The Breeders

"You might want to stay down below!" Micah yelled out to the others as they held onto the railing as the rain and gale-force winds hammered the large boat. They had the unfortunate luck of catching the edge of a simmering hurricane, and Micah's boat was not built to withstand this much force. The waves, pleasantly lapping at the bow only yesterday, now rammed the entire boat, drenching Micah as he held the wheel tightly, hoping that he could get the boat far enough from the hurricane's edge before the boat was ripped to pieces and the passengers with it.

Micah was a freelance tour guide, delighted in recounting tales of pirates and Spanish fleets raided and sunk in these waters hundreds of years ago. He'd been fascinated with pirates as a child, and had spent years researching the lives and times of them. He came across a dusty old map locked in an old, wooden trunk bearing the seal of a major trading company that would have been in business around then. The map showed the coast on one side, frequent shipping routes of the trade ships, and known or suspected locations of pirates that lay in wait for the trade ships. Only five years later, he opened his own touring enterprise using a trust left to him by an uncle on his father's side, and for four years he had taken wealthy vacationers out on the ocean for a day of tales of history. He was only twenty-nine, with dark hair and deeply tanned skin, his Spanish heritage. His body was thickly muscles from years on the water and the harbor, moving crates or helping to sail boats.

Presently, the muscles in his arms bulged as he gripped the wheel tight against an oncoming wave that towered over the boat by about twelve feet. He repeated his warning to the seven passengers, who, amazingly heeded his advice and fled below. These people, whose miniscule knowledge of pirates came from theaters and not the history books, came to him, looking for adventure and excitement. Well, he thought to himself, they have gotten what they have asked for. He heard the crack of tortured wood and winced, knowing what that sound meant. He peered into the dark horizon for anyplace that might give them some safety from the hurricane, and spotted a small island off the port bow. He raised a pair of binoculars to his face and looked again. The island was definitely there, and he might just be able to get him and his passengers there alive. He steered his boat in the direction of the island and fought the waves that now hit from the side, tossing the boat.

One of the passengers poked his head up and shouted, "There's water leaking in from the side! The hull's got a large crack in it!"

Micah rolled his eyes, "Well then plug it up with something!"

The man disappeared back below, and Micah muttered a few curses in his native language. He should've spent the extra money on a better boat, a stronger boat. Instead he bought this wreck and affectionately named it The Infernal. He now regretted having not spent that extra money.

Another crack of wood breaking under the tremendous force of the hurricane, and screams below of the passengers' despair, Micah again cursed. His boat was slowing down. He looked out at the island, which had gotten closer. Another ten minutes of this, and he would reach the island, but he feared that the boat would not hold together that long. He grit his teeth and opened the throttle to full, the engine screaming in protest. Another head popped up, "The water's coming in too fast! We can't keep it plugged up, and it's coming in from two different places now!"

Micah whirled around, "We're coming up on an island! I'm going to get us there, but you've got to try and keep that water out or we won't make it!"

The head nodded, and Micah turned again to battle the ferocious waves. Only about three more minutes separated him from the island, and he was beginning to gain hope when the engine coughed and sputtered. It roared another minute before sputtering again, and then it stalled.

As close as they were to the island, Micah could easily swim it, but he doubted that his passengers would be able to do the same. Well, maybe three of them, all women, but the four men looked pudgy at best. He wouldn't leave his ship if there were passengers left, so he used the waves that crashed on the small beach to bring him closer. Suddenly, the bottom of the boat scraped on something, probably reef or maybe the edge of the island. It dragged on the obstruction briefly before the next wave lifted them over it and crashed them down heavily onto more of the obstruction. As big as the waves were now, they only rocked the boat back and forth on the obstruction; they were stuck. Micah let go of the wheel, flexing his fingers to ease the stiffness in them from holding the wheel so tightly. He went down the stairs below and was dismayed by the amount of water that had collected below. It had to be higher than knee-deep. His seven unhappy passengers were soaked and disheveled.

