in the wall or a grate he could pull off or some other kind of nonsense.
            He started moving around the cell, beginning with the iron bars, tugging each one to test for weakness. All proved effectively forte, so he moved to the far wall and started groping at it, assertively moving his hands over every inch, feeling for a weakness in the material or anything out of the ordinary at all. The wall was surprisingly smooth but also disappointingly impenetrable.
            As he started on the final wall, the one he had originally been sitting against, he muttered with teeth clenched, “Why else would it be taking so long?”
            Then his fingers, moving from the top down to the bottom, touched his jacket, which lay there on the floor where he had been sitting.
            “Oh,” he said.

---

            The catapult had come from a ship called the Ex Nihilo. Beyond that, the workers had found out nothing, as there were no crewmembers on the ship. It gave them an ominous, creeping feeling to explore what could very well have been a ghost ship, piloted by the spirits of the dead. They did, however, discover a note left in the captain’s quarters door saying, “That one big package is meant for Golbez, for a science project of Dr. Aperture’s. Toodles!”
            The workers had brought the note with them.
            “I don’t recall Golbez ordering a giant catapult, but it does seem like something he’d do, doesn’t it?” said the superior, Peter Patrovich.
            “Mm. I wouldn’t be surprised,” said the inferior, Thomas Patrovich.
            “Are you disrespecting our leader?” Peter said angrily, bringing up his automatic to aim at Thomas’s belly.
            “No, no!” Thomas said with alarm. “I just mean...once I heard him as he walked by saying something about Hampshire and potato-berries.”
            “So? I bet lots of people talk about Hampshire and potato-berries.”
            “But right after that I heard him putting in an order for a stretch Hummer from America. And both times he was completely alone.”
            “Just watch your tone, little brother. We can get along easier that way.”
            “Fine, fine,” said Thomas.
            All present stared at the catapult silently for a moment.

“Well, get to putting it all together, then,” Peter barked to the workers. “And when you’re done, put it in the Protected Zone.”

“Curious place, that zone,” said Thomas. “What with the mines and that weird window in the warehouse right next to it. The only window in the whole west warehouse.”

“Fascinating, brother. Now get to work, you bastards!”

            The workers somberly played rock-paper-scissors again to determine who would take it into the Protected Zone. The one who lost before and had to deliver the news of the crate lost again. What an unfortunate day he was having. His name was Gilbert.

