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ToastyPigeon

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SpringDragon

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When morning arrives, you awake with a start. You have been dreaming that Pop and Ligru are rummaging through your pack, tearing all the contents out while you lie there alert but helpless, as if frozen by fear or indecision. Only when they find the Stone of Vul-Kar do you reach for the pack — and the sudden spasm in your arm is what wakes you. But the pack is right there behind you, exactly as it was when you fell asleep. "My, we're awfully worried about that pack." It's Pop, sitting in his former spot beside the fire as if he never went to bed. "Don't worry, we didn't touch it." You sit up and brush some of the dirt off your legs and shorts. Not only is the college professor sitting casually beside the fire, his back reclining against his own turned-around pack — legs extended, hands clasping a tin cup filled with a warm beverage — but Ligru is once again tending the fire, using one stick to move around the charred pieces of wood to make room for more fuel. It is almost like it was when you first joined them, but now in daylight. "I thought you'd be long gone by now," you say. "Us?" Pop says. "What makes you say that?" "You mentioned having a long hike ahead of you today," you say. "Oh, that. That can wait. We didn't want to leave you behind, not after the experiences you've had." "Don't worry about me," you insist. "I've gotten this far; I can take care of the rest." "You never did answer my question last night," Pop says. "Question?" "Yes. Where are you trying to go?" You look around the campfire and see that both men are watching you with much interest. Pop's words may be expressing a polite concern about your well being on the surface, but you sense there is an agenda lurking underneath. Or are you just overreacting to that accent of his? The campsite is now cleaned up, with no sign of the yellow pup tent. Instead you see two backpacks, both ready for the day's trek: Pop is using his as a backrest, and Ligru's is sitting next to the spear. "I'm just trying to get off the island in one piece," you say, trying to add a note of vulnerability to your voice. You need to throw these two off the scent, if indeed they really do think you have the Stone of Vul-Kar. "The Wobans can keep this place. Life is too short as it is already to be spending it running from cannibals." "Yes, I suppose it is. But then you knew the risks when you came here, right?" "But—" you start to say. "But nothing," Pop cuts you off. "You came here for a purpose. We all did. None of us are here on vacation, just to post selfies with the natives on Instagram." "I don't follow…." "Don't play dumb — and don't take us for fools." Pop's voice has grown suddenly firm. "You came here in search of something valuable — so valuable that you'd risk getting eaten by three-eyed savages, if that's what you had to do to find it." "Well look, now," you say, summoning your inner indignation. "I have no idea what you're talking about. But you didn't go through what I did last night. I was held prisoner with two other people, and after they dragged them away I never saw them again. It was sheer luck that I was able to get away—" "And I suppose it was also by sheer luck that you were able to get away with that pack of yours, too," Pop says. Ligru seems to be watching this exchange from the sidelines, as if waiting for a cue to get involved. You decide you need to be more aggressive in this conversation, and put Pop on the defensive for a change. "You're the expert on Polynesian culture, Pop. So you tell me, do you think maybe these people might have left my gear alone because of some superstition?" "First off, these people most certainly aren't Polynesian," Pop says with a bit of a huff. "Or Micronesian, or Maori, or Hawaiian, or anything even closely related to any other human population." "That's interesting," you say. "Then what exactly are the Wobans?" "Certainly nothing that Cook ever laid eyes on," Pop says. Ligru speaks up for the first time this morning. "Weren't you saying the Wobans were their own separate species, sir?" "Well obviously," Pop says. "Show me another human population that averages 2.2 meters in height, has claw-like digits, and of course looks at the world through three fully-functional eyes. This throws the whole evolutionary tree into disarray. Some have proposed that this species be called Homo teroculos, but I suspect that the Wobans aren't members of the genus homo at all, but rather some heretofore unknown offshoot of paranthropus." How easy it is to derail an academic type by feigning interest in their pet subject matter! "There you go!" you say. "We can't expect rational human behavior from people who aren't even human." "I wouldn't go that far," Pop says. "You haven't been their prisoner. I have. If you want to know why I'm eager to get off this island, then feel free to continue right up this trail for another mile. It leads right to the village — you can't miss it. They'll be happy to have you." "That is a good point, sir," Ligru says from across the fire. "So if you don't mind, I need to get going," you say. "I'm sorry to have held you up for so long. After what I went through, all I want more than anything is to get back to the States and schedule an appointment with my therapist." You stand up and lift your pack, ready to hoist it onto your shoulders. "Hold it!" Pop says, standing too. "Ligru, pfft." The professor makes a hooking motion with his left hand, and Ligru immediately drops the stick he has been twiddling and takes a position behind you. "What is this about?" you say. "Enough of this nonsense," Pop says. "It's time for all of us to drop the pretenses and get down to business." "Business?" you say, trying to maintain the same air of innocence — but finding it's hard not to be intimidated with someone as big as Ligru standing right behind you. "Yes, business. I doubt that's such a strange concept to someone such as yourself, no? Two days ago, a massively large yacht shows up and anchors itself off shore. I said to Ligru, 'My, there must be one hell of a wealthy person on that boat.' And Ligru said, 'I'll bet you they're here to look for the Stone of Vul-Kar.' Then sure enough, the next morning we watched as not one but two small boats zipped away toward shore. And from what I could see through my binoculars, one of those people looked a lot like you." "So yeah, I came here on a boat," you say. "This is an island. How did you get here?" "You, my friend, are a mercenary, hired by the wealthy elite. You don't even possess the authenticity to come here to advance your own goals, as I do. You are here for but one purpose: to enhance the ego of someone whose sense of entitlement already knows no bounds. I'm sure you will be made wealthy if your mission is a success — so wealthy you'd risk your life among the cannibals, as you say. And now you'd have me believe you are returning to your master empty-handed? That when you met adversity, you ran for your life? How do you think that will be received when you return to that big yacht?" "Pop, you have one hell of an imagination." "That very well may be. Nevertheless, I'm afraid we can't let you leave here without knowing what's in your pack. It's quite possible you are in possession of something that I need very much." It occurs to you that this would be a good time to use that gun that Walter Berringer gave you yesterday. Unfortunately, that's still in the little book bag that Captain Mark loaned you… and you left that back in the Woban village when you were reunited with your own backpack. This leaves you in the awkward position of being forced to choose between unappealing options, in a game where you clearly have the weaker hand. Either you can cave and give these weird goons what they want, or you can make a run for it — hoping that Ligru isn't as scary as he looks. __________________________________________________ > You run. It's hard to see how you'd ever reach a favorable outcome by simply handing over the Stone of Vul-Kar. Pop was correct when he predicted Berringer's reaction should you return to the Big Papi empty-handed, with a story of getting outsmarted by a two-bit college professor and his pet student. You might just as well not return at all. On the other hand, Ligru doesn't strike you as being nearly as fierce as Pop hopes he will be. Pop is here on Woban Island to advance his own cause, just as he admitted. Ligru, big as he is, is more of a wide-eyed tourist along for the ride. You assess him to be a gentle giant. Therefore you gather up all your courage, turn, and run. "Oh I can't believe this," you hear Pop saying behind you. "Ligru, you know what to do." Last night you were worrying you had lost the trail in the dark. Now in the light of a new day, the route is right ahead of you — plain as can be. It occurs to you that you'll be easier to track that way, but you have no interest in running through the jungle on some random course. You may be rested after several hours of sleep, but you still haven't eaten anything, nor have you had anything to drink other than that whiskey. Essentially, the only fuel you have left is adrenaline, spurred by the desire to get off this nightmarish island ASAP. When you hear no one's breath gaining on you from behind, you risk a quick look back. Ligru is indeed pursuing you, but he is not much of a runner. If you can maintain this pace, it looks like you have a good chance of outpacing him. But while you're worrying about Ligru, your mind is not paying attention to where you're going. The brief moment you turn to look backward is long enough to do you in. Your right foot catches on a tree root extending into the trail, and your left can't get into position fast enough to keep you upright. The heavy pack is already throwing off your center of gravity, and to your eternal chagrin you are hurtling with your arms outstretched before you into a tree. The root that started all this never lets go of your boot, and you land with your knee at an awkward angle to the rest of your body. You expect to feel the pain of a torn ligament any moment now. "Thank you for making this so easy," Ligru says when he catches up to you, that spear of his pointed at you. "Ligru, I think I sprained my knee," you say. "Can you help me up?" "We'll ask the professor for an ice pack when he gets here," is all he says. He holds the tip of his spear directly over you, preventing you from standing even if you could. Pop takes his time joining the two of you on the trail. "Good work, Ligru! You'll get an A for this." "Thank you, sir," your captor says. "All right, let's get this over with," Pop says to you. "You're out of tricks. I know you have the Stone of Vul-Kar, so just give it to me." "Pop, I twisted my knee!" you say. "You have to help me out of here." "I have to? I'm not aware of any such obligation." "So you're just going to leave me here unable to walk on my own?" "Oh, don't exaggerate. I'm sure you'll hobble your way down to the beach eventually. That is, if the Wobans don't recapture you first." "This is insane," you protest, but Pop is right: you are out of tricks. "Unclip the belt on your pack," he says. "Look at how your knee is starting to swell. You're not going to be in any shape to carry all that extra weight anyway." When you don't obey right away, Ligru jabs the spear into your shoulder. "OK, OK," you say, unbuckling the pack's waist strap and letting it slip off your back. The professor quickly steps in to take your pack. He is behind you when he releases the clips holding the top part down, and then pulls the drawstring to open the main compartment. Therefore you can't see him when he sees the Stone of Vul-Kar and lifts it for the first time. "This is it?" Pop says. "It's pretty!" Ligru says, still keeping you under the stone tip of his Woban spear. "I suppose. But somehow I was expecting more." The ingrate! He steals the most valuable gem on the island from you, and he complains about the way it appears. "Are you happy now?" you say. "Not yet," Pop replies, "but the path to my happiness is now becoming clearer." "What do we do now, sir?" Ligru asks. "Get out of here, of course. Let's go back and get our stuff. You can let this petaQ go so it can lick its wounds." And so Pop and his sidekick leave you on the trail, your knee growing puffy and throbbing in pain. You try and stand, but immediately collapse in pain. Clearly you aren't going anywhere right away. The only consolation is that your pack is right where Pop left it; apparently the Stone of Vul-Kar really was the only thing he cared about. You are not alone for long, though, because a few minutes later your tormentors come strolling back from their campsite. This time they are both wearing backpacks of their own, with Ligru holding his spear like a walking stick. "You're getting nowhere fast," Pop says. "You should have that knee checked out. It looks painful." "So you're really just going to leave me here?" you say. "Look, here's what I'll do. I'll give you my business card, so that when you find a way out of here you can look me up. Maybe we can all get together someday and have a good laugh about all of this." "Pop, you're mad!" "Or maybe not. But here's my card anyway. It was nice meeting you." He tosses a small business card as the two of them walk by. It spins like an out-of-control helicopter before landing beside you. "Let's get out of here, Ligru, before any Wobans come along." "Sounds like a good idea, sir." "I'm in a good mood all of a sudden, so call me Professor." "Yes, Professor!" That is the last you hear of them as they disappear down the trail, leaving you immobilized and helpless. You grab your pack and begin searching its contents, looking for that bottle of ibuprofen you always keep stashed in one of the outer pockets. As you do so you remember the satellite phone with which you were supposed to call Berringer when you were ready to return to the yacht. Right now it's the lifeline you need to get yourself out of this predicament, although you're going to need to phrase your request very carefully. While you're thinking about the best way to do approach that problem, you pick up the business card and read it: MARTIAN POP Adjunct Instructor Niobrara Community College South Springfield, NE Oh, this is rich — you've just been bested by an instructor from some rinky-dink community college! In Nebraska! How are you going to explain this to the man who was going to pay you a million dollars for bringing back the Stone of Vul-Kar? It would almost be better if the Wobans got to you first. THE END

This is no time to be taking chances with unknowns in the dark. You didn't work so hard to climb your way out of the pit just to risk getting drowned in some rapids. Besides, the strength in your arms is pretty much spent, and you're not sure how much use they would be when it comes to paddling a canoe. You are better off sticking to land, so you sketch out in your mind a rough plan to get down this trail as far as you can, find a place to take cover and get some sleep, and then reassess your situation in daylight. It looks like the trail leading down the river is not too wide, suggesting that maybe you have lucked out and stumbled across one of the less well-traveled routes this time. Before you go too far, you fumble through your backpack, hoping Meredith didn't move your headlamp. It was in one of the upper pockets the last you saw it. Your hand feels several empty Clif Bar wrappers at first, but then it settles on the elastic band of the headlamp. You have no intentions of turning it on so close to the Woban village, but you do want to have it handy. After putting the pack back on, you set off down the trail. It keeps close to the small river at first, which you can hear gurgling on your right, even if you can't always see it in the dark. There is one spot where the trail passes a large opening on the bank; you suppose the view must be stellar in the daylight, but now it's just "stellar" in the sense that you can see a sky full of stars above the calm water. The mountains you saw earlier are now inky silhouettes. But you are not here to go sightseeing. You rush down the trail, with the river growing louder as you continue. Within minutes of passing the canoe you begin to hear splashes in the dark, suggesting you are no longer following a calm waterway, but a rugged and wild mountain stream. It's hard to imagine how useful the canoe would be here. The terrain is getting more rugged too; after almost tripping over the fifth unseen rock, you concede to the reality of your situation and flip on the headlamp. Hopefully there are no Wobans around to see this unnatural beam of light you're about to cast about their jungle. It's a good thing that you did, though, because the trail is now going down an increasingly steep slope, with more roots and rocks in your way than you suspected. There is also a distinct roar somewhere up ahead, suggesting that you are nearing a powerful cataract. Indeed, a few minutes later you reach the top of a precipitous drop in the terrain, where both the river and the trail descend a massive rock ledge that must span the width of the valley. For the river, this means a waterfall of at least fifty feet, ending with a plunge into a boulder-filled pool. The trail around the falls isn't less steep by any means. Rather than the free-fall made by the water, your route is a slower and carefully-controlled descent down a series of ledges — which might even appear like a giant staircase if you were, say, sixty feet tall. This is certainly a more extreme hike then you would normally prefer to make at [checking wristwatch] 12:48 A.M., and you would be more than happy to find that hiding spot any time now. The problem is, though, that when you reach the bottom of the ledges, the trail continues steeply down a rocky slope. Even if you did find a spot to stop, you'd probably go a-tumbling down the hill if you fell asleep in a place like this. So you continue to work your way off the mountain. Despite your downhill direction, it is still a very laborious effort due to the rocks in your way that make your footing very unreliable; one misstep and you'll go sliding on your butt to a very painful landing. There is no way you could have successfully negotiated this terrain without the aid of the headlamp — although at this point you can't even tell if you're still on the trail. For all you know, the trail made a turn you didn't see, and now you're proceeding in some random direction. But then, as you near what might be the bottom of this long and treacherous slope, your heart stops when you see another light ahead through the trees. For a second you think it's just the light of your own headlamp reflecting off the water, but that can't be; with all of the meanderings to avoid the steepest parts of the slope, you have wandered some distance away from the river. Then as you scrutinize the phenomenon a bit more closely, you see two people sitting around a small campfire. You can forgive yourself for not making the identification sooner, as there are quite a few trees between you and the campsite, and this is the last place you'd expect to find backpackers — not that these people are likely to be your average weekend warriors. You immediately turn off your headlamp, but it's too late: the other people turn on their headlamps and come rushing toward you. "Who's there?" You have to admit, you are relieved to hear English instead of Wobani, but nevertheless you remain on high alert. It's hard to imagine encountering anyone helpful on this island. The beams of light cast by their two headlamps quickly zero in on you. "You're in an awful hurry to get somewhere," the same voice says. "And might I add, why are you coming down the mountain? Most everybody else here is trying to get up it." What's that supposed to mean? Have these two mysterious night lurkers figured out just by circumstance that you have the Stone of Vul-Kar in your possession? Or was that some kind of an attempt at humor? __________________________________________________ > You run. "Sorry," is all you say as you try and push past these people — but you are almost stopped by the second person, who very much appears to be a Woban, both in terms of physical size and dress. Because of the blinding glow of his headlight you can't count the number of eyes, but the grass skirt and tattooed torso make you wonder. "What's the rush?" the other man says. You only get a very quick impression of him: short, dressed in a green-checked shirt with brown trousers, round glasses, the beginnings of a dark beard. But you are convinced that hanging out here and interacting with these people — on this island, at this time of the night — will result in nothing but trouble, so without any further hesitation you run. The terrain seems to be taking a break from its steep descent at the moment, so you are able to dash into the darkness, away from the glow of the little campfire, without feeling the immediate threat of falling off a small cliff in the dark. You don't even know where the trail is at this point; you are just running because — after all that has happened since you've landed on this island — trusting strange people is not your first choice. "Ligru, go and find out what was in that backpack," you hear the unshaved man say behind you. "Do what you will with the body." All right, that settles it. You really do need to get out of here. The question is where, though? At first you run for distance, just trying to get beyond the reach of the headlamps. But you're in a forest in the dark, with your own headlamp turned off to remain invisible. Your right shoulder hits a tree hard, almost knocking you off balance. And then you start to thrash through a bush that you can't see. Keep this up, and your pursuer won't need a headlamp to find you. So you drop to the ground and try to be as still as possible. By some miracle the big man with the grass skirt is not right behind you. In fact, both men seem befuddled. "We weren't just imagining this, were we Ligru?" the short man says. "I don't think so, Professor," the big man says. In the glow of each other's lights, you can see now that he only has two eyes. Not a Woban. "We were imbibing rather heavily, and right now I'm not even sure if I can continue standing." "Yes, you were enjoying the bottle, sir." "So were you! I didn't drink this all by myself," the professor says. "Now help me back to my tent, before I pass out here." "Yes, sir." So this is interesting. The pursuit was cut short because the people pursuing you are drunk. As you lie on your stomach over a hundred feet away, partially hidden by some lacy vegetation, you watch as Ligru — the big man in the grass skirt — helps Professor So-and-So with the eastern European accent back toward a little pup tent next to the campfire. "Is there any more of that whiskey?" the professor asks. "I think you've had enough," you think you hear Ligru reply, but they are so far away and speaking so softly that you're not entirely sure. With the professor safely stowed inside the tent, Ligru sits beside the fire in silent contemplation. He picks up a glass bottle, twists off the stopper, and takes a big swig. Apparently the whiskey bottle was not quite as empty as he had let on. So the crisis seems to have passed. Or has it? You are lying on your belly just a short distance from the campsite, unseen only because you were smart enough to stop running and lie still. Before their impairment took over, you distinctly heard this professor give the order to take your pack and dispose of your body. So clearly you are not among friends. But now what? Just keep lying here until Ligru passes out too? Or if everyone is drunk over there, is it safe to just scoot away right now? __________________________________________________ > You scoot away. You need to get out of here; the idea of just lying here is absurd. But where should you go? You have no idea where the trail is, and you are certainly not going to wander around in the dark looking for it. Your descent down the steep, rocky slope diverted you away from the small river you had been following, which you can now hear about a quarter-mile away. Lacking a more definitive option, you decide to head toward the water. If nothing else, the river is in the opposite direction from the campsite. Instead of standing, you decide to crawl backwards. This way, if Ligru reacts you will know immediately, and you will be able to lie right back down. You just wish you knew what was behind you. Taking a few cautious steps, one foot brushes a rock, so you adjust course. Ligru doesn't move. You back up some more, bumping into a small tree a moment later. Still Ligru doesn't move. Then you notice that you are going down a hill, and if you go far enough you'll be out of sight of the campsite. This could be a good development. Taking one last look at Ligru, you begin to suspect that he may be asleep even as he sits by the fire; even though his eyes are pointed straight at you, they haven't seen a thing in some time. So why all this crawling, then? You stand up and run down the hill, turning on your headlamp to see your way. A galaxy of whitish green leaves and silvery tree trunks surround you, whizzing by as you run for your life, hoping for at least one time tonight to find a spot on this whole big island not occupied by somebody else. How far must you go? Will a mile be enough? Two? Maybe you should keep right on going until you reach the Pacific Ocean, and hope Captain Mark has another runabout he can use to pick you up. You stop to look behind you, relieved to see no beams of light as Ligru and his professor friend chase after you. There are such things as small mercies after all. But you've covered all of maybe a hundred yards; you want to be where neither they nor anyone else will ever find you come daylight. The hill becomes steeper again, and it becomes clear that you are heading into a V-shaped section of the river valley. The stream no longer sounds distant, but like a living force gushing through the heart of the night. It occurs to you that its banks might not be a horrible place to hide; the rapids are so noisy that you won't hear anyone coming, but then no one will hear you moving about, either. On the other hand, from what you can see the terrain directly ahead of you looks like it might be forbiddingly steep. Maybe it would be better to keep to higher ground, contouring at this same elevation above the river where the terrain is less rugged. __________________________________________________ > You keep to higher ground. If descending that steep slope toward the river really was a viable option, then it's just proof that you're not thinking straight anymore. What a night it's been! Except for when you were knocked unconscious by the Wobans and tossed in the pit — which you're pretty sure doesn't count — you haven't slept since you left the Big Papi, and that was nearly twenty hours ago. Since then you've sentenced a man to death by cannibalism, escaped the confines of the pit by sheer strength, and dodged an inglorious murder at the hands of a drunk professor and his guide. In between all of those episodes you climbed partway up the mountain, and lately you've been running down it in the dark. You haven't eaten anything since… well, have you eaten at all? You can't remember anymore. The point is, you're getting to the point where you can't trust yourself to make the right decisions. You better find a safe place to stop soon, or in your deliriousness you might just plummet off some unseen cliff. You decide to follow the side of the hill, keeping the river well below you and to your right. It churns wildly in the darkness, like a wild beast that would be eager to chew you up if you got too close, so the act of keeping to the hillside seems like walking through a zoo as a hungry tiger stalks you on the other side of the bars. The end begins when you stumble over small roots, getting angry that they placed themselves in your way. Then you walk into a branch that scuffs the side of your forehead pretty roughly. There is no blood, but it burns like hell. Next you slip on a wet stick on the ground that you never even saw, landing hard on your tailbone. But you can't stop here, because the hillside is too slanted. Instead of descending a steep hillside like you considered a short time ago, you are now walking across the face of one. There was probably a point where you should have veered left and gone around some knoll or something, but it's too dark to see these things, and your brain is too tired to process the information even if you had seen it. So here you are, side-sloping across some steep hillside, with no idea what you're walking toward. Therefore when you come to a spot where the hillside before you simply disappears, you're impressed with yourself for seeing it. You didn't just walk out into empty space and tumble into oblivion. Good job! But now what are you supposed to do? Shining the headlamp about, you see that the path of an old mudslide lies directly ahead of you, where a slice of the hill slipped into the valley after a heavy downpour. Can you walk out straight across it? That would be the shortest route, but in your state do you dare? You have no way of knowing how stable the slope is. The next best option is to go up and around this thing. So yes, after everything else you've done today, it looks like you can add bushwhacking up a steep slope in the dark to avoid a mudslide to your list of accomplishments. That guy back on the boat, Whats-his-face, isn't paying you enough. This whole mission is nuts. Nothing but thin brush grows along the edge of the mudslide, and the soil is still unstable along the point where the face of the hill was torn apart. And this, of course, is where you are climbing in hopes of finding a way around the obstacle. When your right foot misses its mark and slides into space, your left foot is unable to find anything solid to grip. The sapling in your hands is bending under your weight, and at any rate you lack the arm strength to hold onto it — that was all used up after the piton episode. And so you slip away into the mudslide, finding it to still be a gooey mess. You are like a fly trapped in a bowl of Betty Crocker cake mix. Efforts to slow your descent have no effect, and before you know it part of the hillside is falling with you. When everything comes to rest at the bottom, where all of the mud and trees in the path of the slide were piled up in a debris pile forty feet deep, you finally get the rest you have been seeking — buried under a ton of newly dislodged mud. THE END