One of the men, a wealthy looking individual who appeared to be almost fifty pounds overweight, shouted, "I'll have your little business bankrupt in less than a day for this! You incompetent swine, we're going to die because of you!"

The outraged man rushed forward to push Micah, and Micah easily caught the man's arm, twisting him around roughly and shoving him away.

"Shut the fuck up!" Micah roared. To the others, he explained, "We're within swimming distance to the island. All of you, get on some lifejackets, and we'll be off."

One of the three women, a classy-looking specimen with red, shoulder-length hair and a fine physique, asked, "What about your boat?"

Micah shook his head, "We're grounded on something, and the boat isn't going anywhere. Once we get to the island, we'll wait out the hurricane, and then I'll swim back out here and try to contact help. Let's go."

The man who'd tried to rush him scowled fiercely, "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

Micah frowned back, fiercer, considering his fitness compared to the other man, "And you won't be staying alone on my boat either. If we survive this, you'll get your refund, but until then, you'll do as you're told or you won't survive at all."

After making sure that they all wore lifejackets, he waited until all the passengers were off the boat and swimming to the island before he left the boat. Splashing into the water, he dove down a couple of feet to see what his ship was stuck on. It appeared to be a reef, but it had a weird shape to it. It almost looked like a...a ship. He would have to come back after the hurricane and take a closer look. For now, he needed to make sure his passengers reached land alive...even the pompous, arrogant bastard who had tried to rush him.

Wind and rain lashed at the beach and the bedraggled passengers standing on it. Micah pulled himself, breathing hard, but otherwise just fine, up the beach to a small line of trees that whipped back and forth in the wind. He looked around for a minute, peering into the darkness of the trees, and shook his head.

"What is it?" the red-haired woman asked, alarmed.

"The wood here will be too wet to burn," Micah said grimly, "We'll have no heat tonight."

Micah sat down and watched his ship rock in the turbulent water, stuck on the strange reef that resembled a ship. The others sat down next to him, except for the irate man, who stalked off twenty feet to sit by himself. "That bastard is the reason I'm stuck here on this god damned island to die," the man muttered to himself, shooting a murderous glare at the so-called captain, that Micah did not see.

The bulk of the hurricane moved on during the night, headed in the general direction of the coast, the small harbor town of Portsmouth, where Micah's berth and business was located. The morning was still kept dark by heavy clouds that appeared to be the tail-end of the hurricane, but the winds, much lighter, did not create the huge waves that they'd experienced the night before. Likewise, the rain, though still heavy, did not whip at them as it had during the night. Micah had used his knife, which was sheathed on his hip, to cut down branches of the trees to create a makeshift shelter for them, though the irate man chose to sit in the rain rather than under the shelter. The other six and Micah sat close together, sharing the body heat that they generated. The red-haired woman sat next to him, and her heat was more than welcome to Micah. He'd always been partial to redheads.

Once the sky began to clear up, Micah made the swim back out to the boat and attempted to contact Portsmouth, only to receive no answer. The harbor town was probably battened down to weather the hurricane. Next, he decided to check out the strange reef under the water. As he reached the top of the reef, it looked even more like a ship. He unsheathed his knife and stabbed into a section of the reef. Then a second and third time...the fourth stab punched a hole in the reef. Micah widened the hole to admit him, returned to the surface for air, and then went down into the hole and marveled. It was a ship, quite an old one. In fact, judging from the collection of the old furniture, and several chests of everything from jewelry to china, it appeared that this could be one of the trade ships, perhaps chased here and sunk by pirates, or, since the shipment was still present, maybe a storm or hurricane had sunk it.

Micah left everything where it was and returned again to the surface. He tried one more time to contact Portsmouth without success, and swam back to shore. One of the men, the one married to the brunette woman, asked if he'd had any luck.

"No," Micah shook his head, "Portsmouth is probably dealing with the hurricane. I'll try again later. For now, we should probably find food."

Minus the irate man, who wanted to have nothing to do with Micah, the rest of the group went with Micah into the trees. Nobody noticed the several pairs of eyes that were watching from various places in the trees.