---

            Jack had been sitting on the jacket, not wearing it. But he hadn’t realized this, of course; it was just how he had woken up in the cell. Someone must have removed it from him while he was unconscious.
            But who would have the foresight to do that?
            Probably both Paula and Vanasmas, actually, Jack thought reasonably. No mystery there.
            So now the question was whether or not he should put on the damb thing.
            After staring at it for a while he still felt unsure about that. He knew he wouldn’t get out of this cell until he put it on, but...but that would mean giving in to the gods once again. Once more they had him frustrated, cornered. And so Jack frowned and sighed...at the same time.
            ...before putting on the jacket.
            At that instant the out-of-sight door creaked open, and did not close. The lights didn’t come on this time, but a slice of daylight from the door lit a few inches of Jack’s cell. Someone started walking down the stairs, then down the hall getting closer and closer to Jack’s cell, short little steps, moving at a quick pace. Then the person entered Jack’s vision, crossing in front of his cell. The light illuminated a tan-colored trench coat, a bowed head of short brown hair, and a face trying to keep hidden for just a fraction of a second before entering the darkness again. Just before exiting stage right, the figure tossed a couple of things that sounded like keys and something made of steel through the bars of the cell. They clattered on the stone ground in the shadows.
            “Hey, hey!” Jack shouted, moving toward the bars. But Annie didn’t stop, instead quickening her pace and starting to run. The steps grew fainter and fainter as they went deeper into the prison. In the near silence that followed Jack heard a distant door open and close. So apparently there was a way out that end, too.
            And now Jack had keys. And a gun, as he found out. Annie had delivered Wrench to him. Jack sighed again, though this time in relief and pleasure as he picked up Wrench, admired it for a moment, then stuffed it into his belt.
            But as he picked up the former from the ground, shouts and sounds of marching men mingled with the jangling of the keys in his hand. Now they were coming. Right when Jack would have expected them to be there had he not been trying to figure out the Annie angle.
            He muttered some adorable curses under his breath as he fumbled with the various keys on the ring. Per usual, the last key Jack tried on the padlock opened up the door. As it swung open and he started dashing down the prison hall, empty cells on either side, he thought about the possibility of tricking his would-be executioners into entering the cell, then locking them inside somehow. But unfortunately the plan didn’t come into his mind fully formed, and he didn’t have time to develop it properly. Plus, it would just be a whole lot more complicated than running and shooting. That he could do, and he knew that either way it would work out the same. Whatever the gods wanted, right?
            Damb them, he thought as he came upon the end of the hall and found the stairs and door Annie had taken. He paused with his right hand gripping the steel door handle. Behind him he heard more yells, something about an escaped prisoner or summat. Jack wondered why they all wanted to kill him so badly, then remembered that he was a main character and those are always in danger so why should he be any different and what would happen if he just stood there and waited for them to come across him...But then a few gunshots went off and he jumped and pulled open the door, and after all that, he finally stepped into the sweltering heat and the sunlight.
            Which, of course, burned his eyes and gave him an instant, searing headache. As he blinked and gained his bearings, he discovered he had emerged from underneath one of the warehouses, the basement of which must have been the prison area. In fact, he was in an alleyway between two of the three warehouses, rather fortuitously deserted for the moment. He was just about to remark on his luck by cursing the gods once more when we caused a loud noise to start blaring. It didn’t use any words, but if it did it would be saying this:
ESCAPEDPRISONEREVERYONELISTENTHEREISANESCAPEDPRISONERHEYGUYSDOYOUHEARWHATIAMSAYINGTHEREISAN ESCAPEDPRI ---
            That’s about the gist of it, and when that blaring sound started up, the whole smuggling operation dissolved into chaos. In the midst of all that noise---random gunfire for indiscernible reasons; shouts and yells (“What the heck is going on?” being one of the more common lines); the alarm pounding in everybody’s ears---and, in the midst of all that noise, Jack heard Paula’s voice loudest and clearest of all.
            “He’s going out between the warehouses, you idiots! Numbskulls, cretins, do-nothings---” and then it devolved from there into rather salty language that made even Jack McDowell blush and grow astonished that Paula could ever possibly be related to Annie. Maybe they were lost, estranged twins who were separated at birth and raised by different parents, Annie by a quaint little family and Paula by the kind of people who steal babies from bassinets.
            In any case, all that sound and fury, signifying nothing (as pulp fiction goes), convinced Jack to leave the place he was in, as it was about to be invaded by guards with guns and the ability to use them (though not, he knew, the ability to successfully aim them at such a figure as he). And to his pleasure, he spotted a side door into the other warehouse he could zip through, which he did.
            The sound of the incessant alarm deadened, as did the gunfire and shouts, and inside Jack found rows and rows of merchandise piled up near to the fifty-foot-high ceiling, nice orderly aisles neatly dividing them, looking, in all, like a large hardware store Jack had once entered in more civilized parts. Back then he had come in needing to buy a literal wrench. Remembering this, he brought out his figurative Wrench, then put it back in his belt. He had just needed a reminder that he possessed a firearm. The firearm.
            Good to know, he thought.
            But now where to go? He sought a way out, or a place to hide, or...well, he wasn’t really sure what he wanted right now. So he just kept moving through the warehouse as he surveyed the whole place. Though Jack kept to the shadows, the warehouse was strangely empty. Maybe all the workers had heard the alarm and moved out in attempt to catch the escaping hero, not having heard of his exact whereabouts in the facility. In fact, Jack concluded this was probably the case.
            Bad AI, he thought. But he did take note that this would be a great place for a firefight, should he return here later in the story. All these crates and aisles and corners to turn...
            He heard the door he had entered through kicked open, and a few gunmen troop in. By now he was sufficiently embedded amongst the crates, but he knew that he would be found eventually, and the situation would indeed turn into a firefight if he didn’t get out soon. And he didn’t really want to be cornered here with the entire smuggler army searching for him and yada yada yada.
            (He didn’t feel like completing the thought.)
            The first movement a crouching man must make is standing up. (While this is not universally true, it’s what Jack did, and that’s all that counts, right?) As his feet pushed upward and the knees locked into place, Jack questioned what made him stand up right then, because he stood in plain view of a pursuer at the far end of an aisle. They stared at each other. Jack waved.

Then strolled out of view.

After establishing this stylistic flair, Jack bolted. Not towards anything in particular, just away. Then a window caught his eye. Straight ahead of him, actually. Suspiciously placed. And it was because of that suspicious placement that Jack knew he was supposed to jump through it. He brought up Wrench to fire some bulletholes in it,

but they bounced off.

Bulletproof.

“OH THIS IS GONNA---”

Because of his hero-ness, he dived anyway, and the glass shattered anyway, and he didn’t break his neck anyway. Post-impact, he didn’t have the presence of mind to purposefully do a shoulder roll, but he did that anyway, too. And he landed it all on his feet, striking a picture-perfect pose for the finish. The gods were truly and obviously with him.
          Damb them.