You need to get out of here; the idea of just lying here is absurd. But where should you go? You have no idea where the trail is, and you are certainly not going to wander around in the dark looking for it. Your descent down the steep, rocky slope diverted you away from the small river you had been following, which you can now hear about a quarter-mile away. Lacking a more definitive option, you decide to head toward the water. If nothing else, the river is in the opposite direction from the campsite. Instead of standing, you decide to crawl backwards. This way, if Ligru reacts you will know immediately, and you will be able to lie right back down. You just wish you knew what was behind you. Taking a few cautious steps, one foot brushes a rock, so you adjust course. Ligru doesn't move. You back up some more, bumping into a small tree a moment later. Still Ligru doesn't move. Then you notice that you are going down a hill, and if you go far enough you'll be out of sight of the campsite. This could be a good development. Taking one last look at Ligru, you begin to suspect that he may be asleep even as he sits by the fire; even though his eyes are pointed straight at you, they haven't seen a thing in some time. So why all this crawling, then? You stand up and run down the hill, turning on your headlamp to see your way. A galaxy of whitish green leaves and silvery tree trunks surround you, whizzing by as you run for your life, hoping for at least one time tonight to find a spot on this whole big island not occupied by somebody else. How far must you go? Will a mile be enough? Two? Maybe you should keep right on going until you reach the Pacific Ocean, and hope Captain Mark has another runabout he can use to pick you up. You stop to look behind you, relieved to see no beams of light as Ligru and his professor friend chase after you. There are such things as small mercies after all. But you've covered all of maybe a hundred yards; you want to be where neither they nor anyone else will ever find you come daylight. The hill becomes steeper again, and it becomes clear that you are heading into a V-shaped section of the river valley. The stream no longer sounds distant, but like a living force gushing through the heart of the night. It occurs to you that its banks might not be a horrible place to hide; the rapids are so noisy that you won't hear anyone coming, but then no one will hear you moving about, either. On the other hand, from what you can see the terrain directly ahead of you looks like it might be forbiddingly steep. Maybe it would be better to keep to higher ground, contouring at this same elevation above the river where the terrain is less rugged. __________________________________________________ > You descend toward the river. This journey needs to come to an end in the shortest distance possible. Consider all that you have done today: climbed the ridge, dodged the first three Wobans only to get ambushed by the next five, climbed out of the pit using the sheer strength of your arms, found the Stone of Vul-Kar, climbed down the mountain, and evaded a drunk-but-murderous professor. The jury might still be out on that last item, but the prospects are looking good at the moment. The point is, you've had a full day, and you're entitled to a little bit of rest. You're becoming worried that you aren't thinking clearly anymore, and in your lack of sleep you might be getting a little delirious. So you proceed forward, heading straight down toward the river on the most direct route. As with the section of trail around the waterfall, it looks as though you have a series of rock ledges in your way, and so this is not going to be an easy descent. But it does look like it might be worth the effort, as you can faintly see what looks like a bench of flat ground below, at the further reaches of your headlamp's beam of light. There is no point in wasting time, so you take the first step… The results are disastrous. Your boot slips on a sheet of wet leaves spread across the first rock ledge in your path. It goes out from underneath you, and desperately you turn, looking for something to grasp onto. But there are no branches or anything else within arm's reach, and so your momentum carries you over the edge. The first drop is only about six vertical feet, so when you first make contact with the ground nothing is wounded but your pride. But your fall isn't over yet. The ground is slanted steeply downward, and so you continue sliding, bouncing off trees like a pinball. It gets worse when you hit a large root and go briefly airborne again, landing on your backpack. Now you aren't sliding down the escarpment, you're rolling. And when you hit the next big ledge about twenty-five feet below the first you are going even faster than before. Your headlamp flies in one direction, you another. The landing is brutal. Your body doesn't come to a full stop until it slams hard into the trunk of a tree, halfway down the slope. The headlamp lands twelve feet away, its switch still in the "on" position. The LED is an efficient little light, and the batteries were fully charged that night you packed your gear on the Big Papi. So with no one to turn off the switch, it shines for several days and nights before slowly dimming and going dark, long after you have done the same. THE END

"Sorry," is all you say as you try and push past these people — but you are almost stopped by the second person, who very much appears to be a Woban, both in terms of physical size and dress. Because of the blinding glow of his headlight you can't count the number of eyes, but the grass skirt and tattooed torso make you wonder. "What's the rush?" the other man says. You only get a very quick impression of him: short, dressed in a green-checked shirt with brown trousers, round glasses, the beginnings of a dark beard. But you are convinced that hanging out here and interacting with these people — on this island, at this time of the night — will result in nothing but trouble, so without any further hesitation you run. The terrain seems to be taking a break from its steep descent at the moment, so you are able to dash into the darkness, away from the glow of the little campfire, without feeling the immediate threat of falling off a small cliff in the dark. You don't even know where the trail is at this point; you are just running because — after all that has happened since you've landed on this island — trusting strange people is not your first choice. "Ligru, go and find out what was in that backpack," you hear the unshaved man say behind you. "Do what you will with the body." All right, that settles it. You really do need to get out of here. The question is where, though? At first you run for distance, just trying to get beyond the reach of the headlamps. But you're in a forest in the dark, with your own headlamp turned off to remain invisible. Your right shoulder hits a tree hard, almost knocking you off balance. And then you start to thrash through a bush that you can't see. Keep this up, and your pursuer won't need a headlamp to find you. So you drop to the ground and try to be as still as possible. By some miracle the big man with the grass skirt is not right behind you. In fact, both men seem befuddled. "We weren't just imagining this, were we Ligru?" the short man says. "I don't think so, Professor," the big man says. In the glow of each other's lights, you can see now that he only has two eyes. Not a Woban. "We were imbibing rather heavily, and right now I'm not even sure if I can continue standing." "Yes, you were enjoying the bottle, sir." "So were you! I didn't drink this all by myself," the professor says. "Now help me back to my tent, before I pass out here." "Yes, sir." So this is interesting. The pursuit was cut short because the people pursuing you are drunk. As you lie on your stomach over a hundred feet away, partially hidden by some lacy vegetation, you watch as Ligru — the big man in the grass skirt — helps Professor So-and-So with the eastern European accent back toward a little pup tent next to the campfire. "Is there any more of that whiskey?" the professor asks. "I think you've had enough," you think you hear Ligru reply, but they are so far away and speaking so softly that you're not entirely sure. With the professor safely stowed inside the tent, Ligru sits beside the fire in silent contemplation. He picks up a glass bottle, twists off the stopper, and takes a big swig. Apparently the whiskey bottle was not quite as empty as he had let on. So the crisis seems to have passed. Or has it? You are lying on your belly just a short distance from the campsite, unseen only because you were smart enough to stop running and lie still. Before their impairment took over, you distinctly heard this professor give the order to take your pack and dispose of your body. So clearly you are not among friends. But now what? Just keep lying here until Ligru passes out too? Or if everyone is drunk over there, is it safe to just scoot away right now? __________________________________________________ > You stay put. You've pushed your luck enough so far, and you are not eager to push it any farther. Ligru does not see you, and perhaps thinks you might have been a figment of his inebriated imagination. Why risk giving him evidence of your presence by moving once more through the jungle? Maybe you can sneak away in a moment… if he too passes out from enjoying too much whiskey. But not before. So you lie in place, with your pack still on your back, and with your belly and your knees resting in the mud. If the Woban villagers up the mountain were of the "early to bed" mentality, Ligru here seems to see things differently. You watch with dismay as he tosses some more sticks onto the campfire and sits back down beside it, as if he can't get enough of this whole "camping out" thing. But who is he, though, if not a Woban? Maybe he's from neighboring Auri Island, just a few nautical miles away. From what you remember, the people there were similar to Wobans, with the exception of the third eye. You catch yourself yawning as you wait for Ligru to fall asleep. But he is just sitting there, as if mesmerized by the flames. You keep watching, but there is nothing to watch. So when your eyes shut the first time, and then reopen to see Ligru hasn't moved from the log against which he is sitting, you can't tell how much time has passed. But having dozed just for that second or two, your stressed-out brain and physically-exhausted body want more of it. Your eyes start to shut again, you want to fight it but it's hard to find a good reason why, especially since you seem to be watching a statue who can hold his liquor remarkably well, and before you know it you are the one who is falling asleep…. When you awake it is morning, your pack is off but you are snuggled up next to it, still lying on the muddy ground somewhere between the Woban village and the island's shoreline. You hear the roar of the small river about a quarter of a mile away. Crap. You never meant to stay here until daylight. Taking a quick look around, you see the campsite right where it was when you passed out. And Ligru is still there, sitting beside the remains of a campfire that has long since burned out. It never occurred to you until now that perhaps the reason he wasn't moving was because he had fallen asleep sitting up. At least, that certainly seems to be the case now. Hopefully he'll remain so until you can get away. Crap, crap, crap. There are so many things right now your body would rather be doing: peeing, eating, drinking coffee, or better yet, going back to sleep. But your brain is perceiving grave danger, and so instead you stand slowly and hoist your pack back onto your shoulders. With the Stone of Vul-Kar inside, it feels unusually heavy — but this is no time to gripe about that. Crap, what a situation this is. You look around; once upon a time you had been following a trail, but you have no idea where that is now. The river — you need to follow the river. Forget the trail, at least for now. So you start to back away — one step, two steps, three. Ligru is still seated in that same position, as if it were still nighttime and the fire was still burning. If his eyes were open, he'd be looking right at you. What now — run? Yeah, sure, that idea sounds as good as any. So you turn — and stumble right into a rock. Reflexively you try and break your fall by grabbing onto the nearest branch, but this turns out to be a small bush that rattles its leaves loudly as you tug on it. You fall anyway, your feet kicking up in the air, and a bird squawks as it flies from a hidden nest inside the bush. Holy crap. You have no idea what to expect now when you look back toward the campsite, and you're not sure you even want to. But you do anyway. Ligru is standing now. "Hey, it's you!" he says, is voice a tad hoarse. And then he remembers the order he was given. "Give me that pack!" You hear a voice from inside the tent. "Ligru, will you keep it down?" But the guide is on the run, snatching a pole that had been jammed upright in the ground and coming straight at you. Holy mother of a crap. You try to run, but it is of course now too late. The Auri guide easily outruns you, and by swiping that pole at your legs he brings you down before you can get ten yards. When next you look up, you see that the pole is indeed a spear, with a massive sharpened rock at its tip. The spear is aimed at your heart, and the Auri brings it down for the coup de grâce. After a few last spasms from your wretched body, Ligru flips you over to examine your pack. He opens the top and pulls out the Stone of Vul-Kar, smiling. It is quite the prize to present to his employer — and they'll never even have to climb the mountain. THE END

