Lost Paradise (The Savages of the Blue Lagoon)

22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

My mind feels like a foggy haze, swirling with confusion and fear. Everything around me seems surreal, like a twisted nightmare from which I cannot wake. The chanting of the savages echoes in my ears, their eerie voices blending together into a cacophony of chaos.

My mind swirls with confusion and disbelief as I see Mr. Coldwell, followed by Jack creeping towards me. I force myself to blink. Half expecting them to disappear into thin air like a mirage in the desert.

But they remain solid and real before me. Mr. Coldwell’s face etched as usual with concern and determination, and Jack with his typical stoic, poker-faced self. He’s grown a shite load on me. I think if I had a best friend, Jack would be that bloke. He’s quiet and reserved but completely bonking mad.

For a moment, I struggle to comprehend what’s happening. My thoughts are muddled and disjointed. Are they really here to rescue me? Or is this just another cruel trick of my captors? They forced some shite down my throat that caused me to hallucinate and then prodded my skin with the tips of their weapons.

But as Mr. Coldwell and Jack draw nearer, their voices fill with reassurance, and a glimmer of hope flickers within me. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't a dream after all.

"Hey, mate," Jack says softly, his tone gentle and comforting. Scott and Alan Tracy are here to rescue you."

My heart skips a beat at the mention of the Thunderbirds, a childhood memory surfacing amidst the chaos of my mind. But even as I try to grasp onto the fleeting sense of familiarity, doubt creeps in, clouding my thoughts like a thick fog .

“You’re not real,” I stutter nervously, my body trembling with exhaustion and fear.

Mr. Coldwell leans in, his expression grave as he reaches out to lift me from this cage. "Come on, Astro," he says, his voice filled with urgency. "We've got to get out of here. Now."

I hesitate, my mind still reeling everything.

Can I trust them?

Are they really here to help me? The questions swirl in my mind, but deep down, I know I have no choice but to follow them.

Chaos suddenly erupts from the savages as soon as they see the cage is empty. Their shouts of anger and confusion echo through the dark jungle.

We find Byron, Zane, and Eve at the edge of the clearing. I don’t need anyone seeing me like this. Especially not Eve.

“We need to get to the border,” Mr. Coldwell commands.

With adrenaline coursing through our veins, we bolt into action, my bare feet pounding against the ground as we flee into darkness.

In the midst of the chaos, we stick together like a tightly knit unit, our movements synchronized as we navigate through the dense undergrowth. Mr. Coldwell still grips my wrist tightly, refusing to let go, his face filled with sheer determination.

“Let go of me,” I yell, yanking my arm from him. He doesn’t say anything, and we carry on dashing and jumping over whatever blocks our path.

The jungle is alive with the sound of pursuit, the distant shouts of the cannibals echoing through the night like a relentless drumbeat. But we press on, fueled by a fierce determination to outrun those minging arseholes.

Those bastards were preparing to eat me. I don’t even know how to begin contemplating that kind of shite. I went from being the son of East London’s most prominent crime syndicate boss to sprinting for my life because some savages are hot on my tail and want my arse for their dinner.

My circumstances couldn’t get any more bizarre if I tried.

I cast my thoughts away because this isn’t the time to try and analyze my misfortunes and what fucking happened back there.

Focusing on my current situation, I feel like that naked geezer who’s streaking during a footie match and running across the field with his knob swinging like a bloody pendulum trying not to get caught by the Old Bill 1 . Except replace Wembley 2 with the jungle, the Old Bill with the cannibals, and I’m like some modern-day Tarzan.

Nah, I’m running for my life, starkers, and it’s not a heroic scene from a Tarzan flick, but I’m that nutter from Wembley.

Zane shouts something, and everyone follows his lead. We’re all dashing through the undergrowth, dodging branches and praying I don’t trip over. I’m the running madman whizzing through the jungle with everything on display, but it’s not exactly aerodynamic.

As we continue running, everyone takes turns shouting at each other, guiding our path through the darkness and urging each other forward. It seems somewhere out there, beyond the trees, lies the invisible border that they keep shouting about that’s supposed to separate us from the cannibals' territory.

Obviously, they discovered something in my absence. It’s exactly what I already warned them about from the very beginning.

Bloody wankers and fairies. If they actually took what I said to them seriously, they would have already known about it.

“Everyone!” Mr. Coldwell yells. “Behind these marks!”

Finally, we reach our supposed side of the island, the air thick with tension as we come to a sudden halt, hoping whatever's out there will hold. Eve and Byron insist it will.

Gasping for breath, our hearts pound with exertion. We exchange wary glances at each other, and our minds race with a mixture of relief and confusion.

Moments later, the cannibals emerge from the darkness, their faces twisted in fury as they approach, their eyes burning with a primal rage. But as they reach the invisible barrier, they come to an abrupt stop, their movements halted by an unseen force.

I watch in disbelief as the cannibals pace back and forth along the border, their frustration evident. They shout and gesture wildly, their anger apparent, but they dare not cross the barrier.

Grabbing the spear from Eve, I walk up to the border.

“Astro, no!” Mr. Coldwell shouts.

“These bastards need to die,” I say, looking at them straight in the eye.

My first kill was at 16. It was my father’s way of hardening me, getting me ready for the firm. But I was introduced to death from a much younger age. I was fourteen when I started to accompany my dad and older brother on their jobs. Most of the time, it was a pure business transaction. Other times it was to exact revenge or punish some sod for trying to cheat the firm.

So, looking at these savages who tried to toast me and still stand here with the hope that they’ll succeed makes me want to stab each one of their black beating hearts.

Rid the world of this filth.

Bloody human cockroaches.

“They’re all lined up. It would be too perfect of an opportunity to miss.”