Then he gauged his surroundings. Thirty feet ahead of him a tall chain link fence with barbed wire atop it barred his way forward. Just on the other side of the fence lay the jungle, deep, dark, foreboding, and to Jack, liberating, but impossible to reach. To the right the fence lined the border of the jungle, curling around to enclose a mysterious compound just a bit out of Jack’s view. He quickly determined that he was on the far west side of the whole smuggling complex, at its very edge. The route to the right that would take him along the fence opened up into the receiving bay, and the docks themselves, though, as mentioned, the farther side. Lots of guards that way. Lots of guns. Lots of noise, including the increased volume of the alarm. But Jack felt safe for now, as few knew his exact position at that moment. Except, obviously, for those guards who had followed him through the warehouse.

So, covered in sweat from both the heat and the chase, Jack ran to his left, the opposite direction of the receiving bay and the weird compound. This juncture’s increased depth of the sand stunted his steps, slowing his speed significantly. Not a good thing, and rather annoying, to be racing on the beach. He didn’t realize at first why the sand had suddenly gotten sandier, not until he rouned the corner of the warehouse and emerged into full view of the entire smuggling base. Everything stopped for a full eight seconds, and all the noise fell silent. This included the alarm, increasing the odds in Jack’s mind that it was operated by a sentient computer system, though a sentient computer system with a lot to prove.

It was like somebody had pressed the pause button.

Jack took this time to realize that he was not meant to go this way. So at the conclusion of those eight seconds, he whirled around and sprinted back through the thirty-foot-wide alleyway between the warehouse and the ugly chain link fence. The sand and dirt got sturdier here, giving him better traction and better purchase with each step. Yes, this was certainly the right way to go. The gods had led him here.

---

Thomas and Peter Patrovich had been alerted by the worker that the catapult had been built and deposited in the Protected Zone. The worker, Gilbert, seemed to be relieved. Probably because he had survived the Protected Zone.

            “Not done yet,” said Peter to a dismayed worker. “Show us. You could be lying and then go off and blend in with all the other of your people. Impossible to tell apart, these slaves.”
            Gilbert, feeling very sorry for himself, led them to the Protected Zone. En route, the alarm started ringing out, quite loudly and quite annoyingly.
            “What the hell is that?” Peter said, letting go of his rifle to cover up his ears. Most of the people around him in the receiving bay did the same, although the workers had no rifles to drop.
            “The escaped prisoner drill,” said Thomas. “I remember from Orientation Day when we first got hired.”
            “Just a drill?”
            “I think so. We’ve never had actual prisoners before. Not that I’m aware of.”
            “Well, let’s continue on then,” said Peter, gruffly, picking up his gun with one hand. “It does sound like a lot of hullabaloo over on the other side of the warehouses. I can hear gunshots.”
            “They said the drills might be like that. I’m not sure if those are real guns. Might be just sound effects. Golbez said in the orientation that he wants the drills to be as realistic as possible.”
            “I tell you, brother, I’m glad we’re best friends again, because I forgot about all that stuff in training. I’m more of a practical kind of guy, and you remember the theory. Well done.”
            “We make a great team, I agree,” said an agreeable Thomas.
            They made it to the Protected Zone, the worker ahead of the guards. Just as Thomas opened his mouth to grudgingly give praise to the worker on the truly fine job he did, they heard the sounds of a chase behind them, and turned around, taking their guns in hand instinctively. Unfortunately they only had time to see the flash of a black jacket and two discharges of a steel revolver before they died.
            As a team.
            As brothers.

Chapter 4 redone

I redid the ending of chapter 4 a bit. This is the closer-to-official version. 

The indentations are weird, I know. 

Chapter 4. Prisoner, in One Way or Another

                Was it?

                “Annie?” Jack said, head tilted in curiosity.

                “Her equal and opposite,” said the woman in a silky, almost seductive voice. “I am Paula.”

                Then she walked over and punched him in the face.

                As he recovered from seeing stars, he reflected on her words. This must be her sister, he thought. So Annie had told the truth as to her purposes with this visit. (Funnily enough, so had Jack.)

                Jack didn’t have much time to take in her whole image, because a few seconds later one of the men grabbed him roughly and tied his wrists, while another stuffed a black bag over his head. But what he saw was such a departure from Annie that he wondered how he recognized the face at all.

                While technically having the same face (twins, no doubt), and even technically the same skin tone, Paula seemed darker, more exotic. She had a more atmospheric glow about her, if that makes any sense. Oh, a different aura, that’s the word. Her hair, black with streaks of gold, fell to her shoulders, a bit past where Annie’s did. She wore skin-tight black military leggings and a skin-tight black t-shirt; no male could possibly miss the curves and contours of her body. Her face expressed an animalistic fierceness and even seductiveness that Annie, poor thing, could never have possessed. Annie’s innocence, so childish and sweet in her interactions with Jack, had been replaced in Paula by knowledge, by experience, by raw power. To imagine the frequent blushing of Annie on Paula’s face would be a silly endeavor indeed. But one thing remained the same: Paula’s lips, like Annie’s, were the color of strawberries.