The excitement comes to an abrupt halt the moment you hear voices beside that stream. Knowing that you have no reason to trust anybody you might encounter on this island, you go into instant stealth mode. It sounds like there are several men ahead of you, and although you don't recognize any of the words, the voices are calm. The speakers are merely conversing among themselves, unaware of your presence. You creep forward, finding a place behind a large rock where you can observe the speakers unseen. What you see chills you. There are three men in colorful grass skirts standing in a small clearing beside the small stream, each casually holding a spear that is as long as they are tall. And these men are certainly tall, nearly seven feet so, with muscular bodies. The fingers that grasp the spear shafts are tipped with elongated black nails; those on the index fingers are curved and pointed, as if these people were descended from velociraptors. And on the forehead of each man, directly above the bridge of the nose, a third eye frowns at the world. The Wobans seem to be concerned about something, although you are relieved it's not you. "'A'ole hiki ia'u ke mana'o hou i ha'awi hou ke alaka'i ia makou i ke kuleana kia'i," one of them says. "Ma hope o ka mea a makou i hana ai ia ia, aia anei kekahi kumu e pono ai ia ia ka lokomaika'i ia makou?" says the Woban on the right. "'A'ole wau ka mea nana i kau i ka nahe i kana 'au'au!" the Woban on the left says defensively. "'A'ole, aka, 'o 'oe kahi me ka mana'o!" the first one says. "No ke aha i makemake ai ke ali'i e kia'i i keia ana? 'A'ole e hele kekahi ma ane'i." "Makemake paha ke ali'i ia makou e hele." "He naaupo oukou. E hele mai na kanaka ma ane'i. Ke 'imi nei na holoholona haole ia Vul-Kar, a alaka'i ke ana i ka luakini." "No laila makou e ku kia'i ai a hiki i kahi poina e ke ali'i no ka makou mea i hana ai." "'Ae, 'o ia ko ka makou ho'opa'i." You haven't the slightest idea what they're gossiping about, but they seem rather glum about something. Then they go silent, sitting on the ground facing each other. One draws a circle in the dirt with his black talon-like fingernail, and they each take turns idly tossing pebbles into the center, as if they were playing some kind of children's game. Their presence poses a dilemma for you, though. The trail that you have been following cuts straight through this clearing where the three Wobans appear to be waiting for something (or someone). For you to continue following it toward the mountain, you'd have to carefully circle through the jungle to get around them unseen. But then you notice something else interesting: the stream that lured you here appears to emanate from a dark cave in the hillside, just five yards from your hiding spot. There is enough small brush around it that you are pretty sure that you can crawl there unseen. You have no idea where that cave goes, or if it even goes anywhere, but if nothing else it looks like it would provide better cover while you wait for the Wobans to leave. All you know is that you can't stay here. Should the Wobans start moving around, of if another happens to come down the trail, you will be spotted instantly. __________________________________________________ > You enter the cave. The idea occurs to you that the cave may have some kind of significance, and this is why the Wobans are here — perhaps they are guarding it. This piques your curiosity. Of course, all of this is just a theory and you have no real idea who those Wobans are or what their purpose is, but with no maps to follow — and with a personal taste for adventure that is about a mile wide — you feel compelled to explore the cave. The irony is that if the Wobans are here to guard the cave, they're doing a poor job of it. The cave's entrance is turned slightly away from the clearing, so they cannot even see it from where they are playing their little game of tiddlywinks or whatever. A growth of grass and small brushy plants provides just enough cover for you to crouch low and step softly between your boulder and the clear-water stream flowing out of the cave. "He aha kela kani?" says one of the Wobans to his companions. "'O kau e lohe nei, 'o wau ke lanakila nei i keia pa'ani. E kiola i kou pohaku a pani i kou waha," someone responds. "Aole. Lohe wau i kekahi mea e ne'e ana." "He mea li'ili'i paha kahi holoholona e 'uwu ana i ka mau'u. Pono 'oe e pa'ani i ka pa'ani a ha'alele i ke kama'ilio 'ana." The mouth of the cave is wide, and you can feel its coolness before you even step inside. Immediately you are glad you came here, as you are now surrounded by moisture and hidden from the harsh sun — the exact opposite conditions from where you just were. You pause for a moment as your eyes adjust to the dim light, and then you continue on; you may have just snuck past the Woban guards successfully, but you would still prefer to put some distance between you. You quickly realize that this cave is a lava tube — a tunnel-like passage carved through the hillside during an ancient eruption. It angles gently upward, with the stream fanning out across the rock floor. Up ahead is nothing but darkness, so just before you lose sight of the little bit of daylight coming in through the entrance, you stop to fish out Captain Mark's palm-sized plastic flashlight from the backpack. Except for the uphill grade, following the lava tube is like exploring an abandoned subway. The arched ceiling maintains almost consistent dimensions as the passageway snakes its way through the rocky core of the island, giving it a man-made appearance. But where is it leading? You have no idea how good the batteries are in the flashlight, and you'd hate to be stranded here in the dark. Excitement propels you forward; anxiety has you hoping an exit appears soon. What you do find is a fork, with passages branching to the left and right. So now what? Both are equally dark, and your first impression is that there is no difference between them, other than direction. You step into the space between the twin tunnels, lick your fingertip, and stick it into the air. Although it's subtle, there is a draft of air coming from the left tunnel, and heat coming from the right — would that be heat from outdoors, maybe? The stream that you have been following has dwindled to just a trickle, but you can see now that it flows from the left-hand tunnel. This is all very interesting, but in a moment of sobriety you realize that Walter Berringer didn't send you here to go spelunking. Maybe you should go back the way you came, hoping that the Wobans have left so that you can resume your hike along the trail. __________________________________________________ > You take the left tunnel. Air is moving through the lava tube on the left, and a trickle of water is flowing through it. These are the features that sell you on the idea of going in that direction. The tube continues on the same gentle uphill grade, and at first there seems to be no difference from before you reached the fork. If nothing else, this branch bears the benefit of familiarity. But time passes without much seeming to happen. Fifteen minutes, twenty, thirty; if you are still hiking at your usual pace, you've climbed through the tunnel for at least a mile since it branched. Are lava tubes even supposed to be this long? And being completely underground, you have no way of orienting yourself. The best you can do is theorize that a lava tube would naturally lead toward the volcanic heart of the island — bringing you closer to the highest peak, if you are correct. As you near the hour mark, you are getting very anxious. The light that Captain Mark contributed toward your expedition was a cheap-o disposable flashlight; it has a cool-looking contoured grip and seems high-tech at first glance, but you know better. Sooner or later whatever battery is inside this thing will burn through its charge, and the LED will slowly fade into an amber glow and then darkness. These things were made for emergency use, not a sustained trek through an endless cavern, and the captain gave it to you only because you were in a hurry and this was the first thing he found. Already the light output seems to be less than it was when you first flipped it on. Each step forward will be a step you'll have to retrace if this tunnel proves to be a dead end, meaning you'll be relying on the flashlight for twice as long. Turning around this late in the game would be a difficult decision to make, though, so it is almost with pleasure when you start to feel an uptick in the strength of the draft flowing through the tunnel — as if there is a gentle breeze coming from around the next bend. And then you see light reflecting off the walls ahead of you! With high anticipation you round the next turn in the tunnel, finding a loose pile of rubble below a wide hole in the ceiling. It looks as through the top of the lava tube collapsed long ago, blocking off the continuing tunnel but also providing an escape hatch to the surface. The little stream you have been following all this time trickles down the mossy stones. Jungle trees rise above the opening. Carefully, you climb up the wet, mossy rocks and pull yourself up through the breach. The sound of running water is the first thing you notice; there is a larger stream flowing past the opening, with one portion being siphoned off into a side channel and spilling into the hole in the ground. Jungle vegetation shades the stream, but the trees are less tall here, making you conclude you are much higher up the mountain slopes than when you first entered the lava tube. The truth is you have no idea where you are, relative to where you need to be. The only thing you have to work with is the fact that a crude trail seems to continue from the hole in the ground further up whatever mountain you happen to be on. At least this one seems less well traveled than the one that led to the three Wobans guarding the cave entrance, perhaps meaning you will have this one to yourself. Seeing no better options, you follow it uphill. If the previous trail was like a highway for foot traffic across the island, this one must be the little-known byway. There are no footprints in the muddy trail surface. Clearly someone must use it, though, or else it wouldn't be here. But it is narrow and rugged, like a game trail filing through the thick brush. The only details that inform you differently are the occasional logs that look like they have been hacked away to clear the path. Eventually the jungle forest gives way to a brushy landscape, with a canopy that is only scarcely higher than you are. Rocks are everywhere, gray and mossy. Here you come across something unexpected: the remains of an old campsite, located in a patch of level ground between the foot of a rocky knob and another small mountain stream. There is a small fireplace in the middle, made with a ring of stones in a way that would make Smokey the Bear proud. Have Wobans camped here, or was this created by one of the other treasure seekers? Not only are the pieces are of charred wood starting to rot, but small plants are starting to shoot up through the coals. No one has been here in a year or more. It is getting late in the day, so the discovery of this campsite may be very timely. You drop the pack down and drink from the refilled Aquafina bottles. The only detraction is that you still have no idea where you are, so you decide to put that bald rock knob to use. It rises fifty feet above the stream, and you have to use your hands to scramble up its steep rock ledges — but the view from the top is very informative. You seem to have crossed a watershed divide, from the east side of the island to a broad valley on the northwest side. The knob is high above that valley, like a scenic overlook at a national park, with the sound of a small river nearly a thousand feet below you. The Pacific Ocean extends out to infinity beyond the foothills, and there to the northeast is the Big Papi, which at this distance it little more than a white dot. The most important detail, though, is the view of the neighboring mountains. You have indeed been climbing closer to the main summit — and in fact you have less than a mile to go before reaching the base of its imposing cliffs. The mountain on which you're standing almost seems to buttress that tower-like formation of rock, suggesting for the first time that there may indeed be any easy way to the temple ruins at the top. Delighted with all of these finds — a secluded campsite, a commanding view of the relevant parts of the island, a path that seems to lead directly to the Stone of Vul-Kar — you decide to call it a day and spend the night here. Darkness comes swiftly in the tropics, and it's hard to imagine you'll find a better spot further up the mountain. So you scoot back down the knob and begin the process of setting up your camp. Then your spirits dim when you remember Meredith, and the fact she ran off with all your gear. You curse her name as you try and improvise a basic shelter using the parachute cord and the blue plastic tarp — and as you dine on the less-than-Epicurean feast of pepperoni sticks. You can only hope she fell into a pit of quicksand and suffered a horrible death. To improve your mood, you indulge in a small campfire. As darkness sets in over Woban Island and you watch the dancing flames, you notice for the first time the large tree standing to the side of the site. Someone has carved something into the smooth bark: the letters BPV. Beatriz Paya-Vallejo! Your old nemesis, and the first person Walter Berringer hired to find the Stone of Vul-Kar… before she went missing. So she came this way too, and sat by this same little ring of rocks. And it was her stack of gathered wood that you used as kindling to get your flame going. This merely adds to the intrigue of all that has transpired today. You fish your jackknife out of your pocket and quickly inscribe your own initials into the tree. That's when the sound of distant drumming catches your attention. Curious, you climb the knob again, using the light of the quarter-moon to see your way. From the top you see large campfires from several points across the island, accompanied by the drumming and lots of chanting. It looks like this is some kind of Woban holiday, with concurrent celebrations in every village — that, or the natives are about to go on the warpath. You have no way of knowing. And when you look more closely, you catch glimpses of smaller campfires here and there in the more secluded parts of the island. Are these the other treasure seekers, like you trying to keep a low profile on this festive evening? __________________________________________________ > Next page. Despite the inglorious shelter and the lack of an adequate sleeping bag, you sleep soundly anyway. Perhaps too soundly, because by the time your eyes open the sun has already risen and is making its upward climb into the sky. Last night's fire is now a pile of cooling ashes, and the drumming has long since ceased. Blue skies overhead promise a glorious day ahead, as far as the weather is concerned. Then something catches your eye: on the tree where you carved your initials below those of your old adversary, there is now a freshly-carved MN. As hard as you find it to believe, that could only be Meredith Nowitki! Could it possibly be that she passed through while you were still sleeping — toting all of your brand-new gear — and carved her name in the tree just to taunt you? You step out onto the narrow footpath and sure enough, there are now new boot prints in the mud, left by someone with feet much smaller than your own. How infuriating! How aggravating! How humiliating! Not only did she steal your stuff, but she was following behind you so that you could lead her to the Stone of Vul-Kar! Why else would she be here? And now that you have overindulged in sleep, she has passed you by. What kind of a headstart does she have on you? Minutes? Hours? Extremely displeased with yourself, you hurriedly take down the tarp and pack up the few things you have. You remember well Berringer's rage yesterday morning when he learned that Meredith, his erstwhile "acquisition" from the Boston Globe, had deserted him — and you can only imagine how much worse it would be if you let her get to his prize first. You are so angry that you start to contemplate ways that gun of his might come in useful after all. The best you can do for breakfast is a couple more pepperoni sticks; maybe tonight, with Meredith permanently out of the way, you'll have all of your stuff back so you can enjoy something a little less gas-inducing. Then you shoulder the black book bag and set off for the mountain. Her tracks are easy to follow, although in retrospect so were yours, too, probably. Beyond the campsite, the rugged footpath continues climbing through the high-elevation brush, the mud softer than ever, like black cookie batter. Meredith must have been inspired to move swiftly, because you see no sign of her. Who would believe that someone who spent the last three years trailing Walter Berringer around a baseball stadium in high heels would be so adept at climbing a mountain? But then the trail runs cold when the vegetation ends and the way forward is nothing but bare rock. You can trace Meredith's steps only for about six paces, where the mud from her boots left an obvious track, but then nothing after that. You're not even sure where the actual trail goes; the best you can do is continue climbing at the same angle, and hope that some sign presents itself. What you find a moment later is a wall of rock blocking your way. Looking back, you can still see where the trail exited the forest, with a direct line of travel leading to where you are now. To the best of your tracking ability, this is where you're supposed to be, so you scout your options. By circling a bit to the left, you find a rope ladder dangling down the rock face — the surest sign that you are on the correct trail. But the fibrous rope looks old and weathered, and you are not sure you can trust it to hold your weight. The only other option would be to scale the rock face itself. The wall isn't quite vertical, and the surface seems coarsely textured with just enough subtle imperfections to make footholds and handholds theoretically plentiful, but you can't tell for sure from below. __________________________________________________ > You climb the rock. Maybe the rope ladder worked for Meredith, but she weighs what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? You aren't about to take that same chance, so instead you find a pair of small protrusions on the rock and pull yourself up, your boot scraping against the surface until your toe finds something it can step on. With this first successful step, you look up and identify a route to the top where the rock is angled fifty degrees or so — very steep to be sure, but not so steep as to be impossible to climb. The going is slow, though, as there is no room for error on a climbing route this exposed. The wall of rock is only maybe fifty feet tall, but if you were to lose your grip there would be nothing to stop your fall. Slowly you work the rock directly in front of you, looking up from time to time, but never looking down, maintaining three points of contact at all times. Before moving the next hand or foot, you test your grip with your other appendages to reassure yourself you're not about to slip off the mountain. It is a long and tiring process, though, during which you imagine Meredith getting far ahead of you, perhaps even finding some kind of hidden passageway leading up to the temple ruins where the Stone of Vul-Kar awaits. When you last saw Walter Berringer on board the Big Papi you thought maybe his anger towards Meredith had eclipsed his desire to obtain the gem. Now that Meredith has passed you on the trail, you're starting to feel the same way. Although it only takes ten minutes to reach the top, it feels more like thirty. The slope doesn't taper at the top like you had hoped, so there is one more delay as you are forced to find something else to grab onto so you can pull yourself over the edge, finally coming to rest on a small terrace of level ground. You are torn by the competing interests of stopping to rest and continuing your chase, when the sound of running footsteps makes the choice for you. Although all four of your limbs feeling limp from the exertion of the climb, adrenaline takes over as you charge around a boulder to where you thought you heard the noise. Here you find the top of the rope ladder, anchored by a pair of stout wooden stakes wedged into a crevice in the rock. Nobody is there, but you do see a familiar green object lying on the ground. Picking it up, you recognize it immediately as a six-inch survival knife you've owned for so long you don't even remember where you got it. This was one of the items that was in the REI backpack that Meredith stole… meaning she was right here! She was waiting for you to climb the ladder so she could cut the ropes on you — not just trying to block your path, but intentionally waiting for an opportunity to cause you grave harm! Looking around, you don't see her — but that proves nothing because you have reached an area of irregular topography, a restless summit strewn with boulders and indented by alcoves and large crevices. There is a maze-like quality to the area, almost, and it occurs to you that Meredith could be anywhere here. You listen, but you hear no further footsteps. Either she has gotten away, or she is hiding here somewhere among the rocks. Tucking your trusty old knife under your belt, you set out to search this strange summit. Much of Woban Island spreads out below you, although the summit is so broad and cluttered that you never have the full 360° view. However, you are so close to the main summit that it looms above the rock formations surrounding you. For the first time you can clearly see the summit ruins on its top. What you're looking for is Meredith's whereabouts. You'd call her name, but that would make you feel like you're searching for a lost puppy. It would also broadcast your location to your quarry. No, it would be better to let her stew for a moment, wondering where you are. But in the process of looking for her, you circle around to the far side of the summit where you find something completely unexpected: a rope bridge spanning a massive gulf. The near end is anchored to large wooden poles, similar to the ladder but on a larger scale. Five hundred feet away, the far end of the bridge is tethered to a narrow ledge on the side of the steep main summit, with a tunnel leading into the mountain. In between is a chasm hundreds of feet deep, with a botton full of talus. Looking down into the depths, you can see the remains of an earlier version of the bridge rotting away on the rocks below. Are those human bones that you see down there, too? So did Meredith cross the bridge, or is she lying in wait somewhere on this side, hidden among the rocks? It's frustrating to consider the possibilities: either she is already climbing up to the temple ruins, on her way to to grab the Stone of Vul-Kar before you; or she's poised to sabotage you again by cutting the ropes once you are halfway across the bridge. But that wouldn't make sense; if she's here to get the stone, then she needs that bridge just as much as you do. __________________________________________________ > You search for Meredith first. Meredith Nowitki has been a random element so far on this assignment. It seems like it was a long time ago when she just lurked in the background, barely interfering in the planning discussions you had with Walter Berringer, but occasionally performing a useful task like the good assistant you thought she was. On the yacht she started to act more sullen, and then first thing yesterday morning she surprised everyone by skidaddling to the island, only to show up once more on this mountain. It doesn't add up, and you get the strong sense she knows something you don't. Intuition tells you to seek her out before you proceed. But where could she be? With this riot of rock here on the mountaintop, there are hundreds of hiding spots. There isn't time to systematically search each nook and cranny, so you need to think about this. All morning long she has been one step ahead of you. The evidence suggests that up until a few minutes ago she had been lurking at the top of the rope ladder with your knife; if all she had wanted to do was sabotage the ladder she could have done that any time. So here you are at another rope structure, where Meredith has the opportunity to apply the same trick. Except that doing so means she won't be able to cross the bridge herself. She doesn't want to cross the bridge, just eliminate you? If all this is true, that means…. You remember the handgun that Berringer insisted you take, which you put in one of the book bag's side pockets. Removing the gun from its hiding spot, you put the pack back on and circle the long way around a small rock spire not far from the beginning of the bridge. You had noticed that spot a moment ago, thinking that if you were going to ambush somebody trying to cross the rope bridge, that's where you would hide. So with the gun in hand, you step quietly until you are flanking the little alcove behind the rock. "Well good morning, Meredith," you say. "I've been looking for you all over." "And here I was, starting to think Walter was overpaying you. It's good to see you again." She, too, has a gun drawn and pointed at you. "I'm going to come right out and say that I don't have the first clue what you're doing here," you say. "You can say that again: you don't have a clue," she says. "You're just a pawn in Walter's latest game." "I was hired to do a job. That hardly makes me a pawn." "You don't know, because you can't see it. But you're just haplessly making your way. When that big red marble comes to bowl you over, you'll never see it coming." "Big red marble?" you say. "I think you spent too much time listening to Berringer and his overdone metaphors." "I will agree that I spent too much time with Walter," Meredith says. A long, awkward moment passes when neither of you has a barbed comment to make, and so you both just stand there pointing your guns at each other. "I won't shoot if you won't," you say. She gives a slight nod, and you both point your guns downward. Relieved that the shootout has been postponed, you look at your old "friend" a little more closely. She is dressed like she is ready to explore the source of the Nile or something, with a khaki shirt, khaki shorts, and a white pith helmet. You resist the urge to make a comment; doesn't she know that Halloween was last week? __________________________________________________ > Next page. "So I've been dying to know," you say, "how is my gear holding up?" "Quite well," Meredith says. "I'm not sure I set the tent up right, but it didn't rain, so who cares? That down sleeping bag sure was comfy, though. I see that you figured out a way to make do without all that stuff." "I'm just glad you left your initials in that tree. Otherwise I'd have no idea who was after me." "You think I'm after you? Ha, don't flatter yourself." "I can only believe what the evidence leads me to conclude," you say. "Well, OK, sure. I needed you to put me on the right trail, because I couldn't make heads or tails of those military maps. But then after a certain point I had to assume you were still Walter's agent, and I know how much he gets bent out of shape when he thinks he's been betrayed. So who was it that sang that song — 'In this ever-changing world, live and let die'?" "So here we are, Meredith, just you and me on top of this mountain. Are we going to shoot it out? Wrestle each other off the side of the cliff? Join forces and claim the Stone of Vul-Kar together?" "I don't know yet," she says. "What you're looking for is across that bridge, you know. Now that we both know we're here, there's no point in playing games. I'll let you go if you let me go." "Isn't what you're looking for on the other side of that bridge, too?" "Maybe, but I'm guessing not." You see that her gaze has stopped on something behind you, so you turn to see what it might be. There, on a rock about fifty feet behind you, are three letters: BPV. The writing is frail and white, as if scratched onto the rock by someone holding another rock. "That's what this is all about?" you say. "You're trying to find Beatriz Paya-Vallejo?" "You could say that," is all she says. "How do you know that's not her down on the rocks?" You step over toward the bridge and point down into the chasm, to the battered set of human remains sprawled across the talus pile. Skeptically, Meredith comes to see what you see, and she gasps when she spots the bones. "Do you think that's her?" you say. Meredith's eyes are wide with surprise, and for the first time since this encounter began she seems to be at a loss for words. "So what's the big deal, anyway?" you say. "You two weren't… you weren't… you know…." "Oh, Christ, don't be so lurid," she finally says. "Look, the temple is across this bridge. If that's what you want, then just go. Be Walter Berringer's little pawn and get your million dollars. If you want to know my secrets, you're gonna have to help me get down into that chasm." __________________________________________________ > You help Meredith descend into the chasm. The unpredictability that Meredith has been creating since you arrived at Woban Island just continues and continues. Case in point: you woke up this morning thinking your purpose was to obtain the Stone of Vul-Kar and make a rich collector happy. But here you are about to agree to help the person who crossed him and stole your stuff… just to find the body of someone whose death wouldn't concern you at all. If doing so is the only way you're going to learn Meredith's secret, then so be it. "I'll help you," you say, "but we're not going down this way. That's a sheer drop down to that talus pile. We need to get off this summit and flank that chasm." "If you say so," Meredith says. "I assume you have an idea on how to do that." "Maybe, but we're going to need to backtrack off the rock." You lead the way back across the summit to the top of the rope ladder… where a short time ago your companion was lying in wait to kill you — or at least watch as you fell and broke both your legs. "I noticed you chose not to use this thing," is all she says now. "Is it because of an accident when you were a kid? Is there a name for it — 'ladder-o-phobia'?" You ignore the wisecracks. "You first," you tell her. She complies, turning around, taking the ropes in hand, and slipping down as confidently as a roofer. The ropes don't even strain under her weight. You imitate her motion, finding that the ladder is more solid than it looks. You're not a fan of the way it flops about as you move down it, though. "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Meredith says once you drop down to the ground below. "Now where do we go?" "Let me see," you say, studying the terrain. Skirting the rock will not be an option because this part of the mountain is too steep, so you'll have to descend back into the tree line and bushwhack around the summit. You find the trail once more, but as soon as the woods open up you cut right to begin your contour into the rugged notch between the mountains. "You owe me an explanation," you say once you become reasonably certain of your course. It will take a little way to reach that gorge, so you have time to be a good listener. "I suppose I do," Meredith says. "And don't worry; if I'm correct, you'll get the Stone of Vul-Kar. The real one, and not some two-bit knock-off." You're confused, but you're learning that's to be expected when dealing with Meredith Nowitki. "I didn't realize there was more than one." "As far as everybody's concerned, yes, there is only one stone. But when Bea came here looking for it, she was carrying a duplicate." "A duplicate?" you say incredulously. "Where does one find a duplicate Stone of Vul-Kar — at a Jared store?" "This one came from Amazon, actually." "Of course. That was going to be my next guess." "No, seriously. It was a large amethyst from inside a geode — worthless, except as an office paperweight. The Stone of Vul-Kar was supposed to be purple, amethysts are purple, so it seemed like the perfect decoy. You see, Bea was worried about what would happen if the Wobans found out if the stone was missing. So to buy herself enough time to get off the island, she wanted to swap out the real Vul-Kar with a fake. Walter and I were waiting for her on the yacht when she called on the satellite to say she had made the switch, but needed to find a different way off the mountain. That was the last we heard of her." "Ah, I'm starting to see," you say. "You think Paya-Vallejo died with the real Vul-Kar in her possession." "That is the thesis I'm trying to prove, yes." "Hold on — do you hear that?" you say. "Hear what?" "Listen." Somewhere in the distance you hear the beating of drums, just like last night. __________________________________________________ > Next page. "I heard those last night," Meredith says. "What does it mean?" "It's the Wobans," you say. "I've heard drumming like that too, in other dangerous parts of the world. It usually means the natives are up to no good. They intend harm to somebody." "Hopefully not us," she says. "Good luck finding us way up here on the side of this mountain," you say. "Besides, how would they even know we're up here? There were three Wobans guarding the entrance to that lava tube, and I'm pretty sure I snuck past them without them noticing me. How about you? How did you get by?" Meredith doesn't say anything, so you turn to see if she's all right. She looks as pale as a slice of Wonder Bread. "By 'lava tube,' you mean that big long cave, right?" she says. "Yes…." "Well… look, it's this way…." "Meredith, what on earth did you do?" "I shot those three goons down there." "You shot them?!" "Well, yes," Meredith says. "I wasn't about to take any chances, and those eyes on their foreheads were just creepy." She pauses as she considers the implications of what she just said. "You don't suppose that means they're after us, do you?" "Well, I mean, it's just speculation on my part, but yes I think this could mean they're after us!" It certainly makes sense, anyway; three of their kind were found murdered, and now just like anyone they demand justice. So in the finest tradition of mankind, three-eyed or otherwise, they have formed a posse to execute that justice. There are only two things in your favor: one is the possibility that none of this is true, and the Wobans are just out on a hunting expedition; the second thing is the fact that you are about to enter a gorge where no one should expect to find anybody. That gorge, when you finally do enter it, truly is one of the most impressive places you've ever been. There are sheer cliffs on both sides, with those on the smaller mountain to your right, and the tower-like central peak immediately before you. Natural forces have been chipping away at both rock faces over the ages, and the pieces now lie strewn about the space between the mountains in a huge talus pile. "We have to climb over that stuff?" Meredith says, pointing to the jumble of boulders. "There's no other way through." Having been on top of the smaller mountain earlier today, it now seems odd to be viewing the rope bridge from below. Getting to the spot directly beneath it is no easy matter, since there is no level ground anywhere in sight; you climb up the angled chunks of fallen cliff-rock, scoot down the opposite side, and try not to fall into the dark spaces between them. "Is it me, or are the drums getting closer?" she asks. "Don't worry about it," you say. "We're safe down here." If only that were true, you think to yourself. If only that were true. Actually, if need be you might be able to take cover amid the talus. Some of these hidden spaces might turn out to be spacious "caves" of sorts, therefore as you scramble through the bottom of the chasm you try to spot the best places to hide. "Here we are," you say. "I've found part of the collapsed bridge." "But where was that body?" "Over here, I think." Indeed, just two boulders over lie the bones you spotted from above. You presume the person had been trying to cross the bridge when it gave way. "Is it Bea? There's not much left of her, if it was—" "No, this most certainly was not Beatriz Paya-Vallejo," you say. "How can you be so certain?" Meredith protests. You point to the skull, which was heavily fractured from the fall — but is intact enough to clearly show a third eye socket, directly above the nasal cavity. "A Woban!" Meredith says, the disappointment evident in her voice. "So if this isn't… then where is…." "I can't help you there," you say. "Maybe we should just keep a low pro—" Just then the chasm is filled with a disorienting noise. At first you think an earthquake is causing the cliff walls to crumble down around you, but the ground isn't shaking. Then you turn in the direction from which you came — and there, right where you least expected to find them, is the Woban "posse" that has come to track you down. You notice with dismay how easily they can advance over the rubble, as if every one of them had practiced for just such an occasion — all twenty or thirty of them. "They were able to track us…" you say in a tone that sounds like some kind of quiet admiration, even to you. "Maybe you should ask them for lessons," Meredith says, the humor in her voice equally out of place given the circumstances. "Maybe I will, maybe I will," you say as the lead Woban hunters take aim at the two of you with their enormous spears. THE END

