Isolation: Book One, Paradise

Patrick

            The room was hushed, worried faces holding back panicked thoughts.

            Patrick could feel his hand shaking, the pale, smooth flesh turning bumpy. He felt the sweat gathering on his forehead, beads dripping down his back and gathering under his arms. He was clenching his teeth, grinding them across each other over and over again. That's what he always did when he was nervous or angry. Right now he was both. They all were, he could tell.

            The Captain was dead, his brains blown out by the same man who introduced him. Patrick saw what happened, watched as that bearded monster stalked around the Captain like an animal. He would never forget that face; hard, chiseled like a statue, with an angular, black beard to frame it. A slithering S was tattooed around his right eye, which glowed like a yellow neon sign. The pistol looked small in the man's hand, swallowed by thick, sausage fingers. But he managed to pull the trigger all the same.

            The first gunshot had shocked them all. But the ones that followed—it sounded like a battle was being fought outside. Gunshots, automatics he knew, and the screaming, people screaming, dying. His heart was racing. He had heard gun shots before; rifles, semis, artillery. After weapon's training in boot camp he thought he'd be a little calmer in the face of danger like this. But he was wrong. He was a scared little boy like the rest of them, sinking into his chair, terrified of what was to come. But he wouldn't let them see that, couldn't let them see that. Stay calm, he thought. Keep it cool.

            The rest of his friends were struggling with that. Carl hadn't stopped hyperventilating since Patrick pulled him up. When he saw the gun come out, he had pulled Carl to the floor with all his strength. It was instinct, he didn't even think about it. Patrick took off the blazer that had fallen on him, and when he looked at his friend he saw it in his face; redness, confusion—fear. That's what he saw everywhere he looked now. Fear.

His friends wore it too, though it looked different on each of them. Fessler sat across from him at the table. Patrick watched his face, studied it. It kept him calm. Fessler's eyes darted from corner to corner, up and down, blink, blink, corner to corner again, blink, down. Every now and then he opened his mouth, closed it, and then went back to looking everywhere but seeing nothing. He turned to Ted. Ted was his oldest friend, meeting at St. Gregory's in kindergarten. Ted was always smiles, his big green eyes always filled with laughter. But now they were wide, his mouth pursed, like a kid caught doing something disgusting in the back of the classroom. He's fine, Patrick thought, he'll be alright. Next was Tony. Tony always prided himself on staying resolved but Patrick could see how scared he was. It was in the eyes. His friend had planted both elbows on the table, his hands gripped tightly together to form a ball that covered his mouth. He glanced at Patrick, searching for something in him.

I don't know, he thought, angry. I don't know what to do.

But he pushed the thought aside. I'm a Marine, I went through boot camp, I served in Okinawa, and I'm alright. But a deeper voice, a whsiper, told him this was it. That they'd die here, that they're lives would end somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. No, screamed the Marine. Fuck that, and fuck them. He focused, flooding his head with thoughts of his time in the Corps; Gunnels, with his stupid jokes and bathroom pranks, Marcus, who ran around with his knife, hiding in closets, Sergeant Desmond, misquoting Full Metal Jacket every time he wanted to look big. His could feel his mind drifting, to a night on the pier, the sounds of Cony Island behind him, Ellie next to him on the bench. Not now, his hand sunk into his pocket, I can't.

            "Oh, please," a hand rested on his shoulder, "hands on the table. Pockets are for hiding." He turned and saw the face of the waiter, the same one from last night. But he looked different now. They had all noticed something was off when he showed up to take their orders, but now Patrick really got a chance to see. The first time they met he looked like you're average tool, complete with a shirt that was too tight and showed off his beer belly, as well as sleeves too short to fully hide his tattoos. But he looked normal, now—now he looked strange. His face was puffy and pale, like a sick man's. He was breathing heavily too, and when he finally withdrew his hand from Patrick's shoulder he left a sweaty imprint. And his eyes were golden. They weren't the night before, Patrick was sure. Golden, he thought, thinking back to the shooter's face.