"Stupid bastard," grumbled Alistair Molson as he paced along the side of the line of trees, "When I get out of here, I'm gonna sue him for all he's worth, make sure he never touches anything but a deep fryer at a fast food joint for the rest of his life!"

He looked around, his anger simmering, his hands clenching and unclenching as he paced. A man at the office, Theodore, had convinced him that Micah Millburn's pirate tour had been an awesome experience, and that he should try it.

"It's fantastic!" Theodore had told him, "The guy who runs it, Micah Millburn, knows more about pirates and crap like that than anybody I know, some professors as well."

Now, here he was, stuck on some fucking island with a bunch of incompetent numb cunts that were still taking orders from the guy who had gotten them stuck here.

" Fucking sheep!"

He stopped suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck raised. He was being watched. He whirled around, peering into the line of trees, looking for bloodthirsty savages with spears and blowguns like the ones in the movies he watched.

"Come out where I can see you!" Alistair shouted, trying his best to sound unafraid, though his heart had started pounding dangerously hard. He received no answer, but he did get a glimpse of something covered in leaves...and a straw-like object protruding from its mouth, and recognized the object for a blowgun half a second before he felt the prick of a needle in his neck. He was on the ground before he could run, lying on his stomach with his face in the sand. He cursed Micah one more time before losing consciousness.

Having found plenty of edible berries, roots, and such, Micah and the others left the trees to examine their possible food before splitting it between the group, even leaving some aside for the irate bastard who refused to help in any way. Then he realized that the man was missing.

"Probably off somewhere being an asshole," one of the men, Rick Natsworth, an office clerk, snickered. Micah nodded and tried a few of the berries. It tasted just the slightest bit sour, but otherwise it was pretty good. The others ate their meager meals without enthusiasm, and Micah could sympathize. Just yesterday, only an hour before the hurricane had changed direction just enough to reach them, they had dined on specially prepared meals, chosen from a menu three days before their tour, and here they were, having to settle for berries and roots.

It had been an hour since they'd returned from their food hunt, and the irate man hadn't yet returned. Micah was starting to wonder what had happened to him. Then he heard a shriek from behind him, and he spun around, thinking that maybe the guy had flipped and begun attacking the other passengers. He saw one of the women standing their, her eyes wide, her hand on her neck. She plucked something from her neck only a second before collapsing to the ground. He reached her just as the other passengers yelped and collapsed as well. He felt something fly past him, and he took the object from the woman's hand, recognizing it as a blowgun dart, primitively made. Then something stuck him in the shoulder, and he was out within a few seconds.

Vague images played in his head, a view of the ground for a few seconds, pairs of bare feet on either side of him, dragging him. Dark brown eyes under cleverly concealing disguises stared menacingly at him. He lost consciousness again.

"Micah," somebody whispered in his ear, and he recognized the voice as that of the red-haired woman, Millie, but he couldn't be troubled with anything right now. He was floating, much as he had once when smoking his first joint, and he wanted to keep his high. But the woman continued to shake him, whispering his name, and gradually he began to remember that they had been on the beach, and he'd heard a shriek. The darts had gone flying, and down they'd all gone. He struggled to get his eyes open, and saw the woman's face above his.

"Thank God," she exhaled, relieved, "You're alive."

Micah looked around at the tall trees around him, and then at her again, "Where are we?"

Millie shrugged, "I don't know, but we're in some cage. The others are here, too, except for what's his name, but they're still out cold."

Micah got himself into a sitting position, with Millie's help. He looked around and saw five sleeping forms around them, and a hand-made bamboo cage. Fires raged around them, and figures around a fire about five hundred yards away in the darkness.

Millie shook her head in disbelief, "It's like some old jungle movie. Who are these people?"

"I don't know. We've got to wake the others."

Together, they roused the others, and spoke in whispers.

"We need to try and get out of here," Micah looked around at the cage. He reached for the knife he had on his belt, but it had been taken. "Anyone have a pocket knife?"