"So I've been dying to know," you say, "how is my gear holding up?" "Quite well," Meredith says. "I'm not sure I set the tent up right, but it didn't rain, so who cares? That down sleeping bag sure was comfy, though. I see that you figured out a way to make do without all that stuff." "I'm just glad you left your initials in that tree. Otherwise I'd have no idea who was after me." "You think I'm after you? Ha, don't flatter yourself." "I can only believe what the evidence leads me to conclude," you say. "Well, OK, sure. I needed you to put me on the right trail, because I couldn't make heads or tails of those military maps. But then after a certain point I had to assume you were still Walter's agent, and I know how much he gets bent out of shape when he thinks he's been betrayed. So who was it that sang that song — 'In this ever-changing world, live and let die'?" "So here we are, Meredith, just you and me on top of this mountain. Are we going to shoot it out? Wrestle each other off the side of the cliff? Join forces and claim the Stone of Vul-Kar together?" "I don't know yet," she says. "What you're looking for is across that bridge, you know. Now that we both know we're here, there's no point in playing games. I'll let you go if you let me go." "Isn't what you're looking for on the other side of that bridge, too?" "Maybe, but I'm guessing not." You see that her gaze has stopped on something behind you, so you turn to see what it might be. There, on a rock about fifty feet behind you, are three letters: BPV. The writing is frail and white, as if scratched onto the rock by someone holding another rock. "That's what this is all about?" you say. "You're trying to find Beatriz Paya-Vallejo?" "You could say that," is all she says. "How do you know that's not her down on the rocks?" You step over toward the bridge and point down into the chasm, to the battered set of human remains sprawled across the talus pile. Skeptically, Meredith comes to see what you see, and she gasps when she spots the bones. "Do you think that's her?" you say. Meredith's eyes are wide with surprise, and for the first time since this encounter began she seems to be at a loss for words. "So what's the big deal, anyway?" you say. "You two weren't… you weren't… you know…." "Oh, Christ, don't be so lurid," she finally says. "Look, the temple is across this bridge. If that's what you want, then just go. Be Walter Berringer's little pawn and get your million dollars. If you want to know my secrets, you're gonna have to help me get down into that chasm." __________________________________________________ > You cross the bridge and climb to the temple ruins. "I don't know what you're up to Meredith, and maybe I don't care. But I'm here for a single purpose, and if I don't make good on my commitments then I may have trouble being employed ever again." "Your commitment to your job is admirable," Meredith says. "Misguided, but admirable." "What can such people as I do, crawling between heaven and earth?" "Oh come now, let's not get all literate on each other," she says. "Go. Be on your way. I wish you success on your journey." You think about demanding your stuff back, but the way this day is proceeding your mission to obtain the Stone of Vul-Kar is almost over. By this time tomorrow, you should be back on board the Big Papi sailing north to Hawaii, with Walter Berringer wiring the balance of your million dollars to your account. You'll be able to buy your own REI store if you want. As you turn toward the rope bridge, Meredith says, "Hold on. Before you go, seriously, how should I get down into that chasm?" "Jump, for all I care," you say, and you turn back toward the bridge. You are too fed up with Meredith to care too much about the condition of the bridge; if this thing can withstand the weight of a grown Woban, then you won't be too much of a load. Still, there isn't very much to this bridge: just four thick, russet-colored ropes and dozens upon dozens of rough-hewn wood slabs. The upper two ropes serve as rudimentary handrails, and smaller ropes bind everything into something resembling a unified structure. It seems steady at first, but the further out you go the bouncier the bridge gets. Several times you feel compelled to come to a stop to let the vibrations stop; they are shooting forward and back through the bridge like sine waves, growing so strong that you worry you might get bounced off the span. You can't help but look down, because the gaps between the slats are wide enough you could sink a boot through one if you weren't careful. Could that really be the remains of your old nemesis down there on those boulders? Somehow the bones seem too big to be Paya-Vallejo, but you'll let Meredith figure that one out for herself. Speaking of Meredith, you turn and see no such person on the summit behind you. Maybe she plays dumb a lot, but perhaps that has just been an act. You're confident she'll figure out a way into that gorge down there. Hold on — what's that? The sound is so faint that you almost missed it. Actually you were tuning it out, because that drumming noise you heard last night has returned and has been going on for a few minutes. You have been paying too much attention to the bridge to notice. The Wobans are up to something, but it's hard to say what. When the bridge stops shimmying underneath you, you continue stepping gingerly across. After reaching the sagging midpoint of the span, you have to climb up a slight grade to reach the opposite end. The vibrations become less intense the closer you get to the anchor point, until finally you reach the ledge on the side of the island's main summit. Before you enter the tunnel leading into the mountain, you take one last look at the landscape behind you. There is no movement other than clouds drifting lazily in the sky, but the drumming does sound like it has gotten closer. The Wobans aren't your concern; for all you know they're on the hunt for some giant flightless bird or something. You're on the hunt for something else entirely, and right now your quarry is so close that you almost smell all the twenty-dollar bills that will be spewing out of the first ATM you come across back home. You step into the tunnel expecting darkness, but finding a shaft of light from above instead. The tunnel leads in a hundred feet or so to a circular room with no ceiling; it extends upward for hundreds of feet all the way to the top of the mountain, making you feel like you're at the bottom of a well looking up. Stone steps protrude from the wall, spiralling gracefully all the way up. Eagerly you take to the steps, learning quickly that they weren't carved with your little human legs in mind. This was a place designed by seven-foot giants, with steps made for people with longer strides — meaning you have to work harder to ascend each riser, and then make an awkward half-step in between. The closest thing to this in your life experience was that time when you climbed an old lighthouse once on the East Coast, but that was a narrow and confined space. This place was constructed on a grand scale. On the other hand it's a tall shaft to climb, and going round and round gets tedious quickly. You feel like the action hero in a poorly-edited movie: you've discovered the secret to vanquishing the alien invasion force, and only you can save Planet Earth — but first you need to run a marathon to deliver the news to the rebel base, so check back after a couple hours. All right, so it doesn't take that long to reach the top of the spiral stairs, but by the time you get there you feel spent — and when you lean against a wall in exhaustion to catch your breath, this further delays the completion of your mission. __________________________________________________ > Next page. Looking up at your new surroundings, you find that the land here on top of the mountain is completely flat. However, the entire plateau is occupied by stone ruins, the remains of some civilization that is practically unknown to academia — a culture that existed nowhere else on Earth. But what a strange culture that must have been, like a race of ancient tourists who traveled the globe and recreated the various architectural styles they found, here on the one or two acres of buildable space atop this mountain. There are four small buildings around the edge of the summit, each a house-sized stepped pyramid like something out of Mexico, but with four Greek-style columns on top. All four face the central structure, which is a stepped pyramid of the same size. But instead of the columns, this one is capped with a statue. If the Stone of Vul-Kar is anywhere, it's going to be in that central structure. You step over the crumbled remains of a toppled column to get a closer look. The statue looks like a Buddha from afar, a cherubic being with a large grin — except that this "Buddha" is horned, giving the otherwise complacent grin a malicious subtext. Is this the Vul-Kar god whose precious gem you've come to rob? A tall and dark entrance leads into the temple, which is not large at all. The interior is something more like a closet, with room for three or four people to enter and feel intimidated by the carving of Vul-Kar that occupies an entire wall. Here he is nothing but an enormous face, with pupils the size of manhole covers and a nose on which you could easily bump your head. His eyes are crossed and his mouth is opened, revealing a raised tongue. Clearly this not a kind and forgiving god, but one who seeks to instill fear and demand obedience. There is something missing, though: there is no purple gem. You look around in case you're missing something, but the interior of the temple is so small there is nothing to miss. The focus of this entire chamber seems to be that stuck-out tongue; it's what the crossed eyes are looking at, and it's what the nose shelters. You duck under the nose and examine the stone tongue more closely, noticing only a flat spot where it seems a prominent object should be. Other than that, the only noteworthy thing you see now is a single inscription, scratched onto the tip of Vul-Kar's tongue with a piece of stone much like the way Paya-Vallejo inscribed her initials down by the rope bridge: MAMMON Before you have a chance to ponder its significance, your concentration is broken by the sound of shouting outside. What the hell is going on? You rush out of the temple and follow the sound to the edge of the plateau — hesitating to go all the way to the edge because of the dizzying drop-off you know you'll find, but getting close enough to get a good look at the scene below. The mountain at the other end of the rope bridge where you encountered Meredith Nowitki has been overrun by a hundred angry Wobans, who seem to be celebrating the capture of a prisoner. They surround the hapless victim, making it impossible for you to get a good look at who it is… but then again, who else was on this mountain today? The crowd has gathered atop the cliff near the rope bridge, parting as the victim is pushed toward the edge. That's when you finally get a good look at the person: It's Meredith. Then the Wobans go quiet as an imposing figure with a feathered crown and a feathered robe steps forward. "I keia la, e ho'olei makou i keia haumia i ka make i loa'a ia ia ma muli o kana mau hana hana kolohe," he shouts as the others pay respectful attention. "Ua piha kona kino i na 'uhane 'ino. E waiho makou i kona kino make e pehu i ka la, 'a'ole lawe 'ia mai i ka makou papa'aina." The Wobans cheer in agreement to whatever their king has just proclaimed. Meredith is kneeling at the edge of the precipice, scanning the sky as if looking for divine intervention. Then she spots you watching from the top of the mountain. "Help me!" she shouts… and to your dismay the Woban king follows her gaze and sees you too. "Pepehi ia ia," the king says. "A laila e kauoha aku 'oe ia 'oe e lawe mai ia'u i kekahi pio." You watch in horror as Meredith is shoved off the mountain into the rocky chasm. The Wobans don't waste any time enjoying the grisly spectacle though; a detachment of about a dozen angry warriors charge across the bridge single-file and into the tunnel leading to the spiral stairway. They are coming for you next, and there is no other way off the mountain. THE END

Maybe the rope ladder worked for Meredith, but she weighs what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? You aren't about to take that same chance, so instead you find a pair of small protrusions on the rock and pull yourself up, your boot scraping against the surface until your toe finds something it can step on. With this first successful step, you look up and identify a route to the top where the rock is angled fifty degrees or so — very steep to be sure, but not so steep as to be impossible to climb. The going is slow, though, as there is no room for error on a climbing route this exposed. The wall of rock is only maybe fifty feet tall, but if you were to lose your grip there would be nothing to stop your fall. Slowly you work the rock directly in front of you, looking up from time to time, but never looking down, maintaining three points of contact at all times. Before moving the next hand or foot, you test your grip with your other appendages to reassure yourself you're not about to slip off the mountain. It is a long and tiring process, though, during which you imagine Meredith getting far ahead of you, perhaps even finding some kind of hidden passageway leading up to the temple ruins where the Stone of Vul-Kar awaits. When you last saw Walter Berringer on board the Big Papi you thought maybe his anger towards Meredith had eclipsed his desire to obtain the gem. Now that Meredith has passed you on the trail, you're starting to feel the same way. Although it only takes ten minutes to reach the top, it feels more like thirty. The slope doesn't taper at the top like you had hoped, so there is one more delay as you are forced to find something else to grab onto so you can pull yourself over the edge, finally coming to rest on a small terrace of level ground. You are torn by the competing interests of stopping to rest and continuing your chase, when the sound of running footsteps makes the choice for you. Although all four of your limbs feeling limp from the exertion of the climb, adrenaline takes over as you charge around a boulder to where you thought you heard the noise. Here you find the top of the rope ladder, anchored by a pair of stout wooden stakes wedged into a crevice in the rock. Nobody is there, but you do see a familiar green object lying on the ground. Picking it up, you recognize it immediately as a six-inch survival knife you've owned for so long you don't even remember where you got it. This was one of the items that was in the REI backpack that Meredith stole… meaning she was right here! She was waiting for you to climb the ladder so she could cut the ropes on you — not just trying to block your path, but intentionally waiting for an opportunity to cause you grave harm! Looking around, you don't see her — but that proves nothing because you have reached an area of irregular topography, a restless summit strewn with boulders and indented by alcoves and large crevices. There is a maze-like quality to the area, almost, and it occurs to you that Meredith could be anywhere here. You listen, but you hear no further footsteps. Either she has gotten away, or she is hiding here somewhere among the rocks. Tucking your trusty old knife under your belt, you set out to search this strange summit. Much of Woban Island spreads out below you, although the summit is so broad and cluttered that you never have the full 360° view. However, you are so close to the main summit that it looms above the rock formations surrounding you. For the first time you can clearly see the summit ruins on its top. What you're looking for is Meredith's whereabouts. You'd call her name, but that would make you feel like you're searching for a lost puppy. It would also broadcast your location to your quarry. No, it would be better to let her stew for a moment, wondering where you are. But in the process of looking for her, you circle around to the far side of the summit where you find something completely unexpected: a rope bridge spanning a massive gulf. The near end is anchored to large wooden poles, similar to the ladder but on a larger scale. Five hundred feet away, the far end of the bridge is tethered to a narrow ledge on the side of the steep main summit, with a tunnel leading into the mountain. In between is a chasm hundreds of feet deep, with a botton full of talus. Looking down into the depths, you can see the remains of an earlier version of the bridge rotting away on the rocks below. Are those human bones that you see down there, too? So did Meredith cross the bridge, or is she lying in wait somewhere on this side, hidden among the rocks? It's frustrating to consider the possibilities: either she is already climbing up to the temple ruins, on her way to to grab the Stone of Vul-Kar before you; or she's poised to sabotage you again by cutting the ropes once you are halfway across the bridge. But that wouldn't make sense; if she's here to get the stone, then she needs that bridge just as much as you do. __________________________________________________ > You cross the bridge. The thought that Meredith might be lurking behind you is sheer paranoia, especially since it appears the bridge is the only way to get to the main summit. If she destroys the bridge just to kill you, then how would she get across? You're just overthinking a simple problem. Like everyone else, she's here to grab the Stone of Vul-Kar so she can claim a reward and get rich. If you don't act fast, she may find it before you do. However, you have the same hesitation about the bridge as you did about the rope ladder, in terms of its structural adequacy. The bridge is merely a combination of four fibrous ropes with dozens of wood slabs to step on. It seems like a very primitive contraption for such an ambitious span, and structural failure would result in certain death. Do the Wobans have any civil engineers among them? How often do they inspect this thing? How did the previous bridge fail, and whose skeleton is that down on the rocks? But here's another way of looking at it: this bridge was presumably built by Woban natives, who are seven feet tall and significantly heavier than a typical human. If the bridge can carry one of them safely across, what are you so worried about? So you approach the bridge, grab the two waist-high ropes that serve as handrails, take a deep breath, and step onto the first wood slab. The bridge shimmies under your weight, but it holds. So you take the next step, then the next, and then the next, one at a time. You have to watch where you are placing your feet, so you have no choice but to look down lest you slip a boot through the gap between the slats; Philippe Petit you are not. The vast space below you is terrifying, so you choose to focus instead on the craftmanship of the bridge: the strength of rust-colored rope, the evenness of the wood slabs, the knots that hold everything together. It's quite the piece of work. When you are just a third of the way across, you are startled to hear a voice call out behind you. "Give my regards to Walter." You turn carefully and see Meredith kneeling at the beginning of the bridge, at the place you reasoned she wouldn't be. She no longer has your knife, but she is holding a handgun to one of the two lower ropes. "Meredith, wh—" you start to say, but she's not interested in small talk. She fires, the bullet severing the rope just as handily as a knife. The walkway of wood slabs drops away like a trap door, and in a desperate act to catch yourself you throw your arms around the two handrails. This leaves you dangling in space by your armpits. Seeing that you're still holding onto the bridge, she stands and shoots the upper rope on the opposite side of the bridge. The right handrail falls away, leaving your feet grasping for purchase on the one bottom rope that still remains, and your arms holding onto the last handrail. Meredith doesn't even wait to see you fall; she shoulders your green backpack and disappears among the rocks, apparently having no interest in crossing the bridge. THE END

Despite the inglorious shelter and the lack of an adequate sleeping bag, you sleep soundly anyway. Perhaps too soundly, because by the time your eyes open the sun has already risen and is making its upward climb into the sky. Last night's fire is now a pile of cooling ashes, and the drumming has long since ceased. Blue skies overhead promise a glorious day ahead, as far as the weather is concerned. Then something catches your eye: on the tree where you carved your initials below those of your old adversary, there is now a freshly-carved MN. As hard as you find it to believe, that could only be Meredith Nowitki! Could it possibly be that she passed through while you were still sleeping — toting all of your brand-new gear — and carved her name in the tree just to taunt you? You step out onto the narrow footpath and sure enough, there are now new boot prints in the mud, left by someone with feet much smaller than your own. How infuriating! How aggravating! How humiliating! Not only did she steal your stuff, but she was following behind you so that you could lead her to the Stone of Vul-Kar! Why else would she be here? And now that you have overindulged in sleep, she has passed you by. What kind of a headstart does she have on you? Minutes? Hours? Extremely displeased with yourself, you hurriedly take down the tarp and pack up the few things you have. You remember well Berringer's rage yesterday morning when he learned that Meredith, his erstwhile "acquisition" from the Boston Globe, had deserted him — and you can only imagine how much worse it would be if you let her get to his prize first. You are so angry that you start to contemplate ways that gun of his might come in useful after all. The best you can do for breakfast is a couple more pepperoni sticks; maybe tonight, with Meredith permanently out of the way, you'll have all of your stuff back so you can enjoy something a little less gas-inducing. Then you shoulder the black book bag and set off for the mountain. Her tracks are easy to follow, although in retrospect so were yours, too, probably. Beyond the campsite, the rugged footpath continues climbing through the high-elevation brush, the mud softer than ever, like black cookie batter. Meredith must have been inspired to move swiftly, because you see no sign of her. Who would believe that someone who spent the last three years trailing Walter Berringer around a baseball stadium in high heels would be so adept at climbing a mountain? But then the trail runs cold when the vegetation ends and the way forward is nothing but bare rock. You can trace Meredith's steps only for about six paces, where the mud from her boots left an obvious track, but then nothing after that. You're not even sure where the actual trail goes; the best you can do is continue climbing at the same angle, and hope that some sign presents itself. What you find a moment later is a wall of rock blocking your way. Looking back, you can still see where the trail exited the forest, with a direct line of travel leading to where you are now. To the best of your tracking ability, this is where you're supposed to be, so you scout your options. By circling a bit to the left, you find a rope ladder dangling down the rock face — the surest sign that you are on the correct trail. But the fibrous rope looks old and weathered, and you are not sure you can trust it to hold your weight. The only other option would be to scale the rock face itself. The wall isn't quite vertical, and the surface seems coarsely textured with just enough subtle imperfections to make footholds and handholds theoretically plentiful, but you can't tell for sure from below. __________________________________________________ > You use the ladder. You have to assume that Meredith used the ladder, and the ropes might not be as weak as you fear. Yes, it looks old, but that doesn't automatically mean the ladder won't hold. And climbing it will certainly be much faster than trying to scale the rock wall. So you grab hold of the parallel ropes and hoist yourself onto the first rung. It holds, although you still see a dozen different ways this endeavor could go wrong. The ropes do feel sturdy, but damp; the rungs are just sticks, and you inspect each one for signs of weakness before you advance one more step. Overall the ladder is fifty feet tall, and it flops about against the rock as you slowly climb up. The ropes are holding, which is good, because until you reach the top of the small cliff they will be the only things keeping you from falling. "Well there you are, sleepy head!" With a sinking feeling in your stomach, you look up. Meredith is at the top of the ladder, sticking her head out over the edge. "I tried not to wake you," she continues. "You looked so comfy under that blue tarp thingy." "Meredith, what the heck are you doing here?" you say. Of all the places she picked to have this confrontation; you are still twenty feet shy of the top, with thirty feet of space below you. The rope ladder refuses to stay still, swaying with every little movement of your body. "I was waiting for you, of course," she says. "I knew you'd be coming this way sooner or later. I just didn't realize it would be this late." "No, I meant what are doing here, on Woban Island?" "For the same thing you are, obviously. Can't a girl treat herself every now and then? That gem will make me wealthier than it will make you — you let yourself get hired by the wrong collector. I needed you yesterday to point me in the right direction, but now that I see the way to go, your services are no longer required." "Meredith, we need to talk," you say. "No, I don't think so. I like this knife I found in your pack, by the way." She holds out the six-inch knife you've been keeping in your backpack for years; although you don't use it often, you are pretty good at keeping the blade sharpened. It disgusts you to see her brandishing it now. "I was playing with this earlier," Meredith continues "and I'm certain this thing could cut through these ropes like butter. Here, let's find out." There are lots of things about this situation that you don't understand, but you know she is right about the knife. As she applies it to the top of the rope ladder, you wonder if it would be better to try and climb up or down in the seconds before she slices through the two bundles of fiber. Ultimately it doesn't matter; when both ropes are cut, you experience the most horrific moment ever as you tumble toward the rocks below. The ground there is slanted, and you know there is zero chance you will stick the landing. Even if you do survive the initial fall — and then the two-hundred-foot tumble that is sure to follow — there won't be too much left of you. THE END

The idea occurs to you that the cave may have some kind of significance, and this is why the Wobans are here — perhaps they are guarding it. This piques your curiosity. Of course, all of this is just a theory and you have no real idea who those Wobans are or what their purpose is, but with no maps to follow — and with a personal taste for adventure that is about a mile wide — you feel compelled to explore the cave. The irony is that if the Wobans are here to guard the cave, they're doing a poor job of it. The cave's entrance is turned slightly away from the clearing, so they cannot even see it from where they are playing their little game of tiddlywinks or whatever. A growth of grass and small brushy plants provides just enough cover for you to crouch low and step softly between your boulder and the clear-water stream flowing out of the cave. "He aha kela kani?" says one of the Wobans to his companions. "'O kau e lohe nei, 'o wau ke lanakila nei i keia pa'ani. E kiola i kou pohaku a pani i kou waha," someone responds. "Aole. Lohe wau i kekahi mea e ne'e ana." "He mea li'ili'i paha kahi holoholona e 'uwu ana i ka mau'u. Pono 'oe e pa'ani i ka pa'ani a ha'alele i ke kama'ilio 'ana." The mouth of the cave is wide, and you can feel its coolness before you even step inside. Immediately you are glad you came here, as you are now surrounded by moisture and hidden from the harsh sun — the exact opposite conditions from where you just were. You pause for a moment as your eyes adjust to the dim light, and then you continue on; you may have just snuck past the Woban guards successfully, but you would still prefer to put some distance between you. You quickly realize that this cave is a lava tube — a tunnel-like passage carved through the hillside during an ancient eruption. It angles gently upward, with the stream fanning out across the rock floor. Up ahead is nothing but darkness, so just before you lose sight of the little bit of daylight coming in through the entrance, you stop to fish out Captain Mark's palm-sized plastic flashlight from the backpack. Except for the uphill grade, following the lava tube is like exploring an abandoned subway. The arched ceiling maintains almost consistent dimensions as the passageway snakes its way through the rocky core of the island, giving it a man-made appearance. But where is it leading? You have no idea how good the batteries are in the flashlight, and you'd hate to be stranded here in the dark. Excitement propels you forward; anxiety has you hoping an exit appears soon. What you do find is a fork, with passages branching to the left and right. So now what? Both are equally dark, and your first impression is that there is no difference between them, other than direction. You step into the space between the twin tunnels, lick your fingertip, and stick it into the air. Although it's subtle, there is a draft of air coming from the left tunnel, and heat coming from the right — would that be heat from outdoors, maybe? The stream that you have been following has dwindled to just a trickle, but you can see now that it flows from the left-hand tunnel. This is all very interesting, but in a moment of sobriety you realize that Walter Berringer didn't send you here to go spelunking. Maybe you should go back the way you came, hoping that the Wobans have left so that you can resume your hike along the trail. __________________________________________________ > You take the right tunnel. The heat coming from the right tunnel convinces you that this must be the way back to the surface, where the air was blisteringly hot earlier today as you hiked across the ridgeline. These lava tubes are interesting, and it looks like coming here was an ingenious way to get past those three Wobans down below, but your real purpose is to find the island's highest mountain. It's time to resume that journey, so if the right-hand tunnel is going to lead you back up to ground level then that is the smartest way to go. But the tunnel does not seem to lead anywhere quickly; you follow it for more than fifteen minutes without seeing much of anything different compared to the previous lava tube. The one distinction is that this branch does less climbing, as if it were leading you deeper inside one of the island's small mountains rather than paralleling the slope. It is indeed warmer here, but the source of that heat is not evident; with no stream trickling past your feet the entire place seems less enchanting and more desolate. You are torn between the competing thoughts of going forward and turning back. You've come so far already that the idea of giving up now seems distasteful; for all you know the exit to the surface may be just around the next bend, or the next. If that turns out to be the case, it means that it would be longer to go back than it would to go forward. But at the same time, that nagging sense that you've been wasting your time here won't go away. The simple fact is that you have no way of knowing which way is best, thus putting your tortured brain into a state of paralysis due to insufficient information. Hold on — what's that sound? All this time that you've been exploring the lava tube, the sounds of your footsteps have been echoing off the rock walls surrounding you. But when you stopped a moment ago to ponder your options, the "echoes" made two extra steps. Could it be that someone has been following you all this time? The idea of encountering a Woban deep in this endless lava tube is terrifying. Where is your escape route? Who will find your remains? You feel as though you have been unwittingly walking deeper and deeper into a trap, all the while congratulating yourself for evading the three Wobans standing guard at the entrance. You are such a fool. Flicking off the flashlight in your hand, you wait quietly in the utter darkness for further sounds that someone is behind you. It is not a long wait — and not only do you hear the other person approaching, but soon you see the glow of another flashlight on the tunnel walls. It's not a Woban following you, but one of the other collectors! It remains to be seen which is more dangerous. You remember the pistol that Berringer pressed into your hand this morning; it's been in your pack ever since you left the Big Papi, where you've forgotten all about it. Normally you'd want nothing to do with a firearm, on the theory that if you shoot at someone first and miss, they'll just shoot at you back, thus making a bad situation worse. But here you feel trapped and vulnerable, and that little handgun may be your only way out of this predicament. By the time the other person comes into view around the last bend in the lava tube, Berringer's pistol is in your hands, and your finger is hooked around the trigger. Your shadow has not spoken a word, and perhaps doesn't even know yet that you're standing right in front of them. Whoever it is, they are wearing a headlamp; the light they have been using to find their way emanates from their forehead like an LED halo, partially blinding you and leaving the person wearing it in the shadows. "Who are you, and why have you been following me?" you say. Your voice echoes weirdly off the walls, to the point where you hardly recognize the way you sound. The other person says nothing, but comes to a dead stop. You see the headlamp beam sweeping up and settling on your location, leaving you to assume that the person wearing it had been focusing on where they were stepping, and hadn't seen you until just now. When there is no response, you hold up the gun in front of you. "Don't come any closer, or I'll shoot." "Fat chance. We all know you don't carry." The other person's voice echoes just as much as yours; it sounds familiar, but all you can determine through the reverberation is that your shadow is a woman. Behind the glare of her headlamp, you are sure you see the person reaching for a gun of her own. So before this turns into a standoff in the dark, you impulsively fire the first shot… …and the results are exactly what you've always feared they would be. Your shot doesn't miss its target, but all it does is graze her as she jumps to safety. Her shot, on the other hand, finds its mark with no problem. You collapse to the ground, darkness overtaking you before you ever learn the identity of who it was who has just bested you. THE END