                And that’s as far as Jack got before they put the bag over his head. This move irked him, but not because it made it harder to walk. He was just tired of the pointlessness of it.

                “Guys,” Jack said through the bag, “I already know exactly where you’re taking me; there’s really no need to keep it a secret. You’re smugglers, and I’m being taken to your base, which I’ve already seen.”

                Someone punched him in the side of the head, evidently to try to shut him up. Jack almost laughed, because he could tell the punch hurt the attacker’s hand more than it had his head.

                Idiots with balloons, that’s all they are, Jack thought as they tied his hands behind his back.

                Then another blow came, this time from a foot, and the pain this time Jack found far more acute. This one seemed to have been delivered by Paula.

                “Shut up and get marching,” came Paula’s voice, severe.

                Jack obliged, curious at all these things, and patient enough to wait to see how they’d turn out. And as they marched him through the jungle, passing between big leafy branches and itchy, irritating foliage, he tried to put the pieces together. When he failed at that---it would really require a lot of guesswork, and he knew that now in the story wasn’t the point when his guesses would be perfectly correct; that would come later on---he decided to wait just a few minutes more to show his willingness to comply with their rules, and then strike up a conversation with Paula, to see what he could glean.

                Right when he opened his mouth to speak, however, Jack tripped spectacularly on a protruding root, falling face first to the ground.

                “That rather hurt,” Jack remarked to the group from the jungle floor. “Good thing I have this bag on so no dirt got in my mouth.” He was raised up roughly, but no one said a word in response. He then directed his words at where he thought Paula would be. “Always look at the bright side, am I right? Like Annie, the brighter side of you. You are twins, right? Come on, answer my question.”

                “To answer your question, yes, we were crouching there for at least twenty minutes,” Paula said in reply to the first question Jack asked in her presence.

                “No, my other question. The question I asked after that, MUCH after that. The question I asked just now.”

                “You’re wrong; it is not always wise to ‘look on the bright side.’”

                “The question after that,” Jack said after a sigh.

                “We are nothing alike. Nothing at all. Dr. Aperture tells us we share the same genetic code, but it’s hard to believe him, even though he’s a man of such great science.”

                Jack didn’t know who Dr. Aperture was, but frankly, he didn’t care. He took this time to identify more differences between Annie and Paula. For instance, Jack noticed that her voice, though it always retained the potential for silkiness, sounded harsher, more crisp. She spoke directly, with assertiveness and not a second’s hesitation, nothing at all like Annie’s flustered talk. Paula’s speech, it could be said, needed no ellipses.

                “So did you find me at random or did Annie send for you?”

                Jack had a lot of questions, as there were several possible explanations. This question seemed to entail the most useful answer. It seemed impossible to Jack that Annie going off into the jungle last night had nothing to do with Paula showing up the next morning.

                And he was right.

                “Annie sent for me,” Paula said.

                So did that make Annie a traitor, a liar, something of the kind? Jack chose to go back further to more carefully divine the truth.

                “So you told Annie all about this island, huh? And the smugglers? And your business here?”

                Paula didn’t answer that one.

                “How much did Annie know?” Jack said with a warmer temper. “And what the hell was she doing on that plane if she knew how to find you, and all that crap?”

                He was surprised he hadn’t been told to shut up yet, and hadn’t had to endure the butt of a gun cracking over his skull when he kept talking. There was never any reason for that in the other stories; wouldn’t the armed escorts want to pass the time a bit faster through conversation, too? And honestly, what would they have to hide? So Jack appreciated that he was allowed to talk freely.

                “Shut up,” said one of the armed escorts, and Jack felt the butt of a gun cracking over his skull.

                “Mr. McDowell,” said Paula, as the whole company stopped. She lifted the bag over Jack’s head enough to expose his face. “Or Mr. Smith, as you call yourself sometimes. I’m telling you this and I’m not telling you anything more: Annie is ridiculous and a fool. But she is family; she is a part of fjme, so even if I hate her, I will protect her. And believe me when I say, I’m dangerous...very dangerous.”

                An odd thing to come out of those strawberry lips.

                “But ---”

                “Shh shh shh,” she said, putting two fingers on his mouth. Her fingers then traced their way down his neck, shoulder, and arm until they reached his bicep, where they gave a little squeeze. “You’re a handsome man, Jack McDowell,” Paula said softly, seductively. Her hand moved back up to his cheek where she gave him the slightest of slaps. “Don’t make me change that.”

                Her eyes lingered on him as she slowly turned back around to lead the march through the jungle. Jack’s face remained exposed, which Paula clearly intended, for right as they began again a very bushy branch swung up backwards, hitting him in the face.

