The Manifest

Waves crash on the rocky shores of Isla de la Cranéo. The blue land crabs scurry along the black porous stone towards the sandy tree line above, avoiding the saltwater shower. The sun is beginning to set over the far side of the island, igniting the slowly approaching tempest into a wall of dark crimson clouds. The island is a caribbean masterpiece during the day; complete with aqua blue waters, a bustling reef, coconut trees, several pink sand beaches, deep caves and a couple of blue holes that descend to meet the ocean thousands of feet below. With the tropical storm only moments away, an eerie calm is now settling over the island. Lightning strikes in the distance, yet the sound is swallowed by the vast and dark green ocean.

From inside the dank cell, the sound of rain beginning to fall outside is drowned out by the nearby bleating of goats taking shelter in the adjacent cell. Tied up and blindfolded in the center of the room, a badly beaten Caucasian man, no older than thirty, begins to stir. He is wearing a torn button down shirt spotted with blood stains. In this country, he is a gringo, tan and unshaven. An outsider from America. On vacation or an expatriate, in his situation it doesn’t appear to matter. He shouldn’t have helped the girl.

—

Everyone had heard the story about the governor’s daughter. The kidnapping. The supposed murder. She was called “the island princess.” For all the bad things her father had done and allowed under his watch, she was a symbol of hope, a beacon of light on an island notorious for harboring cartels and crime lords. While she didn’t have the power to change any of that, she spent her time helping those in need. Many say what happened was unfortunate but the governor got what he deserved.

The governor used every asset at his disposal to recover his only daughter. He even paid the cartels for information and offered ransom. After a month of searching, his daughter’s body was found washed up on a beach along with the gringo. Her wrists raw and bloody from being tied. Both bodies had been shot several times and the surrounding sand had been dyed a brick red that faded into the ocean lapping up at their ankles.

When the Caucasian finally came to, he was blindfolded, bound to a wooden chair with iron shackles around his wrists. The portly guard with a thick mustache got up and exited the room. The room was lit by a lamp on a desk near where the guard sat and the sound of a generator bustled from outside his small barred window. The fuel was piled along the wall next to his holding cell and filled the air with an intoxicating stench. When the guard returned, he brought with him an olive-skinned man dressed in the style of a military officer. He was tall and handsome, with an athletic build. He did not look very friendly however.

The guard grabbed for the keys hooked on his belt. The cell’s locks had rusted away a long time ago and the salt had already begun its attack on the bicycle lock and chain which now secured the door to the rest of the cage. It was evident they were holding him here temporarily. The hinges squealed as the door swung open.

As the officer passed through the doorway he tugged the wrought iron bars with his fist to test their integrity after a couple hundred years. They were solid.  The guard brought his stool into the cell and left the officer to question the captive one on one, locking the padlock behind.

The officer sat down, pulled out a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it, nonchalantly stating that he was in no hurry. He pulled the smoke in and then let the thick stream pour slowly from his mouth. The gringo could see enough through the blindfold to tell that he was being stared at.

Fifteen minutes of silence went by. “What do you want with me?” the man finally asked.

“It’s not what I want. It’s what you’ve done that I’m concerned with.” The officer spoke with a thick latin accent. “My business with you is more about why you would, how do you say, steal, the girl.”

“I didn’t steal her. She ran into me and asked for help.” He paused, “she was being chased by somebody.”

Lighting brightened the officer’s face for an instant and thunder soon followed. He leaned his head and glared, discerning the truth.

“I don’t know who they are, but I can help you find them. I saw them.” The bound man continued. He tried to sit up straight but only struggled.

His mustache curled over the cigar as he took one last puff then ashed it on the side of his stool. He stood up and started to roll his neatly ironed sleeves. A grey goat watched from the other cell and bleated as if to warn the gringo.