The idea occurs to you that the cave may have some kind of significance, and this is why the Wobans are here — perhaps they are guarding it. This piques your curiosity. Of course, all of this is just a theory and you have no real idea who those Wobans are or what their purpose is, but with no maps to follow — and with a personal taste for adventure that is about a mile wide — you feel compelled to explore the cave. The irony is that if the Wobans are here to guard the cave, they're doing a poor job of it. The cave's entrance is turned slightly away from the clearing, so they cannot even see it from where they are playing their little game of tiddlywinks or whatever. A growth of grass and small brushy plants provides just enough cover for you to crouch low and step softly between your boulder and the clear-water stream flowing out of the cave. "He aha kela kani?" says one of the Wobans to his companions. "'O kau e lohe nei, 'o wau ke lanakila nei i keia pa'ani. E kiola i kou pohaku a pani i kou waha," someone responds. "Aole. Lohe wau i kekahi mea e ne'e ana." "He mea li'ili'i paha kahi holoholona e 'uwu ana i ka mau'u. Pono 'oe e pa'ani i ka pa'ani a ha'alele i ke kama'ilio 'ana." The mouth of the cave is wide, and you can feel its coolness before you even step inside. Immediately you are glad you came here, as you are now surrounded by moisture and hidden from the harsh sun — the exact opposite conditions from where you just were. You pause for a moment as your eyes adjust to the dim light, and then you continue on; you may have just snuck past the Woban guards successfully, but you would still prefer to put some distance between you. You quickly realize that this cave is a lava tube — a tunnel-like passage carved through the hillside during an ancient eruption. It angles gently upward, with the stream fanning out across the rock floor. Up ahead is nothing but darkness, so just before you lose sight of the little bit of daylight coming in through the entrance, you stop to fish out Captain Mark's palm-sized plastic flashlight from the backpack. Except for the uphill grade, following the lava tube is like exploring an abandoned subway. The arched ceiling maintains almost consistent dimensions as the passageway snakes its way through the rocky core of the island, giving it a man-made appearance. But where is it leading? You have no idea how good the batteries are in the flashlight, and you'd hate to be stranded here in the dark. Excitement propels you forward; anxiety has you hoping an exit appears soon. What you do find is a fork, with passages branching to the left and right. So now what? Both are equally dark, and your first impression is that there is no difference between them, other than direction. You step into the space between the twin tunnels, lick your fingertip, and stick it into the air. Although it's subtle, there is a draft of air coming from the left tunnel, and heat coming from the right — would that be heat from outdoors, maybe? The stream that you have been following has dwindled to just a trickle, but you can see now that it flows from the left-hand tunnel. This is all very interesting, but in a moment of sobriety you realize that Walter Berringer didn't send you here to go spelunking. Maybe you should go back the way you came, hoping that the Wobans have left so that you can resume your hike along the trail. __________________________________________________ > You go back. Convinced that you have been wasting your time, and having found no other exits out of the lava tube, you decide that the sensible thing to do is backtrack down to the entrance. If the Wobans are still there when you get back, then you'll just have to wait for them to leave. Therefore you turn to follow the little stream back down the angled cave, feeling a little bit like you are walking down an overgrown waterslide in an amusement park. The flow is little more than a trickle at first, but as you pass through the tunnel a second time you notice small seeps at various spots along the wall where additional rivulets are adding to the volume of the stream. In places, the running water fans out into an apron of moisture running down the slanted floor of the lava tube. What you fail to appreciate is that some of this wet rock can be slippery, especially when you are walking downhill. On one patch of smooth rock, your Vibram soles fail you, sending you on a wild butt-slide down for a distance of about twenty feet. The flashlight flies out of your hands as you try unsuccessfully to stop yourself, but there is nothing you can grab onto. You come to an inelegant stop in the gravel bar at the bottom, unharmed except for a few scrapes on your legs and the palm of your hands, as well as a wet behind. The plastic flashlight has come to rest in a pool of water, its light gone out. But you are not in the dark. You look up and see someone is standing over you, the light of their headlamp illuminating the scene of your embarrassing fall. "You look lost," the person says — a woman, her familiar voice distorted by the reverberation off the rock walls. "I would have expected someone with your reputation to be more sure-footed." The headlamp is blinding you, and the echoes are distracting, but you would recognize Meredith's voice anywhere. "What the hell are you doing here?" you say. "And why did you take my stuff?" Instead of responding to you directly, Meredith extends her hand to help you up. When you are standing beside her, she says, "Oh, right, the headlamp." She takes it off and holds it in her hand so that you can see her without being blinded by the light. Yet again she has changed her wardrobe; instead of a dress suit or a bikini, she is now clad in a khaki shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, with a white pith helmet to top it all off. The air about her is heavy with the smell of a scented bug spray. She looks like a model from an old Banana Republic catalog, before that chain went downhill. "I've been looking for you," she says. "I knew you'd be the only person who'd understand!" You notice she's wearing your brand-new backpack, holding your brand-new headlamp in one hand and your brand-new trekking poles in the other. "Funny, Berringer asked me to keep an eye out for you, too. He even gave me a gun to use in case I found you." Her eyes widen in alarm at the news. "You don't plan to shoot me and take me back to Walter, do you?" "We'll have to see," you say. No, you don't plan to shoot her, but she's not exactly someone towards whom you feel much warmth at the moment, though. "The last thing I want to be is one of his trophies. You saw the way he treated me, right? You know I had to get away from him." Meredith is trying to play on your sympathies. You remember well the remark that Berringer made back on the yacht last night, when he boasted that he had "acquired" her and that she was too dumb to realize it. So she may have a point. Still, something doesn't add up; why bail on Berringer here, when she could have slipped away at any time she wanted back in Boston? "So why were following me up this lava tube?" you say. "You got yourself off the boat, you could go anywhere you want. What do you need me for?" "Because you're probably the only two-eyed person on this island who knows what they're doing. I stand a better chance getting out of here alive with you than I do on my own." "I usually work alone. And besides, I'm not overly fond of people who steal my stuff right out of my cabin while I'm sleeping." "Ah, yes, your stuff. Well, I won't insult you with an apology; you know as well as I do that the rules of our little game don't reward morality. But I'll make you a deal: you can have your 'stuff' back if you let me come with you." "And if I don't?" "I hardly see how that would even be a valid option," Meredith says. "Would you really just leave me here alone on an island full of cannibals, just because your pride was wounded? I mean, come on here. Let's be adults." __________________________________________________ > You let Meredith come with you. This is one of those moments where you feel like closing your eyes and silently counting to ten. But you know that even if you did, when you reopened them Meredith Nowitki will still be standing in front of you. Arguing with her will be pointless, and it just so happens she possesses something that you really do need right now: that headlamp. With the watery demise of Captain Mark's cheap flashlight, it is now the only source of light in the cave. "All right, fine," you say. "You can come with me. Now just give me back my pack." Meredith shrugs off the green backpack you bought at REI and plops it down on a rock beside the stream. "This thing is effing heavy," she says. "How do you move so fast carrying all this weight?" You take off Captain Mark's black book bag and give it to her. "Here, you can have this. It's not much lighter, though. All of my stuff better still be here." "Don't worry, I didn't touch a thing," she says. "All I took were a couple of those Clif Bar things and some water." Judging by the feel of the pack, she's probably right. This is no place to conduct a thorough inventory, though, so you hoist the pack onto your shoulders. Actually, the weight isn't that bad at all, maybe about thirty pounds or so. But Meredith can't weigh more than 100 pounds soaking wet, and nothing about her prior life chasing Walter Berringer around Fenway Park would have prepared her for this kind of physical effort. So yeah, she probably would think a thirty-pound backpack was the heaviest thing ever. "I'm going to need that headlamp, too," you say. "But how am I supposed to see without it?" "Just don't get too far behind. It's the only light we have." The only item you let her keep — for the moment — is one of the two trekking poles. Considering how you just slipped and fell down the wet rocks, you know life will go more smoothly if she gets to use one of the poles for balance. "So why are you going back down this tunnel?" she asks a few minutes later. "I didn't think this lava tube was going anywhere. I got to a point where it started to branch, and I just didn't feel like getting lost in a maze. Now you tell me something: when you jumped ship this morning, where exactly did you think you were going to go?" "To find the Stone of Vul-Kar, of course. Why else does one come to Woban Island — for the piña coladas?" "So in other words your plan was to get the stone before I did and collect the reward? And now you want me to help?" "Settle down," Meredith says. "Walter was going to pay you a million dollars, right? Well I know someone willing to pay two million." "Who?" "Another Boston collector. One of Walter's rivals, actually." "And what makes you think you can find the stone?" you ask. "Let's just say I know something about it no one else knows," she says. "And what would that be?" "I have reason to believe that the Stone of Vul-Kar is not where everybody thinks it is." "And how could you of all people possibly know that?" If nothing else, Meredith's company as you descend the lava tube is proving to be entertaining. "Remember how Walter previously hired Beatriz Paya-Vallejo to find the gem? What he didn't know was that I helped her out with a particular dilemma she had. Bea was confident she could find the stone, but what worried her was that it would make her a target for the Wobans once she took it from the temple. So I tracked down a large geode with a purple crystal inside, and then had a guy chip away the outer layer of rock so that she would have a decoy to leave behind when she ran off with the true Stone of Vul-Kar." "Did it work?" "I have no idea," Meredith says. "All we know was that she called us on the satellite phone and said she had found the gem. But she was having difficulty of some kind and needed to find an alternate route off the mountain. So Walter moved the Big Papi to the far side of the island, but we never heard another word. I think she found the stone and made the swap, but that something happened to her anyway." "That is interesting," you say. "So who is this other collector, anyway — the one willing to pay two million dollars?" "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Her story is rather… complicated. But if I'm not mistaken, she sent someone to try and make contact with you on your flight to Boston." "By any chance, does he own a plaid suit?" "Dozens of them, unfortunately." You admit to yourself that you are thoroughly confused. This tale Meredith just told was fascinating, but is any of it believable? And how can it possibly be to your advantage to pal around with someone dressed like a movie extra from Gunga Din? Where does one find an actual pith helmet these days, anyway? "Well, our first challenge will be getting out of this cave unseen," you say. "Hopefully those three Wobans standing guard near the entrance have moved on to other pursuits, or else—" "Oh, those guys won't be giving anybody any problems," Meredith says. "Why do you say that?" "I shot them. Yeah, I know that's not your thing, but what else was I going to do?" She delivers this bit of news just as you are a minute from the entrance. Light from outside is now reaching your position, so you switch off the headlamp and tuck it away. Quietly, you step closer to the mouth of the cave, worried about what you might find outside. You never use guns in your work because your M.O. is to move stealthily, drawing as little attention to yourself as possible. But if your new "partner" fired off at least three shots to kill those Wobans you snuck past earlier, who knows who else was drawn to the scene by the sound of the gunshots? Indeed, you can tell right away that the small clearing is now crawling with three-eyed natives. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, you inch toward the opening. The brush that concealed you earlier prevents you from seeing everything, but you can see Wobans scouring the surrounding jungle, as if investigating the killing of the three guards. "E 'imi i ka po'e lapuwale i hana ia hana!" a voice booms. Meredith creeps up behind you. "Ugh, not more of these goons." She intends this as a whisper, but some people simply aren't that good at keeping their voice low. Adding the fact that you are in what amounts to an echo chamber, she might just as well be speaking into a megaphone. A young Woban turns toward the cave. "Eia lakou, e ka haku!" he shouts, pointing to you. Within moments you are captured by the Wobans. __________________________________________________ > Next page. You curse the name of Meredith Nowitki as the two of you are marched up the trail as prisoners of the Wobans. Your hands are not bound, and your captors have even let you keep your packs for the moment. But with three spears each pointed at the two of you, you estimate your odds of escaping are pretty much zero. At a junction of trails about half a mile past the cave entrance, the Wobans turn left and descend a long hill back toward the shoreline. They are in a celebratory mood, singing boisterously like Boy Scouts marching to summer camp: Hele mai na mea hele waho no ka pohaku o Vul-Kar Aka 'a'ole makou e 'ae ia lakou Malama makou i ka pohaku a pale maika'i Ma makou e 'ai ai i na 'aihue e hele mai e 'aihue! It's a primitive form of music to be sure, lacking the civilized innovations of both meter and rhyme. But boy, do they sure seem pleased with themselves singing it! "Why are we putting up with this? Didn't you say Walter gave you a g—nnh!" Meredith starts to say, but the Woban behind her shoves her to shut her up. You decide it's best not to respond. Whatever your captors have in store for the two of you, you doubt it will be anything good. You are led to a small village of thatched huts, with about two dozen dwellings. One larger structure stands atop a mound of earth, making it elevated about five feet above the rest of the settlement. Your guards march you through the center of town, and then stop you at the foot of the mound. The leader of your guards is a fierce-looking young man with a painted face and a tattooed body. He steps forward and shouts: "E ke ali'i nui a mahalo 'ia, e hele mai e 'ike i ka mea a makou e lawe nei ia 'oe!" A grizzled old giant emerges from the elevated hut, with wild locks of graying hair and what looks like claw marks just above his middle eye. His face is painted with bold stripes of white, black, and yellow, and despite his obvious advanced age the tattoos that adorn his entire torso are still sharply defined. Beside the chief stands a woman who appears much younger than he is, with long black hair and a necklace adorned with seashells... and a shrunken head. All three of her eyebrows are furled in an obvious expression of scorn as she regards you and Meredith from her elevated position; by contrast, the doll-sized head dangling at her chest only has two eyes forever set in a blank, horrified gaze. You try not to stare too closely, but you're curious whether the head belongs to anybody you know. Looking around at the inhabitants of this village as they emerge from their daily routines, you can see now that grass skirts are the only garments worn by any of the island's natives, male or female. And this answers another question you never knew you wanted to ask until just now: Eyes are the only anatomical features that Wobans possess in threes. "'O ka'u Manu-'opio-i-hana-me-ka-Pohaku, he aha kau e lawe mai nei i mua o ko 'oukou ali'i i keia la?" the chief says. His hair may be gray, but his voice is still forceful. "Lawe makou ia 'oe i 'elua mau 'aihue, e ka Haku!" barks the captain of the guards. "'Elua mau holoholona i hele i ka makou 'aina e hana i ka 'aihue a me ka pepehi kanaka." "He aha ka mea a lakou i 'aihue ai? He aha na kanaka a lakou i pepehi ai?" the woman says. Is she the chief's wife? His daughter? You can't tell. "Pepehi lakou i ka makou mau kia'i 'ekolu me ka lakou la'au ahi," the guardsman says, "a laila laila holo i like me na daimonio weliweli i loko o ke ana!" "A laila ua na'auao 'oe i lawe mai i keia mau daimonio i 'ane'i," the chief says, descending from the mound. "E 'ai makou i ko lakou 'i'o a luku i ko lakou 'uhane 'ino." "'Ae, 'o ia ka makou ala," the woman says, joining the chief. "I don't get it, what is this about?" Meredith says to you. "E noho malie ka mea pio!" the chief spits in her face. "'O kela holoholona ka mea like 'ole na iwi!" the woman says, looking Meredith up and down. "'Oiai 'a'ole keiki e lilo i momona ma ka 'aina i kona 'i'o." "No laila he mea maika'i ka'u i ho'iho'i ai i 'elua mau holoholona," the guard says, gesturing to you. "'O ke 'ano keia, e loa'a no na holoholona 'ekolu no ka makou 'aha'aina," the woman says, "e helu ana i ka mea a He-kanaka-ho'omake-i-na-Manoke i lawe mai nei ia makou i nehinei." She points to your right, and reflexively you look in that direction even though you have no idea what she's talking about. There, tied to a tree, is a young man — a two-eyed outsider like yourselves — who looks not only terrified, but also gaunt, as if the Wobans have been saving him for something special. The chief returns to the top of the mound, with the woman close behind. He turns and decrees, "E lawe mai i keia mau daimonio i na kanaka o ke kauhale. 'Ae i kela me keia kanaka e koho i kahi o na 'apana a kana 'ohana e 'ai ai." Then something strange happens. Your packs are removed, and you and Meredith are each grabbed by the shoulders by one of your Woban guards. Your shirts are ripped off, and you are forcibly walked to the entrance of each hut in the village. There, one member of the household makes a mark on your bodies with a piece of charcoal, often making a show of licking his or her lips right in front of you. You can't help but notice that you are getting more interest than Meredith. It is only towards the end, when your body has been all marked up, that the last of the Woban families reluctantly place their marks on your diminutive companion. When this ordeal is completed, the two of you are brought to where the other foreigner is tied up. You see that his body has been marked in a similar way. Bound with your hands behind a tree of your own, you watch as the Wobans rummage through the backpack — the same backpack you bought just days ago, and which Meredith stole, and which you've barely had the opportunity to use. The three-eyed villagers toss about packages of freeze-dried meals, extra clothes, your stove and your cook set, the water filter, and so forth. The down sleeping bag explodes into a cloud of goose feathers when one unappreciative fellow digs his long fingernails into it. None of these items mean anything to these primitive people, and probably confirm their belief that you are evil spirits of some kind. "They're going to eat us, you know," the young man says, his voice frail. "How do you know for sure?" you say. "Can you understand that language of theirs?" "A little, I think," he says. "My mother was a linguist, and so am I. They speak a dialect that is not unlike others in this region. The more they talk, the more I understand, I fear." Meredith has clearly been traumatized by the ordeal of being shown around the village, and she is now slumping against her bonds. You need to keep your mind clear so you can figure a way out of this. Therefore you talk. "A linguist, huh? That's interesting. What brings you to Woban Island, then? Studying the natives, hoping they'll help you find the Stone of Vul-Kar?" "Heavens no, not Vul-Kar," the man says. He makes a spitting motion, but you see no saliva come out. "That's what my mother came here for, Dr. Cynthia Bolt. Just up and left one day, decided that's what she wanted to do. We never heard from her again. I came here to look for her." You are struggling against the leather thong that binds your wrist, trying to reach your hip pocket. "Did you find her?" "I only just arrived a few days ago. I thought if I just approached the Wobans and showed them my friendly intentions, they would help me. So that's what I did, and here I am." Almost there! you think to yourself, trying to ignore the burning pain as your wrist strains against the leather. "You must be Dr. Brian Bolt, then." "I am. I feel like I should be flattered you know my name, although I doubt that my academic career has made me a famous person. Or that you are here to come to my rescue." Your fingertips can just touch the metal item in your pocket. "Before I landed on the island this morning, I received some intel on who else might be present. Your name came up." "I will let myself feel flattered anyway," he says, but without much enthusiasm. Everything about Dr. Bolt seems defeated: his forlorn posture, his reedy voice. He is convinced he is about to die, and all your presence has done is assure him it won't be a lonely death. "So when is the big dinner?" you say. You're finding that the trick to grasping the item in your pocket might be to jerk your right hip upward to meet your fingers halfway, thus extending the reach of your hand. "Big dinn— Oh, you mean us," Dr. Bolt says. "I don't know how you can be so flippant about such a horrific act." "I don't mean to be flippant, I just—" "My family has never been very lucky," Bolt says. "My Great Uncle Ben died when he fell into a sinkhole in Florida. Aunt Lydia got run over by a cement truck crossing the road to her mailbox. But I think getting eaten by cannibals will be the most gruesome death in my family's history." Success — the jackknife is now in your hands! If you don't manage to cut your own wrists in the process, you now have the means to free yourself from your bonds. You feel grateful that those grass skirts the Wobans wear have no pockets, and that it therefore never occurred to them to check your pockets for contraband. But you may have another situation on your hands: Bolt's pessimism is starting to feed Meredith's anxiety. "No, no no no no no! This can't be happening! This can't be happening!" she says. "I'm afraid so," Bolt says. "Do you know what those marks on our bodies mean? Each household gets to claim their cut of meat." "Oh this is so insane, I never should've come to this effing place, I just wanted to do something for myself for a change, now I'm just going to get eaten by a bunch of effing cannibals—" "Meredith!" you say softly, trying to get her attention without attracting the Wobans. You have just finished slicing through the strip of leather at your wrists, and are now free to make your escape. But you remain in place, pretending to still be tied while you make up your mind what to do. "—but no I had to follow this idiot, and look where it's gotten me—" "Meredith!" "What the eff do you want?" she finally says, as if she is about to burst into all-out rage any moment now. "Your gun. Where is it?" "Now all of a sudden you care about that? It's in a side pocket of that little book bag you gave me, not that it's going to do us any good way over there." Both backpacks are about fifty feet away. You watched carefully when the Wobans were emptying your pack, but they never found the pouch on the hip strap where you stuffed Berringer's pistol while you were back inside the lava tube — nor did they even touch Meredith's bag. This means both weapons are right where you stowed them, just a short sprint away. But now you have a quick choice to make: do you free your companions, race to retrieve the two guns, and then hope you and Meredith can shoot your way out of this pickle? Or would you be better off fleeing into the jungle on your own? Sure, yes, the moral thing to do is to free both of your fellow prisoners, but Meredith looks like she is on the verge of an outburst; the Wobans haven't been paying close attention to you since they tied you up, but if she freaks out before you can get away, then the show will be over. At least if one of you gets away, it would be better than if all three of you became the main entrées at tonight's dinner. __________________________________________________ > You free the others and make a run for the guns. "Meredith," you say, "if I get the guns, do you think the two of us can manage to shoot our way out of this?" "What, are you mad?" she says. "Do you think those beasts are gonna just—" For the first time you remove your hands from behind the tree, the remains of the leather thong dropping to the ground, the jackknife in your hand. "Oh my god, you had a knife!" she says, demonstrating her inability to whisper. "Why didn't—" You slice through the leather strap looped around her wrists. "Just shut up, or you'll get us all killed. Here, take the knife and free Dr. Bolt. I'll get the guns. Wait for me in the woods." There is no time to see how well she executes your instructions, as you calculate you'll have just a matter of seconds to reach the packs before your captors inevitably notice their meals are getting away. You sprint as fast as you can, going to your pack first since you know exactly where you stuffed Berringer's gun. How ironic that you're about to use it to save Meredith, when he gave it to you with the opposite intentions. The hitch, however, comes when you try and find Meredith's gun. She said it was in a side pocket, but the little black book bag given to you by Captain Mark has multiple pockets on the outside. Some industrial designer's obsession with organization might be your undoing if you have to stop and open each pouch, so instead you grope the pack frantically until you feel the gun inside a long zippered pocket running down the right side. "Pakele ka mea 'ai! Pono kekahi e hopu ia lakou!" You don't look to see what the Wobans are doing, but you recognize the voice of the woman with the shrunken head on her necklace — and you're reasonably certain she's noticed you're no longer tied up. With both guns now in hand, you turn back to where you left Meredith and Dr. Bolt. They are no longer there, so you run as fast as you can into the jungle beyond. As you pass the three trees where you had been bound, a seven-foot-long spear lands with a quiver in the tree that a moment ago held you in place. In the corner of your eye, it looks like a giant pub dart landing just to the left of the bullseye. "This way!" You hear Meredith, but you don't see her until she grabs at your arm from behind a bush. Dr. Bolt looks somewhat dazed behind her, like he is still trying to process all that is happening. "Did you get them?" she says. "Here," you say, handing her gun over. "No bullets?" she says, her hand still out like she's expecting you to give her something else. "Bullets? I was lucky I found anything at all." "Well I only have two shots left then, so let's not get ourselves into a shootout." "In that case, we need to get out of here," you say. "I think our gracious hosts are upset their meals are running away." And so you flee into the deep jungle, with Meredith and Dr. Bolt following you as if you know where you're going. You haven't really had that much time to think that far ahead, though. Probably the best place you could be is back in that runabout you hid on the shore, speeding away back to the Big Papi. So you head downhill, assuming that is the direction back to the shoreline. But if the world is a big playing field, just like Berringer told you that day back in Fenway, then the three of you clearly do not have the home field advantage. You are all running as if your lives depend on it, but you can hear the Woban hunters gaining on you quickly. One doesn't need to be a math whiz to figure out a seven-foot Woban can outrun a mere human without even trying very hard. "Why are you stopping?" Meredith says as you examine a small clearing in the forest you have just stumbled across. "They're gaining on us too quickly," you say. "Yes, we are no match for the Wobans, I'm afraid," Dr. Bolt says. "We'll hide in the bushes, and when they enter this clearing we'll open fire," you say. "It was a valiant effort, and I appreciate your thinking of me, but I knew that escape was impossible," Bolt says. "If there's more than two of them, I can't help you," Meredith says, taking your lead in ignoring your defeatist companion. "I should have a full chamber," you say. "Then that gives us eight," she says. "Let's not miss." The Wobans are just seconds away from bursting into the clearing, so you gesture to your two companions to back into the nearest patch of tall grass. It's the best cover you can find in the time that you have. Two of your pursuers enter the meadow, apparently clueless that you are lying in wait. They are sprinting straight ahead, as if intending to continue the chase back into the jungle. But in so doing, they are coming directly at you. Meredith fires right, you shoot left, and with grim economy the two of you eliminate these Wobans from the chase. The twin shots ring out across the evening air, though, lingering like a peal of thunder that hangs over the jungle and fades away much too slowly. It might as well be a neon sign pointing out your location. "Run?" Meredith says. "Wait," you say, but there is no need to wait for long. The two Wobans that you just killed were just the advance scouts; the shouting that erupts from the jungle makes it sound as though the entire population of the village is coming to avenge their deaths. "Yes, run," you agree, but even as you say the words you know your situation is hopeless. You have bought yourselves a few seconds perhaps, but you remain at a disadvantage: the Wobans are still so much faster than you, the shore is still miles away, and now you have only six shots with which to defend yourselves. It is hard to picture any way in which this will end well. Dr. Bolt gives you a look of dismay, as if you have just proposed the most pointless action ever. You'll never admit it, but you know he's right. THE END