                Fair enough, he thought, cringing as the branches scratched his face.

                The jungle soon opened up, ushering in the salty air of the sea, and Jack once more took in the view of the smugglers’ base on the shore of a curving cove, albeit this time from a different angle. The bright blue of the water and the whiteness of the sand would have instilled in one a yearning for ice cream, or perhaps smoothies, if not for the dirty browns and grays of the warehouses and shipping bays. A very tall steel tower stood on the far side of the compound, clearly acting as a watchtower, for on top sat a crow’s nest inhabited by several men with guns. Several more men with guns populated the base, as well as men without guns, just as Jack and Annie had seen before, all going to and fro, some driving vehicles, some loading crates, some marching here or there. The guards wore military regalia and plain white t-shirts; the workers wore rags and white cloth wrapped around their more sensitive regions. The sun beat down on them all, but especially on the workers, who had less covering and consequently much darker skin. Were they natives or imported from elsewhere?

                “Postcolonialism, eat your heart out,” Jack murmured under his breath.

                A few dormant ships floated at the docks in the cove, a couple being loaded up with large steel cargo boxes via two tall yellow cranes. In the far, far background the giraffe-shaped mainland continued to expose its long, slender neck to the curved blade peninsula of Rainswept Isle.

                The railroad bridge that connected the island to the mainland crossed through the base and then sped into the jungle. Jack remembered from his bird’s-eye-view in the seaplane that the railway came back out of the jungle roughly on the same side of the isle but several miles to the east, implying that somewhere in the jungle it pulled a very wide u-turn. Jack thought three things about this: one, that it would be rather fun to ride a train through a jungle; two, he wondered who on earth had built such a thing and why; and three, the train seemed to be a sure way of escaping this place.

                Jack had spotted a few different ways off the island: by train, by ship; or by sea, by the latter of which is meant swimming. But given his dearth of swimming-related skills, this last one wasn’t much of an option. Recall his tortoise-like fall out of the Ad Nihilum the other day, and his limited knowledge of strokes. Hell, he didn’t even know if “strokes” was the right word for them. Methods? Techniques? Laws?

                And by ship? Well, that might get him off the island, but it might just take him to another one afterward. He would have to find out where the given ship was going before committing to the lengthy process of sneaking aboard, staying hidden throughout the journey, and, once at the destination, escaping without anyone knowing. Elephantine chances of death at every step of the way.

                And as for the train, while it was his most plausible option, he didn’t know its schedule, nor where it went on the island besides around and back again. There could be dangers in the route he could only guess at now.

                So, no perfect options at this point in the story; the gods had denied him an easy escape. But this was all right. He felt sure he would be able to figure it out later, and he had someone to meet with first, anyway.

                And remarkably, getting caught and being safely led right into the middle of it all was...well, it wasn’t planned, but it did seem rather fortuitous to Jack, as this compound was his twofold destination; firstly because of his personal reason for being here, and secondly because here’s where all the villains were. That’s why he didn’t once try to escape or argue his way out of the whole being-captured-and-marched-at-gunpoint thing. He would submit cheerfully to the gods for now. (Notice how “for now” is there, right there at the end of that sentence. That’s the point of that sentence: he would submit cheerfully for now. Are we on the same page? I think we are. “For now,” you might reply.)

                And, confirming these feelings, a large sign across the top of the tallest warehouse read Golbez Industries. Jack smiled at seeing this, nodded once, and said, “Hm” in a satisfied way. Evidently it meant something to him. So even though he was smelly, scratchy, achy, breaky, and all else one would be after going through all he had gone through in the last 24 hours, he was happy.

                They led him down a sandy switchback path and into the depths of the smuggling operation. The place was less a small covert smuggling operation and more a full-fledged high-functioning business, almost a miniature city. It lacked a clearly-drawn residential section, but the several shelters they walked by — little shaded areas where guards sat on benches and refreshed themselves via drinks and snacks served by slave waiters — impressed Jack, and he enviously longed for a glass of pink liquid he saw in the hand of one guard. Though unsure if it were a smoothie, strawberry milk, or pepto-bismol, it looked amazing to Jack’s thirsty, hungry eyes, and his stomach growled.

                But the guards deserved their breaks. All that guarding they were doing took a lot of out of them. Having to keep the slaves in line and hold their guns threateningly and make small talk to each other...a guard’s work is never done! Until he is killed, of course. The fate of all such henchfellows....

                More to the point, Paula led the group through the compound, down corridors of chain-link fencing into a receiving bay where workers loaded up vehicles that looked like baggage transports from airports. Managing guards directed the cargo to the warehouse each shipment belonged in. As they passed down one side of a warehouse, Jack glanced upwards to find a conveyor belt system that wrapped around, and wondered where the belt led to. Probably to the train station, he determined. So where did that train go to, anyway?