“We do not kill unless necessary, and right now is not that time,” Mr. Coldwell booms out his final decision on the matter.

“If they were to ever cross this line, they would outnumber us,” I say.

“But they can’t fight now. It would be an unfair fight.”

“What kind of pisspot fighting prat are you?” I stare at him in disbelief.

“One who wants fucking answers as to why you and Jack venture into their territory? You brought this all on yourself and endangered everyone else.”

“No one forced you to risk your precious lives to save me.”

“If you prefer to be their next dinner, then fucking cross over and do so. But when you're on my side, I have rules, and you stick to them. Don’t like it? You know where the border is.”

Coldwell is raking on my bloody nerves. The strong itch to murder someone tonight is prevailing.

“Who the fuck put you, leader, eh? This isn’t your land.”

He crosses his arms over his chest and his mouth draws a straight line as his jaw twitches.

“You want to challenge me on that, Doukas?” Mr. Coldwell's voice cuts through the air, laced with a daring challenge as he strides forward, locking eyes with me, his gaze piercing and unyielding.

"It's no challenge," I retort, my own voice firm, though a flicker of uncertainty dances within me. "Not when you're fully dressed, and I'm not."

As if in response to my words, Mr. Coldwell begins to undress, each garment shed with deliberate precision until he stands before me, bare and unapologetically confident, mirroring my own state.

"This is crazy," Eve interjects, her voice a desperate plea in the background. "Stop it!"

But her words fall on deaf ears as the tension between us crackles with electrifying intensity. Everyone remains silent, recognizing that this is a battle between two alphas, each vying for dominance in the tribe.

A ripple of anticipation washes over the others observing, their attention drawn to the confrontation unfolding before them. Just a meter away, the savages silently watch at the invisible border with keen interest, their eyes alight with understanding as they recognize the primal struggle for dominance playing out between two contenders.

With a swift motion, Mr. Coldwell assumes a fighting stance. His movements are fluid and practiced, a testament to his years of training. I square my shoulders, ready to meet his challenge head-on, relying on my own strength and instinct.

The first blow comes swiftly, a blur of motion as his fist arcs towards me with lethal intent.

The clash is fierce and relentless, fists flying and bodies contorting in a flurry of motion. I throw everything I have into each punch. The sounds of grunts and curses fill the air, mingling with the thud of flesh on flesh as we exchange blow after punishing blow.

Despite my best efforts, I find myself slowly being pushed back. Mr. Coldwell's superior skill and strength prove to be more than a match for my own raw power. Each blow lands with bone-jarring force, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through my body as I fight to maintain my footing.

But even as the odds stack against me, I refuse to yield, drawing upon every last ounce of strength and determination within me. With a primal roar, I launch myself forward, my fists crashing against Mr. Coldwell's defenses with relentless ferocity.

With a final, decisive strike, he incapacitates me, leaving me sprawled on the ground, defeated but not broken.

As I struggle to catch my breath, Mr. Coldwell stands victorious, his expression a mix of triumph and respect. The battle may be over, but the rivalry between us burns on, fueling the fire that drives us .

The savage tribesmen watch with silent reverence, their eyes alight with understanding as they bore witness to this battle.

“You have a choice,” Mr. Coldwell says as he picks up his clothes but doesn’t put them back on. Instead, he gathers his stolen weapons and stands among the other four. “You can come back to the camp with us or choose your fate with them. With us, I won’t stand for defiance. I’m responsible for all of you, and I intend to keep that accountability until we get rescued.”

I watch all five turn their backs and march off, and I lay my head back down on the ground as the truth of my situation rings in my ears.

I could disappear forever, and it wouldn’t matter—not to my father and brother, not to these guys with whom I’m stranded on this island.

The words echo in my mind like a relentless drumbeat, each syllable driving home the harsh reality of my existence.

I shut my eyes and remain here, defeated on the ground of this jungle, naked without an ounce of dignity left in me.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, a truth that cuts deeper than any blade.

And in this moment, the truth hits me like a ton of bricks: I’ve always been the expendable one. Disposable. A mere footnote in my family’s lives, the second son, easily forgotten and replaced. I could vanish into the night without so much as a second thought, and it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference to any of them.

A bitter laugh bubbles up from deep within me, a harsh sound that grates against my throat as I struggle to swallow the lump of despair that threatens to choke me.

What is the point of it all?

Why pretend to be someone I’m not or try to fit in with people who don't even see me?

Maybe it’s time to stop pretending. Perhaps it’s time to embrace the truth of my own insignificance and disappear into the void, where at least I won't have to pretend anymore.

Suddenly, I hear a rustle next to me, a footstep that sends a shiver down my spine. Dread coils in the pit of my stomach as I reluctantly open my eyes, half expecting to be greeted by the haunting sight of savages with their piercing dark eyes and faces adorned with war paint.

Instead, I see the deep blue eyes, dark tousled hair, pale skinned bloke that’s been escaping to the other side of the island with me to smoke some of those medicinals I discovered the cannibals’ harvest .

“Come on, mate,” he says, extending his hand towards me. "You must have at least a little sense in that tiny brain of yours to realize that the cannibals aren't the solution."

I swallow hard, relief flooding through me as I grasp his offered hand and pull myself off the ground. "You didn't betray me," I murmur, the weight of gratitude heavy in my words as I realize that Mr. Coldwell remains oblivious to my brush with the savages.

"He's on a need-to-know basis," Jack replies with a playful wink, his easy grin coaxing a reluctant smile from my lips.

As we stand together under the canopy of this exotic jungle, with the savages waiting for me on the other side, I can't help but feel a surge of gratitude toward the unlikely ally who had stood by my side when I needed him most.

1. British slang for police 2. London’s largest football (UK)/soccer (US) stadium.