“This is a good story, but I want to know the truth,”  speaking much more forcefully. “You think you can kidnap the governor’s daughter and get away with it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” the blindfolded man replied. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Slap. “I know you took her. You are going to hang for this. Just admit it and maybe I’ll take it easy on you.”  He pointed a strong index finger inches from his face as thought the blindfold wasn’t there.

“I swear. It was somebody else. She was escaping fr–” Thump. The hit to the groin knocked the wind out of him.

The beating continued and after a couple of minutes the desk lamp started fading until finally the generator cut out. The guard came back into the room and glanced over at the man seated with blood glistening on his face. He then peered at the man standing with his fists still clenched and quickly resumed looking for gasoline. The dim moonlight made the task slightly harder and the noise of shuffling through several empty gas cans and things falling over only made the officer more upset. The guard left the room. A moment later the generator was humming again and the lamp, now turned over on the desk, flickered back on.

The room was a mess. The inept guard broke a glass of water, knocked over the desk lamp, and left several cans turned over and leaking fuel onto the floor. There was now shouts of argument outside.

The officer pushed the blindfolded mans head back and looked at his bruised and bloody face.

“You’ve got the wrong guy,” the gringo coughed as mixture of bloody saliva streamed from his mouth.

Just then the staunch guard came back in the room with a concerned look on his face. “Sir, the storm. We must leave now or the seas will be too high to make the crossing.”

The officer let the beaten man’s head drop and pulled his sleeves back down as he exited the holding cell. “He might be telling the truth,”  he said to the guard. “Send a boat to pick him up in the morning.”

—

Wetness tickles his toes and brings him back to life. The gringo shakes his head to loosen the blindfold to no avail.  He rubs his face to his shoulder to nudge it up over his left eye just enough to see. He doesn’t bother with his right eye, as it’s swollen and he could barely see out of it. He glances around at the cell. The rain is coming down in sheets outside and a cooling mist is being blown into the room through the small barred window.

He looks at the gasoline spreading on the floor. The room has a minimal slant which leaves the gasoline pooling along the edges of the room and approaching slowly through the channels of the stone floor. The stink is overwhelming, but it’s another peculiar scent that is much more alarming. Searching desperately for the source, he spots the cigar on the floor still emitting a faint tendril of smoke just as the fuel reaches it. The cigar erupts and the lines of gasoline ignite into a fiery grid.

The gringo, using all his strength to free himself, lets out a gasp. The goats in the cell next to him flee out of their opened cell and into the rain. He screams for help, and realizing he’s alone, stops to think and look at himself. He’s a complete mess. He can barely see, his stomach is bruised and aching, and there’s a bullet hole through his right thigh.

He remembers the piercing sharp pain as they jumped off the cliff into the water, to freedom. He remembers her falling motionless through the air. He had used all of his strength to swim her to shore. Was she alive?

As the fire grabs a hold of his feet, his mind returns to the room. The inferno had climbed all over the walls. His manacles were blistering hot and starting to melt the flesh on his already chaffed wrists. The sweat beading and dripping from his forehead does little to extinguish the flames. He has nothing left to give. Every last ounce of energy was just beaten out of him for telling the truth. All he can do is sit and ponder the choice he made to help an innocent girl escape and hope that it was to some greater end.

Smoke and steam join above spanish tile that covers the roof of the small jail. It is one of three structures still in tact on Isla de la Cranéo, while several others lie in ruins. The rains are thinning as the eye of the storm approaches. The palms fronds on every tree are leaning due to the stress of forceful and continuous wind. The low rumble of a gasoline fire envelops the wailing coming from inside to create a chilling symphony. The percussion of waves thunder as they break on the rocky shores and, for a moment, the sky opens up to the stars above.

Originally written as a music video treatment for Ghost Lion’s “Wrong Guy.” I took it in a much darker direction than originally intended. I hope we get to shoot this one, as I’d really like to burn Blake alive. I wrote this one straight through with no rewrites, so please excuse any errors. Here is a 60 second preview of “Wrong Guy” by Ghost Lion.