                They found themselves in the midst of a large, surprisingly well-focused group of guards and workers. (It was as if they actually believed in the work they were doing!) It took several a few shouts for Paula to get the attention she so dearly deserved.

                “Hey! Listen to me! Everyone, shut the hell up, I have something to say!” she barked. She pushed Jack out in the center of the group. “Take a good look at this face, lads! You’re liable to be chasing and shooting at him one of these days, so note some of his characteristics. You’ll see in looking at him that visually, he is a perfect specimen of the male sex. Notice the effortless, windswept hair that falls just so over his forehead. His high cheekbones and his gorgeous eyes. See the stubble on his face that won’t ever grow any longer. And remember his jacket. That’s his most prominent marking. You see anyone in a similar jacket out there in your patrols, you shoot to kill. But don’t aim for his face. We want to keep that much intact.”

                Then she smiled her seductive smile and winked at Jack. After a moment of another lingering stare (at which Jack frowned), she again barked at the gathered guards, this time to get back to work, and returned to leading Jack and the escort guards through the base.

                After passing around the corner of a twenty-foot chain link fence they came to a stretch of empty white beach. Jack almost wanted to play in it, frolick in the surf, but that wouldn’t be very heroic of him. Which, of course, made him want to play in it all the more.

                Ahead of them, across the vacant shore, part of the beach rose up into a cliff, and the other part curled around it, out of view. On top of this cliff, and accessible via a green grassy hill, stood an expansive villa, built partly on the cliff overlooking the sea. There seemed to be a whole separate compound for this villa, for it was connected with other auxiliary buildings that extended behind it into the depths of the jungle.

                A handrail lined the cliff’s edge, and Jack eyed an old man with a bushy white mustache and matching eyebrows leaning against it on his elbows. A huge revolver hung loosely in his hand as he casually surveyed the sight below. Jack wondered if that was the man he was looking for.

                From around the curving cliffside, right at its base, came a tan-colored open top jeep, driving down what could hardly be called a “road,” but rather a pathway that looked slightly discolored compared to the ground around it. Paula ran out from the group to flag it down, shouting what sounded like “Golbez, Golbez.” The jeep stopped, but not until it and Paula were too far away for their voices to be heard. Jack did not get a great look at the men in the jeep, but enough to make out a bulky and impossibly huge-looking man in the driver’s seat, and an older, fatter one with tan-colored skin, round glasses, and a white lion’s mane of a beard around his chin sitting shotgun. The glasses reflected the sun, making it impossible to see his eyes. It was this one that captured Jack’s interest the most. Once again he whispered “Hm” to himself, but this time with a more contemplative inflection. And for some reason, Benny Hill music was playing in his head.

                As Paula approached, the heavy man in shotgun stood up in the jeep and made some gestures. He looked angry. When they were done speaking, the jeep drove off and Paula jogged back to the group.

Jack opened his mouth to say something (he wasn’t sure what, yet) and Paula accordingly socked him in the jaw. He stumbled back, and when Paula saw that he was still conscious, groaned, and tried a second time.

                “Must have missed the right spot,” she muttered as she cocked back and threw her small but powerful fist at his chin again. This time it had the intended effect: Jack was out cold.

                Jack woke up...in a prison cell!

                Not much of a prison cell, though. A pretty typical one, about ten by ten feet, and undoubtedly underground, as there were no windows, which might not have been a sure indicator, but Jack decided that the cell felt very undergroundy anyway, and he was right. Very little light, cramped, hard  stone floor and adobe-like walls on three sides. The fourth side was made up of iron bars, as prisons often go. Between three proverbial hard places and a fourth, different kind of hard place. (Iron bars aren’t terribly proverbial, but they are still very hard. Have you ever been hit by one? The argument gets complicated when we come to the definition of “place.”)

                In any case, Jack found it really quite an uncomfortable place to wake up from unconsciousness in. Bits of straw were strewn here and there, probably more for dramatic effect than any pragmatic reason. (Primitive prison cells generally have straw in them, for whatever reason.) He huddled in a corner attempting to get over the pounding pain in his head. He’d been hit there a lot recently, and it was just now catching up to his brain.

                At first he tried to do this by thinking through his situation, guessing what was going on with the mystery of Annie. This, however, literally made his head hurt. All the questions hurtling at his brain, received and amplified in the pulsating throbs, pushed out his capability to reason, and even, to a certain extent, care.

                But he knew he must. He was trapped here until he figured...something out. Annie, an investigative reporter investigating a tropical island her assassin twin sister had tipped her off to as being filled with smugglers, criminals, murderers, plunderers, thieves, really incompetent guards, the like. The killing of the hero, the passing of the torch, the crashing of a plane. Then of course Hilti, the New Zealander on the plane, the onetime pilot, then murderer, then paratrooper...what was that all about? Hilti had (rather tropishly) mentioned a map...

