Brandon Enns - Islanders

“Roger that. Is there anything I should bring? Medical supplies?”

“Sure, bring some medical kits. And sulfa powder, stitching thread, and extra gauze if you can.” She thought about her next suggestion briefly before speaking. “And protection. Guns.”

“Okay. Over and out.”

His responses seemed far too casual.

Erin moved down the stairs to check the surveillance and put the phone back on the charger. Before turning in, she noticed a small blood strain that trailed into Stefan’s room. She thought they had reached an understanding after she shot him—as crazy as that sounded—but there was no certainty. His manic ups and downs destroyed any chance of anticipating his intentions. Following the blood prints step for step, she entered Stefan’s room and then to the storage room. It was unlocked. She went through both doors. The air was cool and damp in the secret pathway of doom. A gecko lizard scurried across from floor in front of her and shot straight up the side wall and into a crack. She watched it all the way to ensure it wasn’t going to run back toward her.

Stefan had locked it before, right?

Erin consistently looked over her shoulder as she inched her way through the cement tunnel, fearing that she’d be attacked from the rear. But when she arrived at the end of the hall, she heard no sound coming from Bruce’s cabin, and the four rooms that had been locked were now wide open and empty. There was blood in two of them. He relocated them. He. Stefan. Trust no one. Find Ashton.

Erin inched her way up the three steps leading to the bright green door, pressing her ear against it, waiting for sound. No sound came. She cracked the door open gently and peered inside to find an empty cabin. She stepped inside. The first thing that caught her eyes was the TV mounted in the corner of the room. She grabbed the remote and turned it on. Surveillance of the four rooms in the hallway appeared. She changed the input and found surveillance of Stefan’s bunker as well.

Erin walked over to the counter in the kitchen to where she had once already stood. She touched the picture of the old tourists, the profile of who she knew to be Teresa in the background. Placed neatly underneath were more photos, photos that weren’t there before. Someone had put them there for her to find. Six more photographs, all of small groups, mostly families seemingly moving farther back in time as she flipped through, finally leaving her with one photo. There, plain as day, was Teresa (who hadn’t aged a day) with a man and two teenagers; one boy, one girl. It wasn’t possible. She didn’t even want to think the word, let alone say it out loud. Stay a while.

They wanted her there and they wanted her to remember what she had done. Erin dropped the photographs and walked out the front door.

The tree line wasn’t far, but she walked against the wind. It seemed the night had gone on forever. The drawn out darkness showed no signs of allowing the light to start the next day. Maybe it had other plans.

Erin headed for the duplex. She was hit with a pang of déjà vu. Ashton must be in the duplex. As she neared the entrance, an opening through the trees lined up perfectly with the moonlight, and a shadow emerged. She changed her course, and the closer she got to the beach, the louder the shovel sounded, splicing into the fine sand, the thickness sounding more and more dense with each plunge.

Trevor pounded away at the dirt, Bruce standing next to him with a flashlight and a rifle. It was difficult to tell, but it didn’t appear that Trevor was being held captive, a manic persistence on display as he spiked at the dirt. She pictured Skye’s slashed throat.

The trees to her left rustled, and something hit the dirt hard. Quiet groans followed—not those of a ghost, but those of an injured man. She followed the sound and came upon Stefan covered in blood, lying in the sand as he fought through labored breaths. “I only have time for the truth,” she said.

He grimaced and took a deep breath. “I got Ashton out. He’s safe.”

“Really? Because I think you put him there to begin with.”

He shook his head and spit again. “No, Erin. No.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“We need to get him and leave. That’s what is going on.”

“Okay,” she said. He winced, and she grimaced with empathy.

Before she could explain the photographs she had found and all the feelings she had been experiencing, he cut her off. “The staff… They aren’t human.”

“Come on…” But she knew. Erin helped him sit up, leaning him against a palm tree. He spat into the sand and laughed. It was quiet enough, but still hysterical. “We got ourselves some pissed off spirits, Erin.” He looked at her gun. “Not entirely sure if that thing will work. You know how to use it anyway?”

“Point and shoot.” She looked back toward the beach and found that they had stopped shoveling and were staring down at something.

“I’m sorry I came at you back there. I couldn’t control it. That wasn’t me.”

“I’m sorry I shot you. I couldn’t control it.”

Their eyes met humorously, and then the seriousness returned. “I tried to call Arnie. Nothing.”

“That’s because he’s on his way,” said Erin.

Stefan sighed in relief. “Here’s the plan then. First, don’t shoot me again. Then, we go get Ashton from my place and trek to the south end, where Arnie will hopefully be waiting for us.”

“What about Trevor?” She knew the answer but needed to hear it from someone else.

“He has to stay. He killed Skye. I saw it on the drone coverage.”

“I know… How’s your shoulder?” She leaned forward to examine the wound, and he flinched before she touched it. He groaned and she smothered his mouth so they wouldn’t be heard.

“I’ll be okay,” he murmured.

“I don’t know about that… Come on,” she said.

She carried most of Stefan’s weight into the bunker through the back entrance. She got him seated on the couch first. He looked so pale. As she motioned to check the bullet wound in his shoulder, he jolted away in pain again. “Make sure the doors are locked. Now.”

She rushed to both the front and back entrances, ensuring the dead bolts slid in all the way. She ran back up to Stefan. “Let me check your shoulder.”

“No, no, no.” He fussed, his breaths still labored. “I can’t stand you touching it. It hurts too much.”

“Do you have any sulfa powder we could use to pack it in to stop the bleeding? If not, I should cauterize it. You’ll need some more pot to dull the pain.”

“Forget about that.”

“You could bleed out if we don’t.”

“Get Ashton first. Then you can play doctor.”

She leaned in closer, letting her hand linger over the top of his. His fingertips touched hers. His hand rested on her cheek. He was as scared as she was.

“Go,” he whispered. “Hurry. He’s downstairs. Probably still be unconscious.”

She stood. “I’m sorry I shot you. Seriously. Oh my God, your leg too.”

He glanced at his leg and shook his head.

“I had no choice, but it didn’t matter anyway.”

He shared her loss, her fear, her homesickness—all of it—with one single look. “I’ll pull through. We just have to stick together.”

She raced into Stefan’s room, but there was no one there. A different room? She checked all the rooms, included the interrogation room; the one that Trevor had told her about on their first night… how something was off about Stefan, how he was lured in there and the power kicked out, how he said strange things to him. Her head was now light and woozy as she staggered into the dark theatre room and turned on the lights. She leaned over a chair, still trying to look around the spinning room for Ashton, but it was quiet. There was not a soul down there. The sickness was spreading as she walked back into Stefan’s bedroom. She reached for the storage room door and swung it open. She walked past the wine shelving and placed her hand on the door to the passageway. It wasn’t just locked. It was as though it was sealed or boarded shut. She slammed her fists angrily into it over and over again, but it didn’t budge. By the time she stopped, her knuckles were scraped and bleeding.