You curse the name of Meredith Nowitki as the two of you are marched up the trail as prisoners of the Wobans. Your hands are not bound, and your captors have even let you keep your packs for the moment. But with three spears each pointed at the two of you, you estimate your odds of escaping are pretty much zero. At a junction of trails about half a mile past the cave entrance, the Wobans turn left and descend a long hill back toward the shoreline. They are in a celebratory mood, singing boisterously like Boy Scouts marching to summer camp: Hele mai na mea hele waho no ka pohaku o Vul-Kar Aka 'a'ole makou e 'ae ia lakou Malama makou i ka pohaku a pale maika'i Ma makou e 'ai ai i na 'aihue e hele mai e 'aihue! It's a primitive form of music to be sure, lacking the civilized innovations of both meter and rhyme. But boy, do they sure seem pleased with themselves singing it! "Why are we putting up with this? Didn't you say Walter gave you a g—nnh!" Meredith starts to say, but the Woban behind her shoves her to shut her up. You decide it's best not to respond. Whatever your captors have in store for the two of you, you doubt it will be anything good. You are led to a small village of thatched huts, with about two dozen dwellings. One larger structure stands atop a mound of earth, making it elevated about five feet above the rest of the settlement. Your guards march you through the center of town, and then stop you at the foot of the mound. The leader of your guards is a fierce-looking young man with a painted face and a tattooed body. He steps forward and shouts: "E ke ali'i nui a mahalo 'ia, e hele mai e 'ike i ka mea a makou e lawe nei ia 'oe!" A grizzled old giant emerges from the elevated hut, with wild locks of graying hair and what looks like claw marks just above his middle eye. His face is painted with bold stripes of white, black, and yellow, and despite his obvious advanced age the tattoos that adorn his entire torso are still sharply defined. Beside the chief stands a woman who appears much younger than he is, with long black hair and a necklace adorned with seashells... and a shrunken head. All three of her eyebrows are furled in an obvious expression of scorn as she regards you and Meredith from her elevated position; by contrast, the doll-sized head dangling at her chest only has two eyes forever set in a blank, horrified gaze. You try not to stare too closely, but you're curious whether the head belongs to anybody you know. Looking around at the inhabitants of this village as they emerge from their daily routines, you can see now that grass skirts are the only garments worn by any of the island's natives, male or female. And this answers another question you never knew you wanted to ask until just now: Eyes are the only anatomical features that Wobans possess in threes. "'O ka'u Manu-'opio-i-hana-me-ka-Pohaku, he aha kau e lawe mai nei i mua o ko 'oukou ali'i i keia la?" the chief says. His hair may be gray, but his voice is still forceful. "Lawe makou ia 'oe i 'elua mau 'aihue, e ka Haku!" barks the captain of the guards. "'Elua mau holoholona i hele i ka makou 'aina e hana i ka 'aihue a me ka pepehi kanaka." "He aha ka mea a lakou i 'aihue ai? He aha na kanaka a lakou i pepehi ai?" the woman says. Is she the chief's wife? His daughter? You can't tell. "Pepehi lakou i ka makou mau kia'i 'ekolu me ka lakou la'au ahi," the guardsman says, "a laila laila holo i like me na daimonio weliweli i loko o ke ana!" "A laila ua na'auao 'oe i lawe mai i keia mau daimonio i 'ane'i," the chief says, descending from the mound. "E 'ai makou i ko lakou 'i'o a luku i ko lakou 'uhane 'ino." "'Ae, 'o ia ka makou ala," the woman says, joining the chief. "I don't get it, what is this about?" Meredith says to you. "E noho malie ka mea pio!" the chief spits in her face. "'O kela holoholona ka mea like 'ole na iwi!" the woman says, looking Meredith up and down. "'Oiai 'a'ole keiki e lilo i momona ma ka 'aina i kona 'i'o." "No laila he mea maika'i ka'u i ho'iho'i ai i 'elua mau holoholona," the guard says, gesturing to you. "'O ke 'ano keia, e loa'a no na holoholona 'ekolu no ka makou 'aha'aina," the woman says, "e helu ana i ka mea a He-kanaka-ho'omake-i-na-Manoke i lawe mai nei ia makou i nehinei." She points to your right, and reflexively you look in that direction even though you have no idea what she's talking about. There, tied to a tree, is a young man — a two-eyed outsider like yourselves — who looks not only terrified, but also gaunt, as if the Wobans have been saving him for something special. The chief returns to the top of the mound, with the woman close behind. He turns and decrees, "E lawe mai i keia mau daimonio i na kanaka o ke kauhale. 'Ae i kela me keia kanaka e koho i kahi o na 'apana a kana 'ohana e 'ai ai." Then something strange happens. Your packs are removed, and you and Meredith are each grabbed by the shoulders by one of your Woban guards. Your shirts are ripped off, and you are forcibly walked to the entrance of each hut in the village. There, one member of the household makes a mark on your bodies with a piece of charcoal, often making a show of licking his or her lips right in front of you. You can't help but notice that you are getting more interest than Meredith. It is only towards the end, when your body has been all marked up, that the last of the Woban families reluctantly place their marks on your diminutive companion. When this ordeal is completed, the two of you are brought to where the other foreigner is tied up. You see that his body has been marked in a similar way. Bound with your hands behind a tree of your own, you watch as the Wobans rummage through the backpack — the same backpack you bought just days ago, and which Meredith stole, and which you've barely had the opportunity to use. The three-eyed villagers toss about packages of freeze-dried meals, extra clothes, your stove and your cook set, the water filter, and so forth. The down sleeping bag explodes into a cloud of goose feathers when one unappreciative fellow digs his long fingernails into it. None of these items mean anything to these primitive people, and probably confirm their belief that you are evil spirits of some kind. "They're going to eat us, you know," the young man says, his voice frail. "How do you know for sure?" you say. "Can you understand that language of theirs?" "A little, I think," he says. "My mother was a linguist, and so am I. They speak a dialect that is not unlike others in this region. The more they talk, the more I understand, I fear." Meredith has clearly been traumatized by the ordeal of being shown around the village, and she is now slumping against her bonds. You need to keep your mind clear so you can figure a way out of this. Therefore you talk. "A linguist, huh? That's interesting. What brings you to Woban Island, then? Studying the natives, hoping they'll help you find the Stone of Vul-Kar?" "Heavens no, not Vul-Kar," the man says. He makes a spitting motion, but you see no saliva come out. "That's what my mother came here for, Dr. Cynthia Bolt. Just up and left one day, decided that's what she wanted to do. We never heard from her again. I came here to look for her." You are struggling against the leather thong that binds your wrist, trying to reach your hip pocket. "Did you find her?" "I only just arrived a few days ago. I thought if I just approached the Wobans and showed them my friendly intentions, they would help me. So that's what I did, and here I am." Almost there! you think to yourself, trying to ignore the burning pain as your wrist strains against the leather. "You must be Dr. Brian Bolt, then." "I am. I feel like I should be flattered you know my name, although I doubt that my academic career has made me a famous person. Or that you are here to come to my rescue." Your fingertips can just touch the metal item in your pocket. "Before I landed on the island this morning, I received some intel on who else might be present. Your name came up." "I will let myself feel flattered anyway," he says, but without much enthusiasm. Everything about Dr. Bolt seems defeated: his forlorn posture, his reedy voice. He is convinced he is about to die, and all your presence has done is assure him it won't be a lonely death. "So when is the big dinner?" you say. You're finding that the trick to grasping the item in your pocket might be to jerk your right hip upward to meet your fingers halfway, thus extending the reach of your hand. "Big dinn— Oh, you mean us," Dr. Bolt says. "I don't know how you can be so flippant about such a horrific act." "I don't mean to be flippant, I just—" "My family has never been very lucky," Bolt says. "My Great Uncle Ben died when he fell into a sinkhole in Florida. Aunt Lydia got run over by a cement truck crossing the road to her mailbox. But I think getting eaten by cannibals will be the most gruesome death in my family's history." Success — the jackknife is now in your hands! If you don't manage to cut your own wrists in the process, you now have the means to free yourself from your bonds. You feel grateful that those grass skirts the Wobans wear have no pockets, and that it therefore never occurred to them to check your pockets for contraband. But you may have another situation on your hands: Bolt's pessimism is starting to feed Meredith's anxiety. "No, no no no no no! This can't be happening! This can't be happening!" she says. "I'm afraid so," Bolt says. "Do you know what those marks on our bodies mean? Each household gets to claim their cut of meat." "Oh this is so insane, I never should've come to this effing place, I just wanted to do something for myself for a change, now I'm just going to get eaten by a bunch of effing cannibals—" "Meredith!" you say softly, trying to get her attention without attracting the Wobans. You have just finished slicing through the strip of leather at your wrists, and are now free to make your escape. But you remain in place, pretending to still be tied while you make up your mind what to do. "—but no I had to follow this idiot, and look where it's gotten me—" "Meredith!" "What the eff do you want?" she finally says, as if she is about to burst into all-out rage any moment now. "Your gun. Where is it?" "Now all of a sudden you care about that? It's in a side pocket of that little book bag you gave me, not that it's going to do us any good way over there." Both backpacks are about fifty feet away. You watched carefully when the Wobans were emptying your pack, but they never found the pouch on the hip strap where you stuffed Berringer's pistol while you were back inside the lava tube — nor did they even touch Meredith's bag. This means both weapons are right where you stowed them, just a short sprint away. But now you have a quick choice to make: do you free your companions, race to retrieve the two guns, and then hope you and Meredith can shoot your way out of this pickle? Or would you be better off fleeing into the jungle on your own? Sure, yes, the moral thing to do is to free both of your fellow prisoners, but Meredith looks like she is on the verge of an outburst; the Wobans haven't been paying close attention to you since they tied you up, but if she freaks out before you can get away, then the show will be over. At least if one of you gets away, it would be better than if all three of you became the main entrées at tonight's dinner. __________________________________________________ > You forget the others and run for your life. It's a cold and calculated decision you have to make, but these two companions you've inherited are liabilities. One is practically dead already, and the other is in the angry-denial phase of dealing with her situation. Together, their attitudes and their antics are sure to get you killed. You know you are the only one with a real chance of escape, and there is no point squandering the opportunity in an act of charity. Get out alone, or don't get out at all — those are your only real choices. But how should you go about it? The only sure path to safety lies in the dense jungle that begins just a short distance behind you. There are two perfectly good weapons in the opposite direction — unguarded since your captors have no idea they exist — but the act of retrieving them would merely alert the Wobans to the fact that you have freed yourself from your bonds. If you rouse their attention, you might as well not even bother trying to escape. For this reason, you decide to dispense with the guns. "Really, I don't know what Walter saw in you," Meredith goes on. "You haven't even been here a full day yet and look where you've gotten us. Last night we were eating swordfish, tonight we're the ones about to get eaten…." Whatever else she says, you don't linger long enough to hear. She and Dr. Bolt are bound tightly to their trees, forced to keep their gaze focused on the Woban village ahead of them; neither can see you too well without awkwardly turning their heads. With your wrists free of the leather thong that bound them, you merely walk away from the tree to which you had been tied and walk silently into the jungle. Meredith and Bolt never see you leave. All of your gear and provisions are behind you, though, strewn about the ground on the edge of the Woban village. Other than the jackknife that freed you, as well as the clothes that you wear, there is nothing in your possession that will help you out of your predicament. Your only asset is your desire to live. Your exit from the village is as uneventful as you could ever want it to be. You walk into the forest as casually and inconspicuously as somebody stepping away from a noisy party for a moment of fresh air. You can hear Meredith sputtering on behind you, until finally her voice grows faint with distance. When you can no longer hear her at all, you can't tell if it makes you feel relieved or guilty. Is it possible to be both at the same time? Perhaps you have freed yourself from your predicament, but you know the hunt for the Stone of Vul-Kar has been tabled indefinitely — and with it, your hopes of a lucrative payout from Walter Berringer. The best you can do now is make it back to the shoreline and hope that the runabout is right where you left it. Then you'll get off this hell hole and back to… well, it's difficult to think that far ahead at the moment. One step at a time. You have no idea where exactly you are on the island, so you try and mentally retrace your progress throughout the day: landing on the east shore, climbing the ridge, going up the lava tube but then coming right back down, getting captured by the Wobans, and then heading down a short hill to their village. You deduce that you are therefore still deep in the hilly interior of the island, meaning the coast is somewhere below you, probably several miles away. If you are correct, then your way off the island begins by heading downhill, hoping there are no more cannibal outposts in your way. It was late afternoon when you escaped, and soon the tropical twilight begins sneaking up on you. At these latitudes, darkness sets in less than half an hour after the sun sinks below the horizon. During the bit of daylight that you have left, you'd like to put as much distance as you can between you and the village. You bushwhack your way through the thick jungle underbrush, stumble across another trail, and then follow that downstream alongside a brook with brown water. As before, you find the walking to be easier along the trail, but after all that has happened today you feel as skittish as a rabbit. Every rustling of the leaves, every creaking of a tree swaying in the sultry breeze could be a Woban sneaking up behind you, and therefore even in your freedom you are never at ease. Twilight comes and goes with no sign that you are nearing the ocean. And if hiking through the jungle in the daylight wasn't unsettling enough, being stranded alone in the dark proves to be nearly unbearable. But what else can you do? Hungry and alone, you step off the trail and find a secluded spot at the base of a tree where you hope to pass the night unseen. It is not a quiet night, however. Behind you, back in the hills from which you have been fleeing, the Wobans seem to be putting on quite the party. There is a glow in the night sky from what must be a massive bonfire, and you can hear the distant voices singing gleefully to the rhythmic banging of a leather drum. For a second you think you hear a woman's scream, but the sound is cut off before you can fully make sense of it. It might have just been a bird. So you have gotten way from harm's reach, and in the morning you can complete your journey to the shore and search for the runabout. But the glow in the sky and the sound of the cheerful natives makes you feel small. Never have you felt so inadequate to meet the challenges of a mission. And now that you think about it, never have you ever had to save your own hide by abandoning someone else to a tribe of cannibals. Of all the places you've been, of all the perils you've faced, none have left you feeling so defeated, so diminished, as Woban Island. You slink back against the base of the tree, alive and physically well, but with the sense that your role in the world will never again be what it once was. It is going to be a long and sleepless time before dawn arrives. THE END