                A map Jack refused to look for, or care about. He had come here for personal reasons, not to find treasure or free an enslaved people or stop a smuggling operation. He had officially decided he didn’t care about any of those things, and refused several offers he had received from rich investors and prestigious collectors of antiquities to go off on silly adventures. He was here for one reason only. A reason he had thought those gods of pulp fiction would respect, and wouldn’t be able to twist into an adventure.

                He really should have thought about it a little more. Heading to a business located on an obscure, secret, tropical island? He sighed, very angry at himself.

                Then he frowned.

                He had lived through these kinds of situations time and time again, had revealed mysteries, answered riddles, and more than anything else, solved puzzles left by ancient peoples protecting treasure that only the right one could discover. Given all this, Jack would have thought he’d be tired of more questions to answer. But Annie, blasted Annie....

                Probably shouldn’t have been so hard on her, he thought. But I had to be. I had to crush her crush so I wouldn’t get bound up again. So I could be free.

                And look where I am now.

                Ah, well, that’s the punishment of the gods for my rebellion. What an ironic punishment. Take away my liberty to move around because I didn’t make out with a girl I’d just met earlier in the day. But of course, all my previous romances never started that early, so why should this one have?

                Oh yes, he had previous romances. Either they died tragically in his arms, or somehow disappeared within a few days of the adventure ending, of getting back to the States. In dealing with Annie later on, he supposed he could assuage his guilt by explaining to her the possibility of the former fate: he wouldn’t let himself fall in love with her to protect her, so that she wouldn’t die. There would be a significant chance of her dying if they gave in to romantic impulses, he could tell her. Of course, that might make her fall in love with him even more. Hmm...

                Her tearful face, lit by the glow of the fire, surfaced in his mind, joining with the throbs already there to create guilt, a sharp guilt that could not be disassociated from the physical pain.

                It annoyed him.

                They’d better not keep me in here for long, he thought.

                Then he realized they’d probably be keeping him in here as long as it took for him to reach a certain conclusion, some sort of epiphany. If he refused to think about it, he’d be damned to this cell until he exerted effort. A perfect example of how oddly the passage of time worked in Jack’s life. And how little choice he had in his day-to-day life. (And understand, this was indeed his day-to-day life.)

                So to get out, Jack had to make some kind of discovery or realization. He wasn’t sure whether he needed a grand one or just a little moment of remembrance, something to spark a plan in his mind of how to get away from the smuggling base to freedom and safety. A plan that would inevitably go wrong, forcing him to improvise....

                The problem was, he didn’t want to get out of the smuggling base. He needed to be here to accomplish his personal mission. But how to gain a conference with those persons whom he needed to meet? Would the god be okay with that? Could they compromise, and combine his own purposes with theirs?

                What was it they wanted of him?

                At that moment, a light switched on.

                Followed by several others, a series of dirty bulbs hanging from the ceiling that illuminated the rest of the prison, which had escaped Jack’s attention before. The light hanging directly in front of his cell flickered on and off, and emitted an eerie zapping sound in parallel.

                Then, from his spot on the cell floor, Jack heard other sounds. Creak of a door, leather shoes stepping down steel stairs, slam of a door, more stairs. The switch for the lights must have been outside the jail.

                And here came the switcher, creaker, stepper now:

                A brown-skinned Indian man, wearing only a small red vest over a fit tattooed body and dark parachute pants. Long black hair in a ponytail trailed down his back. At first Jack didn’t know if by “Indian” he meant actually from India or a Native American, but it soon became apparent that he meant the latter. Still, the ethnicity seemed to be mixed to some degree. A mixture of what, Jack wasn’t sure. He stood up to meet him at the iron bars.

                The Indian man spoke in a calm, demure voice, never varying in tone or volume.

                 “I can see who you are,” he said. “You are a prisoner. A condemned soul.”

                “Perceptive of you,” Jack spat. He wasn’t sure if he meant it sarcastically or seriously. He also wasn’t sure why he spat. Bitterness seemed to fit at the moment, he supposed.

                 “I can set you free,” said the Indian.

                 “In which way do you mean?”

                The Indian man smiled a very wide smile that could have meant either he was exceedingly cheerful or exceedingly amused or exceedingly evil. Perhaps exceeding all three.

                 “My name is Vanasmas. I am here to investigate who you are,” said the Indian.

The flickering bulb just above his head cast down varying judgments of light. Sometimes in the dark, sometimes in the light. It confused Jack.

                 “I’m investigating too,” Jack said, glowering and turning away. “And so…so was Annie…”

                 “Who?”