They all checked their pockets, but none of them had anything. Micah checked the ropes binding the bamboo together, and they were coarse, probably made from the vines in the trees, but well made, very tough.

He saw something move outside the cage, and he recognized the shape under the disguise of leaves and brush. The figure stood and flicked back the hood covering its head. Long, tangled hair flowed in a gentle breeze, and azure eyes glared at him from behind a long spear.

Micah gasped, "It's a woman."

Millie stepped up next to him and goggled at the woman with the spear. The wild-looking woman jabbed threateningly with the spear, the blade at the end clacking at the bamboo bars of the cage, leaving a nick with each jab. Then she retreated towards the other figures dancing around the fire. The dancing stopped and the figures rushed toward the cage, where eleven pairs of eyes glared at the captives. One of them stepped forward, a taller figure covered with a mixture of leaves, brush, and vines. She threw back her hood, and the others stepped back in deference. Micah assumed this woman, with her dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and feminine, yet fierce, face, was the leader of the (tribe?) group. It was her that Micah attempted to speak to.

"Excuse me, miss, but why are we here?"

The group fell back, frightened, except for the blonde woman, who glared back at Micah. The woman bared her teeth at him for a second, and then spoke in heavily accented English, "How dare you speak to me! You will bow before your queen at once!"

Micah was astonished. First, they are revealed to be not savage tribesman, but white women, and then they speak English!

"Queen of what country?" he asked.

The blonde waved her hand, indicating all around them, and answered severely, "Of this island, you swine! Why have you tried to invade this island?"

Micah was confused, "Invade? We are stuck here after our boat was caught in the hurricane."

Contessa stared at this man, one of the first men she'd seen in awhile. He was a fine specimen, fabulously muscled. He was much unlike the man they had caught alone. That man was rude, unbearable. She considered what this man had said, and nodded, "I see. Well, now that you know of this place, we cannot allow you to leave. We must remain undiscovered."

The man shook his head, "I don't even know where we are. If you will allow us to repair my boat and leave, we'll never tell anyone of this place."

Contessa laughed dryly, "Somehow, I do not believe your words. You are lucky that you are not already dead. We do not allow this many men on my island."

"Men?" Micah repeated, "What's wrong with having men on the island?"

"Men are the reason that we are on this island in the first place! Their wars made it imperative for us to escape on a trade ship, the men who sailed the trade ship were lecherous, intolerable scoundrels that considered us to be their property to rape and abuse. Their fallible directions made it inevitable that we came to this island, and their bickering killed them. From then on, our ancestors only kept a few men at any one time, always separated, for breeding purposes only. When their usefulness came to an end, they were killed. The sons birthed grew to become breeders, and in time, they too are killed."

Micah had read stories along this line, and had seen a show or two about this, but he'd never before believed that he would come across anything like this.

"So you are going to kill us, then?"

The blonde woman shook her head, amused, "Not if you are of any use to us. You are to become breeders, and just as before, when you become useless, you too will die as those before you."

From behind him, the three remaining men protested vehemently, and Micah shushed them.

"And if they don't want to become your breeders?"

The blonde woman said with a bitter smile, "Oh, we have ways of getting what we want from those who aren't willing. Shall I assume that these methods will become necessary?"

Micah ignored her question, asking another, "And what of the women here with us?"

"Depending on them, they will either become slaves or breeders for us. The choice is theirs."

Micah turned his head to the others in the cage, "If we try to run, they'll probably kill us all."

Rick scoffed, "Killed by women?"

Millie scowled, "Don't be so quick to stereotype! After all, look where we are. These women are probably like Amazons, or something like that."

Micah agreed, "Yeah, Millie's right. If we put up a struggle, we're likely to end up dead. If we go along with it, we might just get a chance to escape. Besides, we're just about out of other options."

The man turned back to Contessa and nodded, "Okay, if this is what we have to do, then we will. All I ask is that these women in here not be harmed."

Contessa laughed, "You are in no position to bargain with me."

The man smiled grimly, "Maybe not, but if my wishes aren't met, it may be a very long time before any other men come upon this island."