Convinced that you have been wasting your time, and having found no other exits out of the lava tube, you decide that the sensible thing to do is backtrack down to the entrance. If the Wobans are still there when you get back, then you'll just have to wait for them to leave. Therefore you turn to follow the little stream back down the angled cave, feeling a little bit like you are walking down an overgrown waterslide in an amusement park. The flow is little more than a trickle at first, but as you pass through the tunnel a second time you notice small seeps at various spots along the wall where additional rivulets are adding to the volume of the stream. In places, the running water fans out into an apron of moisture running down the slanted floor of the lava tube. What you fail to appreciate is that some of this wet rock can be slippery, especially when you are walking downhill. On one patch of smooth rock, your Vibram soles fail you, sending you on a wild butt-slide down for a distance of about twenty feet. The flashlight flies out of your hands as you try unsuccessfully to stop yourself, but there is nothing you can grab onto. You come to an inelegant stop in the gravel bar at the bottom, unharmed except for a few scrapes on your legs and the palm of your hands, as well as a wet behind. The plastic flashlight has come to rest in a pool of water, its light gone out. But you are not in the dark. You look up and see someone is standing over you, the light of their headlamp illuminating the scene of your embarrassing fall. "You look lost," the person says — a woman, her familiar voice distorted by the reverberation off the rock walls. "I would have expected someone with your reputation to be more sure-footed." The headlamp is blinding you, and the echoes are distracting, but you would recognize Meredith's voice anywhere. "What the hell are you doing here?" you say. "And why did you take my stuff?" Instead of responding to you directly, Meredith extends her hand to help you up. When you are standing beside her, she says, "Oh, right, the headlamp." She takes it off and holds it in her hand so that you can see her without being blinded by the light. Yet again she has changed her wardrobe; instead of a dress suit or a bikini, she is now clad in a khaki shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, with a white pith helmet to top it all off. The air about her is heavy with the smell of a scented bug spray. She looks like a model from an old Banana Republic catalog, before that chain went downhill. "I've been looking for you," she says. "I knew you'd be the only person who'd understand!" You notice she's wearing your brand-new backpack, holding your brand-new headlamp in one hand and your brand-new trekking poles in the other. "Funny, Berringer asked me to keep an eye out for you, too. He even gave me a gun to use in case I found you." Her eyes widen in alarm at the news. "You don't plan to shoot me and take me back to Walter, do you?" "We'll have to see," you say. No, you don't plan to shoot her, but she's not exactly someone towards whom you feel much warmth at the moment, though. "The last thing I want to be is one of his trophies. You saw the way he treated me, right? You know I had to get away from him." Meredith is trying to play on your sympathies. You remember well the remark that Berringer made back on the yacht last night, when he boasted that he had "acquired" her and that she was too dumb to realize it. So she may have a point. Still, something doesn't add up; why bail on Berringer here, when she could have slipped away at any time she wanted back in Boston? "So why were following me up this lava tube?" you say. "You got yourself off the boat, you could go anywhere you want. What do you need me for?" "Because you're probably the only two-eyed person on this island who knows what they're doing. I stand a better chance getting out of here alive with you than I do on my own." "I usually work alone. And besides, I'm not overly fond of people who steal my stuff right out of my cabin while I'm sleeping." "Ah, yes, your stuff. Well, I won't insult you with an apology; you know as well as I do that the rules of our little game don't reward morality. But I'll make you a deal: you can have your 'stuff' back if you let me come with you." "And if I don't?" "I hardly see how that would even be a valid option," Meredith says. "Would you really just leave me here alone on an island full of cannibals, just because your pride was wounded? I mean, come on here. Let's be adults." __________________________________________________ > You leave her. "Just watch me," you say. "With the money I plan to make off this gig, I can afford to replace everything you stole twenty times over." Meredith genuinely looks hurt. "Is that the way you really feel about it?" "I'm afraid so. I've been cursing your name all day long, and now that you're here, my blood is boiling." "I guess I was so eager to get off that effing yacht that I never stopped to think who I was hurting," she says. "You are a skilled survivor; I figured you'd get by with some parachute cord and a roll of duct tape. I had nothing. That was how I rationalized it when I snuck into your cabin this morning." "Well you can keep the pack," you say. "Don't say I never gave you anything." You push past Meredith so that you can continue the trek down the lava tube on your own. Berringer will be upset that you're just letting her go, but he must know that you're neither an assassin nor a bounty hunter. You'll find the Stone of Vul-Kar for him, but he'll have to hire somebody else to be his avenger. "Wait! Let me at least give you this!" Her voice sounds wounded, so you turn back towards her so that you can at least have the satisfaction of seeing her hurt expression. But what you see instead takes you by complete surprise: a woman with grim determination, pointing a gun straight at you. "Meredith, wh—" you start to say as the gun flashes and the shot echoes a hundredfold off the cavern walls. Her aim is true. You collapse to the ground, sitting stunned on the floor of the lava tube. You know a mortal wound when you see one. Your murderer steps around behind you. "Let me see what else you've got," she says as she unzips the backpack that Captain Mark loaned you and rifles through the contents. "Hmm, looks like I got all the good stuff already." She stands up, removes the pith helmet, and puts the headlamp back on her forehead. "Well, you did say you like to work alone. Let me know how that works out for you." And then Meredith Nowitki sets off down the lava tube, leaving you to bleed to death in the dark. THE END

Two weeks later, you are on Walter Berringer's private yacht in the South Pacific. It is now early November; when you left New England there were hints of oncoming snow in the air, but here, out on the open sea, the weather is sunny and almost uncomfortably warm. Meredith seems perfectly pleased with the setting, however; she is lounging in a deck chair soaking up the sunlight like a lizard, her dress suit replaced with a pastel bikini. There is a colorful cocktail of some kind beside her, on a stand right next to her ever-present notepad. You can see her through the window as you peruse the maps that Berringer has provided you. They are sprawled out across a table inside the yacht's main salon — four large sheets, each covering a different quadrant of Woban Island. You had been under the impression that such things didn't exist, but nevertheless here they are. The yacht is just hours away from Woban Island, and you are starting to feel the excitement of the moment. By this time tomorrow you should be in the field, bushwhacking your way up some previously unknown mountain, stealthily evading the native population while seeking the stone that will ultimately make you a millionaire. It has been quite the interesting journey getting to this point. It began with a trip to an REI store located just a few blocks away from Fenway, where you stocked up on gear and provisions for your expedition. With a quarter-million dollars in your bank account, you decided to upgrade all of your gear: a new backpack, moisture-wicking clothing, solar-powered lamp, trekking poles, new boots, gaiters in case the island is muddy, and most importantly, a new tent. They also had a lightweight folding rocking chair set up as a display model, weighing only a couple pounds; it was tempting, but silly considering the nature of your trip, and so you passed on that one. You also looked at a top-of-the-line GPS, but that turned out to be rather pointless since it had no maps of your destination. Then, a few days later, you boarded a plane for Honolulu — business class this time, with Berringer and Meredith as traveling companions. While your employer prepared his luxurious yacht, the Big Papi, for the voyage south of Hawaii toward Woban and Auri islands, you enjoyed some downtime exploring Oahu, particularly the various forest reserves on the island's north shore, where you sought to immerse yourself in the type of environment you expect to find on Woban. One day after returning from one of your hikes, Berringer presented you with the maps you are examining now. "I had a contact at Hickam Field print these off for me," he explained. Now the Big Papi is sailing toward a spot just off Woban Island's northeast coast, where you plan to take an inflatable runabout to shore. You and Berringer selected the landing location after perusing the maps, deciding that this part of the island seemed to provide the best landing area and the most direct route to the island's main summit, where the Stone of Vul-Kar is supposed to be. Always a sucker for a good topographic map, you have been scrutinizing these for most of the time you have been at sea. "If you keep this up, you'll have those maps memorized by the time you make landfall." It's Berringer, strolling into the salon in a silk robe, his customary empty glass in hand. He has been resting in his stateroom, but is now heading to the liquor cabinet to pour himself another bourbon. Now that you are nearing the islands, you've noticed that he has stopped offering to pour you a drink as well — best not to dull your edge. "Good afternoon, sir," you say. "Yeah, according to this northeastern quad the route looks so easy. I don't see what all the trouble is. Drop me off in the morning, let me do my thing, and make sure you have dinner ready for me when I return that evening." "Ha, if only it would be that simple." He takes a seat to your right at the table, whiskey glass in hand. "This whole part of the island is crawling with Wobans, and this part down here is rugged wilderness. According to the intel I picked up back at port, you're going to have company in those hills: people like you, hired by people like me, all with one objective in mind. You can be certain some of those people will be dangerous." "Do you know exactly who I might encounter out there?" "Just rumors, I'm afraid, but reliable ones. Here, I wrote them down." He pulls a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and hands it to you. Unfolding it, you see a list of three names jotted down in Berringer's scratchy brand of penmanship: Gary Gaffney Dr. Brian Bolt Martian Pop "Do these names mean anything to you?" he asks. "No," you say, "but are you sure about this last one? Martian Pop?" "I thought you might like that one," Berringer says. "Yeah, that's a real name. He's Romanian, so my guess is it's not actually pronounced 'Martian Pop' in Romania. Pay close attention to this Gary Gaffney fellow. He might be working for a rival of mine back in Boston, and he's already been on the island for a few days. I'd be very unhappy if he got the Stone of Vul-Kar first." "The way you're describing it, it's a crowded field on which we're about to play," you say. After all of this time with Berringer, you've started to speak in terms of sports metaphors, too. "There may be others as well — rogue players that nobody knows. There were some vague reports last week of some young couple running around trying to steal a boat. And there is also a research team from the University of Chicago camped out on the southwestern shore of the island." "Sounds like it will be quite the party if all of us get together at the same time." "I'm trying to make it sound dangerous," Berringer says. "We've only known about this place for less than three years, and already people have gone missing. You're good, but this job isn't going to be like digging up caribou antler carvings from the thawing permafrost outside Nome. This place is going to try and kill you. Now let's talk about the Wobans themselves—" "Walter, I'm hungry. What do you got around here to eat?" It's Meredith, entering the salon from the aft deck where she has been sunning herself, notebook in hand. She reeks of coconut-scented sunscreen. "You're too late for lunch, too early for dinner," Berringer says rather gruffly. "Why don't you go to the galley and see what Cookie can scrounge up for you." Meredith has been quiet for much of the voyage, nursing a grudge over some unknown grievance. She glowers at Berringer for a second, but he's not looking and doesn't see it. Then she sullenly leave the room. "So what's the story with her, anyway?" you ask. "Three years is an awfully long time to be writing a newspaper article." "You noticed that too, huh?" he says. "The truth is she reminds me of someone I used to have a crush on in high school. As you know, I acquire things. The key to acquiring people is to let the person you're acquiring feel at all times as if they're exercising free will. It tickles me, though, that her last name is Nowitki. She really does strike me as being witless sometimes." That evening, as the three of you are in the dining room enjoying a swordfish dinner, the captain of the Big Papi makes an announcement over the intercom. "Sir, we are about to move into position five nautical miles to the northeast of Woban Island, just as you directed." "You must be eager to see the place," Berringer says to you. "Actually, yes," you say. "But it can wait until after dinner." "Nonsense. I'm curious myself. Let's head up to the Skylounge Deck and take a look." The three of you take your drinks — coffee in your case — up to the observation deck just below the bridge. Woban island is just ahead, a dark landmass occupying much of the horizon. Your first impression is that it is much bigger than you expected; a landmass that evaded detection for centuries should be little more than a speck of dirt, you had thought. But this is several miles in breadth, with a range of mountains rising darkly into the sky. From here, it is unclear which of them is the main summit atop which the jewel is located. "My, my. It looks like we have some company." Berringer is not looking toward the island, but off to starboard. There is indeed a small speck of red on the ocean waves, moving in a straight line toward the Big Papi. "Meredith, honey, go and get my binoculars. They're in my stateroom, desk drawer on the right." Meredith looks at him for a moment with silent resentment, but turns to obey the request when she determines that no "please" or "thank you" will be forthcoming. "Who do you think it is?" you say. "I was about to ask you the same thing," Berringer says. "I wasn't expecting any company. I assume you weren't, either." You're about to say something about a Woban coast guard, but decide against it; all of the evidence seems to suggest that Walter Berringer possesses an underdeveloped sense of humor. A moment later Meredith returns with the binoculars, handing them over to Berringer without saying a word. He lifts them to his eyes. "It looks like a runabout," he says. "Two people. I don't see the mother ship, though." He hands the binoculars over to you. It takes you a moment to find the incoming craft through the lenses, but when you do you see a small inflatable boat, much like the one at the rear of the Big Papi awaiting your use in the morning. This one is red instead of white, however. It is too small to have traveled very far on its own, and you agree with Berringer that there should be another yacht or something somewhere out in that direction, but you see nothing. "Could just be someone marooned here, looking for a ride home," he says. "It could be the competition, coming to scope us out," you say. "Well if that's the case, then at least we know they don't have the stone yet." "They could still be dangerous, though," you say. "I doubt they'd just be making a social call." "If they're in trouble, then we need to help!" Meredith says, breaking her silence. "What do you think?" Berringer says. "You're the one with the keen instincts for this kind of situation, right? Should we stay and see if they need our help, or are they up to no good? I can have the captain move us further away." __________________________________________________ > You stay and offer assistance. "I guess there's no harm in seeing what they want," you say. "You and Meredith are right; this could just be somebody who needs assistance." "All right, then." Berringer pulls what looks like a cordless phone out of his pocket. "Mark, slow her down," he says to the yacht's captain. "We have people approaching from starboard, and we want to see what they're about." Within seconds you feel the Big Papi begin to slow. The giant wake the boat had been cutting across the ocean seems to catch up with the bow as you come to a full stop. The incoming boat is so far off, though, that it takes quite a while to reach you. Berringer lets you keep the binoculars so you can study the two people as they get closer. "Anybody we know?" he asks. You see what appears to be a young couple in a red Zodiac; the woman is steering the boat while the man is peering back at you through a set of binoculars of his own. "I've never seen these people before in my life," you say. The three of you move to the stern, where the Sun Deck with its pool and array of empty lounge chairs sits a little closer to the water. A quarter of an hour passes, however, before the little red boat comes close enough that you are able to make voice contact with its passengers. The blond woman steering the red Zodiac cuts the outboard engine as the inflatable boat continues to drift closer to the Big Papi. "That's an impressive little canoe you guys are riding!" the man says, eyeing Berringer's yacht from stem to stern. He sports a well-trimmed set of mutton chops and a gray flat cap, as if he were ready for a night out at his favorite downtown pub. "Are you here to fish?" "We have some business to transact on Woban Island," Berringer says. "Is there something we can do for you?" "Honey, they must be here for the Stone of Vul-Kar too!" the woman says to her companion. "Why don't you ask if we can help." "But Charlei, look at the boat they're on!" he says to her. "I thought it was a cruise ship at first. We're in the presence of the One Percent! How could we possibly be of use to them?" There is a certain passive-aggressiveness in the way they are speaking to each other that makes you uneasy — their private remarks about you are something they clearly want you to hear. The Zodiac they are riding has now bumped up against the stern of the Big Papi. Captain Mark and one of his crewmen have come down from the bridge to see what is going on, perhaps worried that these newcomers might be scuffing up the hull. Berringer is starting to look annoyed. "Again, is there something we can do to assist?" "Not really," the man says. "We just saw this magnificent craft sailing toward Woban Island, and we just had to come in for a closer look. Do you mind if I ask how long she is? What kind of engines you got? You must have quite the crew to run her!" You and Berringer both look at each other. Didn't he mention rumors earlier about a young couple who had been observed on Woban Island trying to steal a boat? __________________________________________________ > Next page. "Mark, why don't you fire up the engines again and get us out of here," Berringer says. "Aye, sir," Captain Mark says, and then steps aside to give orders to his crew over a wireless headset. "I don't think they want to talk with us, Gordy," the woman says. "Maybe we don't move in the same social circles. Maybe we aren't good enough." "That's funny," her companion replies. "I would have expected life on the open ocean to be more egalitarian, but even here we are followed by fat kings and lean beggars." The woman chuckles, but then stands up in the boat, seemingly unconcerned about the rocking of the waves. "'Your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, two dishes, but to one table: that's the end.'" "'Alas, alas!'" the mutton-chopped man says. "'A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.'" She feigns alarm. "'What dost thou mean by this?'" "'Nothing but to show you how a king may go a-progress through the guts of a beggar!'" The purpose of this little drama escapes you, but the performance in the Zodiac is clearly outside the bounds of normal behavior. Are these people unhinged? Have they been marooned out here for so long with nothing but that little motorized raft that they've lost their mind? Berringer looks disgusted. "They've been wasting my time. Make sure they don't try and get on the boat." And then he turns to go up the stairs to the main salon. But the couple seems to have no intentions of storming the Big Papi. They have already pushed off from the yacht, and the woman is trying to start the outboard. "Honey, can you give me a hand with this?" The guy gets up as his girlfriend slinks back out of the way. "'The bark is ready, and the wind at help, the associates tend, and every thing is bent... for England!'" With one good yank on the pull cord, the Yamaha engine fires up. "'For England!'" the woman says. "'Good!'" "'So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes," the man says, and the boat speeds away without either of them turning to look back. "Are we done with those twits?" Berringer says, looking down at you from the upper deck. "It looks that way, Walter," Meredith says, forgetting for the moment all of her sullen moping. "I can't believe they came all the way out here to put on a performance of Hamlet for us." "Is that what that was?" "I'm pretty sure, yes. Maybe if we're lucky, they'll treat us to a few scenes from King Lear tomorrow night." "Well, I see it cured you of your pouting, so I guess it wasn't all bad." Meredith rolls her eyes and sighs, but takes the cocktail glass she's been holding all this time and heads upstairs to join him. You are left down below with the binoculars, with a sense of dread that you can't entirely explain. Nothing of what just happened seemed right. Who were those two people, and what were they up to? You raise the binoculars to your eyes and watch them speed away, back in the same direction from which they came. But then the Zodiac stops and turns, maybe a mile away. The couple is sitting and leaning against each other shoulder-to-shoulder, looking back in your direction as if they were about to share a romantic moment watching the sun set. The yacht's engines are starting to rev up, and the boat is slowly moving forward again. But before you have a chance to pick up speed, there is a flash of light emanating from the point where the Zodiac had briefly brushed against the hull. You are blown backward and slammed against the nearest bulkhead by the force of the explosion, which rips the back end of the Big Papi apart. It spreads debris over the ocean and causes the rest of the ship to start taking on water; what wasn't destroyed in the blast will be sitting on the ocean floor within minutes. It's a performance that delights the two people who are watching from afar in the Zodiac. THE END