                Jack looked at Vanasmas sharply. Annie…an investigative reporter…investigating him... that was the first realization. The second was that this man, obviously having some authority, did not know the name Annie. And yet Paula had supposedly found Jack because Annie had found her, meaning Annie was around here somewhere, but maybe... hiding?

                 “Nothing,” Jack said. “Vanasmas, you said your name was? What nationality is that?”

                The Indian ignored his question and returned fire.

                 “You say your name is Jack MacDowell. Are you sure that’s your real name?”

                 “Pretty sure.”

                 “You didn’t steal it from anyone else?”

                 “I’m not a thief.”

                 “Your real name is not Smith? Ruggles Smith? The name you had on your plane ticket?”

                 “My name can be whatever you want it to be. But wait, how do you have the plane ticket? How do you know what name...”

                 “We investigate all those who come to this island, my friend.”

Jack started to think about that, but Vanasmas pressed on, somehow interrupting his thoughts with his words. (Words can be very powerful.)

                “Now, if you are being completely honest with me when you say your name is Jack MacDowell…“

                 “Oh, I hear it now. No, my name isn’t Jack MacDowell.”

                 “Oh?”

                 “No, it’s Jack McDowell.”

                 “That does make a difference,” said Vanasmas, calmly. “But not entirely.”

                “I’m here to see Golbez,” Jack said boldly.

                “Oh?” said Vanasmas, looking only mildly surprised. “I still must find out who you are, Jack McDowell. It is very much important to me. But I do believe I can see much already. I can see the prisoner in your eyes. It is so very sad. I see bitterness. I see entrapment. So very much anger. At the spirits, no less. My friend, one should never have so much negative energy directed at the great spirits that compose our life. One must live in harmony, in balance. There is so very much good to seek after. Meditation can truly help you in that search. Here, I will show you the spirits I have applied to my own temple.”

                He lifted his left arm and flexed. He pointed to an animal on his bicep. In the flickering light it was hard to discern its exact shape. No matter; Vanasmas proceeded to explain.

                 “This is Burro Bill. He is the donkey of donkeys. He is also my closest friend.”

                Vanasmas opened his vest up and exposed a large image of an eagle with a fish in its claws, soaring up from the surface of a lake.

                 “This is Swiftfast. I call him that because is so very fast.”

                Then on his right arm, a monstrous, coiling snake, wrapped around his bicep.

                 “This is Monty. He is a Python. Sometimes he threatens to swallow Burro Bill whole. It is at these times I find meditation most effective. It calms the spirits, replacing their anger with the peace of a waterfall.”

                 “Aren’t waterfalls noisy and violent?”

                At this Vanasmas narrowed his eyes on Jack, and did not say anything for a full ten seconds. Then, very slowly, he raised up his arm and, without looking, reached up to the flickering bulb. He took it in his hand….then crushed it with a single squeeze.

                Darkness and quite a lot of pain were the immediate results. “Ow!” Vanasmas exclaimed under his breath, wincing as his hand was sliced by the shards of the broken bulb. “Ow ow ow ow ow.” He took a few deep breaths as he shook the shards from his hand and tried to regain his former composure.

Jack stared incredulously, nearly to the point where he would raise an eyebrow.

                “Sometimes balance must be achieved by violence,” Vanasmas said, trying to not react to the pain. “I know who you really are, my friend, my brother. I know what you’re here to do. And so the gods must be appeased, and the opposing spirits extinguished. Therefore, I am going to set you free.”

                “How are you going to do that?”

                “By kilting you. No, darn it,” he cursed under his breath. “I mean, by killing you.”

                “How?”

                “Shooting you.”

                “Won’t work,” said Jack. “Why, anyway?”

                “You’re here to stop me, are you not?”

                “I don’t even know what you’re doing.”

                “Oh, are we not at that point yet? Apologies, apologies, my friend, my spirit brother. I extend my hand in temporary unsettling friendship. But I do not think I will allow you to meet Golbez.”

                The incredulity reached its necessary threshold: in the darkness, Jack raised an eyebrow. No, he raised both eyebrows. Who the heck was this guy? Like he was going to prevent Jack from seeing Golbez!

                Vanasmas walked away from the cell and started up the out-of-sight stairs. Jack heard the steel-stair-stepping stop, the unseen door creak open, and Vanasmas’s demure voice speak.

                “On second thought, I should probably just have you killed. It would be good to get it over with quickly, you know.”

                “Then you’d better kill me now yourself, and not wait for it,” Jack called after him as the door then slammed shut. With the door went the rest of the lights. Jack rolled his eyes in the darkness, sat down against the adobe wall, and sighed. Enemies would be here soon. Jack idly wondered how his escape would play out.

                Then, feeling lonely, he sung “Deep River” to himself. The prison had tremendous acoustics.