THE LAST SURVIVOR

Chapter 8: The Lesson Learned

The world had narrowed to a single, horrifying point: the dark pool of David‟s blood soaking into the dusty earth. Leo was dragged back to the storage container, the image seared onto the back of his eyelids. The door slammed, the darkness swallowing him whole. This time, it felt different. It felt like a tomb. He didn't know how long he sat there, curled against the cold metal wall, the echo of the gunshot still ringing in his ears. David was dead. Murdered. The word, once abstract, now had a taste, a smell, a sound. It was the taste of bile, the smell of cordite, the sound of a single, casual shot. Sometime later, the door opened again. The guards threw in another figure, who landed hard on the floor with a grunt of pain. The door slammed shut. “Jake?” Leo whispered into the darkness, a desperate hope flaring.

A low groan. “Leo?” In the sliver of light from the high window, Leo could make out Jake‟s form. His face was bruised and swollen, one eye nearly shut. His clothes were torn, and he held his ribs. “They found me… an hour after I lost them,” Jake rasped, each word labored. “Played cat and mouse… but the cat had too many friends.” He pushed himself up, wincing. “David?” Leo didn‟t have to say anything. The silence in the small, dark space was answer enough. Jake let out a shuddering breath, a sound of pure, impotent rage and grief. He slammed his fist softly against the metal wall. “God… I led us right to them. This is my fault.” “No,” Leo said, his voice stronger than he felt. “It‟s theirs. Only theirs.” They sat in shared, grim silence for a long time. The initial shock was hardening into a cold, sharp reality. They were prisoners of ruthless

men. Their friends on the beach were unaware, vulnerable. “The others,” Jake said, voicing Leo‟s terror. “They have no idea. They think we‟re scouting. They‟ll be sitting ducks.” “We have to get out,” Leo said. The thought was no longer one of hope, but of necessity. “We have to warn them.” Jake nodded in the dark, the movement a shadow. “The next time they open this door. We rush them. It‟s our only shot.” It was a plan born of desperation, a brute-force solution. It was Jake‟s way. And for a moment, Leo clung to it. Action was better than this waiting, this dreadful anticipation. Their chance came sooner than expected. As dusk began to fall, painting the barred window a deep orange, the lock on the door clanged open. Two guards stood there, one holding a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread.

“Now!” Jake roared. He launched himself from the floor like a missile, his body a weapon despite his injuries. He plowed into the first guard, sending the water pitcher flying. The element of surprise was on their side for a single, heart-stopping second. Leo moved on instinct, surging forward to help. It was a mistake. The second guard, quicker and more prepared than they were, sidestepped Jake‟s wild charge and brought the butt of his rifle down in a short, vicious arc. It connected with the back of Jake‟s head with a sickening thud. Jake‟s forward momentum vanished. He dropped to his knees, then onto his face, utterly still. Leo froze, his own charge halted before it began. He stared at his friend‟s motionless body, then at the guard, who now leveled his

rifle directly at Leo‟s chest. The guard‟s eyes were flat, unimpressed. This was a routine occurrence. The message was received, louder and clearer than any gunshot. Fighting back is death. The first guard got to his feet, cursing, and kicked Jake‟s prone form. There was no response. They dragged Jake out of the cell. Leo was forced back inside at gunpoint. The door slammed shut once more, leaving him alone in the deepening dark. He was alone. Jake was gone. David was dead. The lesson was complete. The cage was not just the island, or the cell. It was the absolute power these men held over them. Brute force was not the answer. It was a language they spoke

fluently, and his friends were just learning the alphabet. He slid down the wall to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest. The grief was a physical weight, crushing him. But beneath it, something else was stirring. Something cold and hard and sharp. It was the death of Leo the Teacher, the Thinker, the Man Who Believed in Reason. In his mind, he saw Maria‟s face. He saw Samir, Lily, Ben, Chloe, Alex, Riley. They were still on the beach, hoping, waiting. He could not fight his way out. Not like Jake. Not like David. But he could not stay here. As the tropical night fell completely, plunging the cell into absolute blackness, Leo made a promise to the ghosts of his friends. He would not try to be a hero. He would be something else. Something they would not expect. He would be smart.