It is not until the plane is in the air and cruising high above Connecticut that the man finally folds his newspaper and sticks it in the pouch with the airline magazines in front of him, as if someone else on the next flight might be interested in reading his outdated copy of the New York Times. You now wish you had brought something to read yourself, so that you could feign immersion and avoid eye contact with him at all cost. But he fidgets in the seat to your left, as if he is anxious to get your attention. You try your best to appear lost in thought, pretending to be enthralled by the sight of the two flight attendants wheeling a cart down the aisle, pouring out cans of soda and juice into clear plastic cups for thirsty passengers, seat by seat, row by row. "I know where you're headed," he finally says. You turn to look at him, hoping your facial expression is displaying the proper amount of disinterest. "Oh?" you say. "Isn't everybody here heading to Boston?" "You know what I mean," he says, unfazed at your attempt to be acerbic. "I'm afraid I don't, actually," you try again. "I am referring to 46 Van Ness Street," the man says. You are unable to control your expression of surprise — 46 Van Ness is the address you were given for your meeting with Berringer later this morning. "Never mind who I am," he continues. "It's you I've come here to see." Mr. Plaid Suit has a surprisingly deep voice for such a small figure, and his nose sticks out twice as far as any nose should, like an awning over his thin mustache. Unlike most men his age, he has made no attempt to hide his balding dome, either with a hat, with implants, or by shaving his head altogether. And his breath smells like an onion bagel. How much does this guy know about your meeting? To be honest, you know next to nothing yourself; you just know that Berringer pays well, and you'd be a fool to pass over an opportunity to work for him. Sometimes in your line of work, it's best not to know more than you have to, or before you need to know it. But now you feel as though you're at a distinct disadvantage. The only thing about which you are certain is the need to not say a thing — for fear that you might reveal too much, or reveal how little you actually know. Sensing your apprehension, Mr. Plaid Suit continues. "I know where Berringer will send you, and I can get you more pay for your troubles." You look the man square in the eyes. As he smiles, two golden teeth shine in the subdued light of the plane's cabin. This early flight was not completely booked, and there is a seat three rows ahead of you that is empty. Perhaps you should relocate. You're pretty sure that if you stay here, you'll be at the bottom of Boston Harbor about an hour after the plane lands. In your experience, strangers like this who come out of nowhere and try desperately to get your attention never lead to anything good. __________________________________________________ > You stay and try to ignore the man. You do your best to seem disinterested and confused, but the man persists in this one-way conversation of his. "Does an even two million sound right to you?" he says. Again, he seems to know more about what is going on than you do. You fumble for your phone in your pocket, desperately trying to maintain the illusion of disinterest and mild irritation, but the words two million are still resonating in your brain. You have no idea what kind of mission Mr. Berringer wants to hire you for. Well, scratch that; you do have a very good idea. Your potential new employer in Boston is the type of person who desires certain items, and you are the type of person who can procure them. The only thing you don't know at the moment is what the item is in this case, and where you'll need to go to find it. But if this guy with the bad hairdo and worse clothing is willing to pay you two million... . Well OK, you tell yourself, let's not get greedy. You have no idea what Berringer's offer is going to be. On the other hand, though, here you are flying on the ticket he purchased for you, chilling near the rear of the plane in economy class. And next to you is a guy who seems eager to steal you away. He doesn't look nearly as well-heeled as your usual employers, but maybe he's just the messenger for somebody else. And to be frank, two million would be real money. Assuming that we're talking dollars here, and not something idiotic like Bitcoins. The last thing you need is a bank account full of arcade tokens. But working for Mr. Berringer is like playing in the big leagues — an opportunity that is likely to lead to others. That is worth thinking about, too. __________________________________________________ > You give in and listen to what this man has to say. "Now what's this job you're talking about?" you say. "Oh, so you are interested," he replies. "Obviously, we shouldn't talk about it here. And at any rate, you'll want to meet my employer. I mean, our employer. When was your meeting with Berringer scheduled?" Somehow you suspect he already knows the answer to that question — he seems to know everything else — but you tell him anyway. "I was supposed to meet him at 11:30 this morning." "Well then. When we land you may want to call Mr. Berringer and reschedule. I'm sure he'll understand." "Why should I?" you say. "I'm a free agent. I think I should be able to meet with whomever I want, whenever and wherever." "True," Mr. Plaid Suit says, "but my employer has a tight schedule. I'm afraid that 11:30 this morning is the only time she can meet with you. Here, let me give you this address. When we land, I'll have another errand I'll need to run. Just hail a taxi or an Uber or something, and have the driver take you here. Your employer will be waiting for you. She appreciates punctuality." He tears a corner off the front page of his New York Times and jots down the address, then hands it to you. There is no name, just a number for Beacon Street. It looks like it might be someplace near Boston Common. "All right, I'll be there," you say. "But I have to admit, I don't like it when somebody knows all about me, and I haven't the slightest clue who they are." "My name. You want to know my name." "It's a start." "Grant. James Grant. But you can call me Jimmy." He seems a little old to be a "Jimmy," but whatever. You pocket the address, your mind swimming in unanswered questions. As soon as the plane lands and you are able to use your phone, you arrange for an Uber driver to pick you up outside the terminal. You get the notification that your ride is approaching before you even reach the wall of glass doors leading out to the taxi stand. Fortunately you travel light, and so there is nothing to pick up at the baggage claim. Everything you brought with you to Boston is in your carry-on bag. You step out into the taxi stand, looking for a red Prius being driven by someone named Lucy. She is not hard to find. "Well hello there," she says. "Where are you going again?" Lucy is a tall woman, almost too large for this small Prius, with a mane of red hair that is nearly as bright as her car. "Beacon Street," you say. "Here is the address." She looks at the note Jimmy jotted down on the piece of newsprint. "So I take it this is your first trip to Boston?" "I'll admit I don't get here as often as I should," you say as the car silently moves into traffic under the power of its electric engine. "I can give you the scenic tour if you like," your driver says. "The TD Garden, the Prudential Building, Faneuil Hall, Fenway. Well maybe not Fenway, because that's a very somber place when the Sox aren't playing in October. But I can give you a wicked good tour of the city, for a lot less than you'd pay for one of them duck boats." You're not sure why she thinks you are a tourist, but you're in no mood to argue. Instead, you look at your watch. "What time is it? No, I have a meeting I need to make at that Beacon Street address. You can just take me there." "A meeting, huh? Well, suit yourself." The route Lucy follows takes you through a tunnel and out into Boston's sprawling downtown. You have no idea where you are until she emerges from a side street on the edge of Boston Common, at which point she turns right onto Beacon Street. About a block later, she comes to a stop. "Here you are," she says. "Cheers." And she's right. You recognize the site instantly: steps leading up into the hotel, more steps leading down below the level of the sidewalk to the bar in the basement, that place where everybody knows your name. In the TV show the place burned down, but here it looks exactly like it did thirty years ago. You step out of the Prius in disbelief. Is this really the place where you're supposed to meet Jimmy's boss? There is one way to find out. You step around a group of tourists taking pictures, then descend the steps toward the entrance to the bar. When you open that door, will you be greeted by Ted Danson and Kirstie Alley? __________________________________________________ > Next page. But when you enter, you are greeted with a tiny cubbyhole that looks nothing like the version of Cheers you've seen on Netflix. The place is smaller than a delicatessen, with several overweight, middle-aged men taking up most of the stools. They look briefly in your direction before returning to their beers, having concluded that you are of no importance to them. None of them are Norm, and no one here cares what your name is. A young and perky greeter steps out from behind a podium, clearly trained to intercept dazed and confused first-timers such as yourself. "Just one today?" she asks, holding a menu. "I'm here to meet someone, actually," you say. "Ah, yes. We were expecting you. Follow me, then." The greeter leads you out a back entrance, and then up a short set of stairs to another bar. A sign identifies this one as the "Set Bar," and indeed it looks a little bit more like the TV version of Cheers you remember, but not quite. The bar is a square island in the middle of the room, with faux studio lighting rigged up on the ceiling. But it is way too small, and there are too many windows. The cardboard cutouts of Woody and Norm aren't enough to assuage your disappointment. "Don't worry, everybody thinks the same thing: 'This isn't the Cheers I was expecting!'" This voice comes from behind you. You turn to see a large woman squeezed into a booth, a small planetoid of a human being nearly pulled into a spherical shape by her own gravitational force. In front of her is a platter of Buffalo wings. "I see you found the place all right," she says. "Come on, sit down. Get something to drink if you like. Here's the tap list." You take a seat opposite the woman — wondering what you're getting yourself into — and peruse the beer list. "Um, how is this 'Green Monsta IPA'?" you ask the server who has come to take your order, not really sure you need a beer yet, but feeling obligated to order one since you are, after all, at Cheers. Again, you can't avoid that twinge of disappointment that this bartender isn't someone from the show. Like, maybe, Carla. "It's an IPA," he says. "It tastes exactly like every other IPA." "Uh, OK, I'll have that." "You're an IPA person, huh?" the woman says between nibbles on one of her chicken wings. "I'm more a fan of the Wachusett Blueberry Ale myself. You should order some food, too. That way I won't be eating by myself." "So, you're Jimmy's employer?" you ask, hoping to avoid any unnecessary chitchat and get straight to business. "The person he sent me here to meet?" "How rude of me!" she says. "I didn't introduce myself. Yes, you could say I run things. My name is Diane Chambers. I'd shake your hand, but, you know... hot sauce." "You run... Cheers?" "Ha! No, not at all. I just like to hang out here and confuse the hell out of the tourists. I tell them my name, and then imply the aging process has been rough. I sign glossies of Shelley Long and sell them for a hundred bucks a pop. The way I see it, if a fool wants to part with his money that badly, I'm more than happy to help." The server returns with your beer and sets it down in front of you. "Do you need some more time to look at the food menu?" he says. Just then you notice that you and Diane are the only customers in this part of Cheers. "Just give me a cheeseburger and fries," you say. "You should get the Giant Norm Burger," Diane says. "That's one of my favorites." That sounds disgusting, actually. "Nah, just a regular cheeseburger." "Very well," the server says. "And how would you like that cooked?" "Medium well." He rushes off to place your order, leaving you alone with your very large potential employer. You can smell the spiciness of her wings across the table. "I'm sure you must be wondering why you're here," she says at last. "I'm here because your guy, Jimmy, mentioned something about 'two million,'" you say. "Ah, yes, the money. Don't worry, the sale of Shelley Long photos has been brisk lately, so I can pay in cash." She chuckles at the humor implied in her statement; you know from past experience with other such "employers" that the true source of their income is none of your business. "But here's the job: I want the Stone of Vul-Kar." The Stone of Vul-Kar... where have you heard that before? "In fact," she continues, "quite a few people want it. But it just so happens that I want it more. Which is why I'm willing to steal you away from Walter Berringer. Your services in this field are in high demand, if you haven't heard — to the point where some people might decide that if you won't work for them, they won't want you working for anybody." You feel a chill at the threat of bodily harm implied by that statement. The woman gnawing away at the messy Buffalo wings across the table from you seems like an ordinary (but overweight) person, but look around: she arranged to have this tourist attraction all to herself, right at lunchtime. You know better than to let appearances deceive you; this is power, hidden in plain sight. "Vul-Kar," you say. "Wasn't that in the news recently?" "Indeed it was," she says. "When Auri Island was discovered in the South Pacific two years ago, the stone-age natives spoke of a neighboring island that was even more mysterious, more inaccessible. They described a tribe of man-like beasts with three eyes, the Wobans. And on the highest part of Woban Island was a lost temple, from some forgotten culture that not even the collegiate folks over at Harvard had heard about. And at that temple, they said, was this enormous purple gem: the Stone of Vul-Kar." "And that's it?" you say. "You want me to go to Woban Island and get this purple diamond for you?" "Ah, direct and to the point, I see. That's not a bad trait to have. Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do. I trust that two million dollars will be more than adequate payment?" "Plus expenses," you say. "Plus expenses," she agrees. "Although I wouldn't expect there would be many. It's not like there are any hotels on these islands." Indeed, you have done similar jobs in the past: slogging your way through one jungle or another, looking for something that a particular wealthy person wants and that someone else would rather not part with. The details may vary, but the basic plot is always the same. It's easier when you see your objective as being one-dimensional — there is less room for scruples that way. "I don't think you'd need a guide," she continues. "I hear the island is crisscrossed with trails, and an additional person would get in the way." "I prefer to work alone, at any rate," you say. "So then it's agreed, no guides. Just you and your wits. And your talent for acquiring things." Diane continues, as if she needs to entice you to work for her, but you've already decided it's impossible to say no. If you did, she'd just eliminate you from the game. "If you're on board with all of this," she says, "then you can speak with Jimmy here about making your travel arrangements." She nods her head to the bar, and there beside the cutout of Woody Harrelson is your old friend from this morning's flight. You never even saw him enter the room, but now he's on the way over to your booth, bringing you that cheeseburger you ordered. __________________________________________________ > Next page. One week later, you are the sole passenger on board a commercial cargo carrier bound for Tahiti. It is hardly posh, but there are no other ways to get to Auri and Woban islands. Or at least, that's what you've been told. Diane Chambers had been eager to send you off after your meeting at Cheers. "You need to get going!" she said. "The next boat heading past the islands will be leaving soon. It's not exactly Carnival, but it does have the advantage of belonging to me." Jimmy immediately booked the next flight to Honolulu for you, before you could even try another beer. "Don't get too comfortable in one of them Hawaiian hotels," she said, sitting next you in the back seat of her BMW as Jimmy drove you to the airport. "You don't want to get spoiled for the jungle. And remember: I don't reimburse resort fees." It didn't matter, anyway, because it was so late when you touched down at Honolulu that you didn't care too much where you slept. It had taken you two very long flights to get there — and of course Jimmy had accompanied you. It just so happened that he had other business to attend to in the Fiftieth State, your employer insisted, but you knew a handler when you saw one. He had at least swapped his plaid suit for one that was cleaner, but he still looked hopelessly out of place when you landed on Oahu. The cargo ship that Diane Chambers owned was small and in need of a fresh coat of paint, but Jimmy assured you it was perfectly seaworthy. He followed you as far as the dock, where a crewman was waiting to show you to your berth. You couldn't help but notice the name painted across the bow of the ship: Sam Malone. "Take this satellite phone," Jimmy said. "Once you've acquired the object, use it to call for a ride home." "What kind of assistance can I expect if I get into trouble?" you asked. It was a reasonable question: you were heading to a remote island inhabited by savages, after all. "None, of course," he said. "Someone with your skill set shouldn't need that kind of assistance." And that was your farewell from civilization. __________________________________________________ > Next page. On the afternoon of your fifth day aboard the Sam Malone, as you are standing on deck and watching the blankness of the ocean pass by, the captain approaches you. He is a small man, Pakistani by birth, and until this trip the idea of a Pakistani ship captain never occurred to you. On this voyage you have apparently been an added responsibility for him — a draw on the ship's stores, but not a source of useful labor. While his crew has been scurrying about the ship to keep it functioning, you have been lolling around like an idle tourist. "This is as close to Auri Island as we'll get!" he says. "Really?" you say. "I can't even see it." "Of course not. You're on the port side of the ship. Auri Island is to starboard." You're about to walk around to the other side of the boat to see the island for yourself when the captain extends his arm to block you. "There's no time for sightseeing!" he scolds. His fondness for efficiency seems almost British, as does his accent. "My men are preparing a small boat for you right now. You need to get your things so you can be on your way. Hurry now!" You rush to the quarters that had been assigned to you below: a small room, yes, but comfortably furnished with a vanity, a queen-sized bed, and a wardrobe filled with women's clothing. You have been spending as little time here as possible, because you get the strong vibe that this is where the "female companionship" would normally reside... if you hadn't come along to displace that person, perhaps forcing the captain to leave her behind in Hawaii. Or maybe he just has some embarrassing dressing habits, when he thinks no one is looking. Either way, this would explain his impatience with you, and his eagerness now to get you off the ship. It doesn't take long to gather your belongings, which are all contained in a single backpack. Then you rush back up to the deck, curious to see how the captain plans to get you ashore. The crew is gathered at the stern of the ship, where they have just lowered a boat over the side. You look over the rails and see a sporty red Zodiac bobbing beside the hull of the cargo ship. "Use this rope to lower yourself down!" the captain says. "Hurry! Hurry! Before she drifts away!" Did they really lower the Zodiac down to the water's surface without tethering it to the Sam Malone? There's no use in arguing with the man if indeed that's what happened, so you grab hold of the rope and rappel down the side of the hull until you are safely in the Zodiac. The rope is immediately reeled back into the ship, as if to prevent you from changing your mind. The crew doesn't even linger to wish you a safe journey. The Zodiac is essentially a raft with an outboard motor, with enough space for you and your pack, but not a heck of a lot else. This might be the perfect boat for tooling around some lake, but here in the South Pacific — with the cargo ship speeding away toward Tahiti — you feel tiny and vulnerable. At least you have calm seas in your favor. Another boon: the outboard engine starts on the first try, and purrs as if it were brand new. Auri Island, with its gentle and verdant slopes, is a few nautical miles ahead of you; Woban Island is some distance beyond. So off you go, piloting the red Zodiac across the waves, your next adventure about to start in earnest. Despite the odd and rushed manner in which you departed the Sam Malone, it feels good to be in the open air, alone and in pursuit of a clearly-stated objective — and hopefully with no plaid suits for thousands of miles around. Your only regret is not grabbing something to eat before leaving the ship. You can't help but notice that the hour is getting late, though. There is only a short period of twilight at these latitudes, and darkness can set in quickly. It's going to take you a while to reach the islands, so you have a choice to make: Do you head to Auri Island, the closer of the two, and spend the night there? Or do you steer the boat toward Woban Island so you can get a head start on your mission? Auri looks like a typical tropical island, with broad beaches and an inviting shoreline. Woban Island, of course, is where you ultimately need to be, but from this distance its coastline looks like a series of cliffs plunging into the ocean. Finding a suitable place to land might take time — daylight that you may or may not have at your disposal. __________________________________________________ > You spend the night on Auri Island. Those long beaches on the shore of Auri Island look so much more inviting than the steep cliffs on Woban. After getting rushed so rudely off the cargo ship you'd like a chance to get your bearings, and the idea of spending a night on a tropical beach sounds preferable to searching for a landing site in the dark. Therefore you steer your small boat toward Auri, bumping across the small waves and never letting off the throttle until you near the shore. The Zodiac is a rubber craft, so you see no need to be gentle with the landing. You build up speed, cut the engine, and let your momentum carry the boat up onto the sand. Then you hop out and pull it by the bow as far up on land as you can — and hopefully beyond the reach of the tide. You shoulder your backpack and carry it up to the treeline. Auri Island is supposedly inhabited, but you see no signs of people here, of the Stone Age variety or otherwise. Actually, the only sign of civilization is the great amount of plastic waste that has been pushed ashore by the waves: small buoys, empty jugs of laundry detergent, battered water bottles, and fragments of cellophane. Woban Island looms across a wide channel, dark and foreboding. From here, it looks like a mountain range emerging from the ocean — and on one of those mountains is the Stone of Vul-Kar, which is worth two million dollars to you, and heaven knows what to Diane Chambers. You are glad you chose not to go there today; you will be in a much better mood to approach those steep slopes in the morning. Just inside the edge of the tropical forest, you find an open space with flat ground. It is just the right size for your backpacking tent, so you unfurl the bundle of rip-stop Nylon and insert the poles. Fully erected, the tent is waist high: snug, but solid. It is something you picked up ten years ago at an REI as you prepared for a similar mission in Guatemala, and you have used it many times since then. The roof of the tent is still streaked with the dried specks of blood from all the mosquitoes you slaughtered that time on the Noatak River a couple years ago, collecting Inuit artifacts from the thawing permafrost. Alaska is so overrated. Fortunately, there is more than just plastic debris on this beach; while it is still light out, you gather several armloads of dried wood and pile it up in front of your campsite. After digging a pit in the sand, you set a base of dried grass and place some of the smaller sticks on top of that. Using a cigarette lighter to ignite the grass, you find yourself tending a small campfire within minutes. Then you pull out the first of your freeze-dried food packages. Ham and carrots — what a freaking odd combination for a backpacking meal. The expiration date has passed by a matter of years, so this must be a leftover from the Noatak trip. But why would anyone put an expiration date on freeze-dried food? You tear open the package. It looks all right and doesn't smell dead, so you boil up some water and let the tiny nuggets of meat and vegetables reconstitute for a few minutes. The weather is balmy, and there are no bugs, so you lay a ground cloth on the sand and fall asleep right there on the beach, your fire dwindling out on its own. __________________________________________________ > Next page. You wake up to a cool morning. Standing up and stretching, the first thing you notice is your fireplace. All that is left of last night's campfire is a bed of powdery ashes and a few chunks of charred woods. There are no coals remaining, but you bury the ashes anyway by kicking sand into the pit until the entire space is filled. Then you look up to see whether the tide is up or down. Actually, the water level doesn't look much different than it did last night. There is Woban Island across the channel, still dark even in the morning light; there is the ribbon of plastic flotsam, now with a few small crabs crawling over it; there is your tent, just inside the trees. But isn't there something missing? Your boat! You look up and down the beach, and scan the distant waves, but there is not a red Zodiac to be seen anywhere. Did the tide take it? You step over to the spot where you know you left it. What you find is alarming: a drag mark where the boat was pulled back toward the water, and many bootprints all around it. And about twenty feet to the right, you see where another small boat briefly landed. Could it be possible that someone snuck ashore in the middle of the night to steal your only means of transportation? The marks in the sand tell you that is precisely what did happen. You are impressed they managed to do it without waking you. And perhaps that campfire wasn't such a good idea after all, if it signaled to the competition your exact location. You scan the ocean more carefully to see what might be out there. Nothing. This leaves only one thing that you can do: call for someone to come and get you. What will Diane and Jimmy think of that? The satellite phone that Jimmy gave you is in your backpack, which you left inside your tent — assuming no one absconded with that, either. You crawl inside the small dome tent and find your pack just as you left it. After unzipping the top pouch, your hand grasps the phone. Your mission successful, you begin to crawl backwards out of the tent. Just then you hear a snapping sound behind you, like someone stepping on a stick. You continue your awkward crawling motion until you are clear of the tent's vestibule, then you stand up. Turning around, you are confronted with five dark-skinned men pointing spears in your direction. It looks like you've made contact with the primitive tribe of Auri Islanders! But right now it's not looking like a positive development… . __________________________________________________ > Next page. The Auris surround you, their spears ready for action. You gently lower the satellite phone to the ground, then raise your hands to shoulder-level, hoping that this was the universal gesture for surrender even in the Stone Age. One of your captors responds by motioning with a sideways tip of his spear, which you assume means he wants you to follow. You wouldn't still be in this business if you weren't smart enough to know when to admit defeat, so you fall in line as the natives march you through the forest. They lead you to the foot of a mountain where, in a small clearing, you find a group of grass huts huddled together. A wall of rock five feet high rises above the level of the village, and on top of this sits a larger hut — clearly the dwelling of someone significant. Above the village rises the bare, rocky slopes of the mountain. When you hesitate, the Auri behind you gives you a firm shove. You feel as if you are being paraded through the village, with the inhabitants staring at you as you pass by. The two warriors ahead of you lead the way up a set of rough-hewn steps to the top of the rock wall, to what you presume to be the chief's hut. However, this structure is even grander than you first believed. The hut turns out to be a mere foyer for a large, cavernous room set into the mountainside. At the far end of the chamber sits a man on an elaborate wicker chair — more like a king than a tribal chieftain. Several servants, both men and woman, serve as his retinue. The five Auris who captured you at your campsite form a line behind you, blocking any possibility of escape, and the largest of them forces you into a kneeling position before the chief-king. This cave-like room is dimly lit, but not entirely dark; you suspect there is an opening in the ceiling above you, but you dare not look up lest it be seen as a sign of disrespect. This feels like a very deadly situation, so it is best to keep your wits about you. The chief-king draws one of his woman servants closer to him. "E ninau no ka mea a keia malihini e hana nei ma ko makou 'aina. 'O keia mau 'opala i holoi 'ia ma ke kahakai?" he says to her. The woman then turns to you. "The Chief of the Auris wishes to know why you are on this island." Her English is quite good, albeit uncertain, like someone who once knew the language well but has not had much occasion to speak it recently. "Um, tell him I am merely passing through," you say, speaking to the woman but keeping your eyes on the chief. He is adorned with the bones and feathers of many creatures, but you are relieved to see that none appear human. There may be a way out of this yet. "Passing through to where?" the woman says, before translating your statement to her chief. Her English has a peculiar accent, which you can't quite place. "To Woban Island," you say. She turns back to the chief. "Ua 'olelo 'ia he hiamoe wale no ia ma ka makou kahakai i ka 'mokupuni o Woban. 'Lelo ia e mihi a 'a'ole ia e hana hou." The chief guffaws loudly. "E aho kahi e'au'au me ka pulu," he says. "Ae, ku'u haku," she responds. "'Ike like keia mea 'ano ia 'oe," the chief says, looking you up and down from his wicker throne. "Ma'ia paha he hoaaloha hou paha 'oe!" He laughs even louder, as if he has just told a great joke. The woman sounds disgusted with whatever it was he just said. Turning to you, she asks in English, "What is your business on Woban Island?" "I, ah, have been hired by someone to, um, conduct research." You know from past experience that native populations can be sensitive to the idea of Westerners plundering their cultural artifacts, so for the moment you feel it's best to remain cagey about your true purpose here. But as it turns out, you have no need to be coy. "Let me guess," the Auri translator says. "You're after the Stone of Vul-Kar." "Yes?" Your admission comes off more as a question, because you are hoping that honesty truly is the best policy in this situation. "Of course you are!" she says. "Why else would an American be here?" This woman's English is way too good. If you didn't know any better, you'd say she was from Michigan — like Mackinac, or someplace way up north. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you?" you say. "E hu 'oe!" the chief shouts, rising from his throne. "E ha'i mai i ka mea ana i 'olelo ai." "Ke 'imi nei keia 'Amelika i ka pohaku o Vul-Kar," the woman says to him. "Pela oe i hana ai," says the chief. "E hui pu me ia." "'A'ole hiki ia 'oe ke ho'okau i kekahi o kou po'e," she says. "Pono 'oe i kela me keia kanaka no ka kiu." "A laila noi ia ia e noho. 'A'ole malama wau i kau mea au e hana ai." The woman sighs and shakes her head. Then she steps forward, closer to you, so that you can see her more clearly in the dim light of the chamber. This person is no Auri at all! Whereas the natives have the complexion of a mild tea, the translator is as white as her Midwestern accent. "To answer your question: My name is Cynthia Bolt, and I once sought the Stone of Vul-Kar, just as you do now. But my boat sank, and I landed here. The Auri people took me in and accepted me as one of their own. I have been living here for the last year." Cynthia Bolt! While you were on the plane from Boston, Jimmy had you reading up on all the past expeditions to Woban Island, and hers was one of the first. The report was very short, though, because Bolt disappeared almost instantly upon setting off. Otherwise, despite the fact the two of you seem to work in the same profession, you've never met. "I'm glad to hear you're safe," you say. "But what do these people want with me?" "The chief doesn't really want anything. He says I can go with you to Woban Island, since that was my original purpose for coming here, or you may stay here on Auri Island as I have been doing." That last option takes you by surprise. "Why on earth would I want to stay here?" "You'd be surprised," Bolt says. "Life here is very simple, in tune with natural rhythms in a way that modern life will never be. I have been very satisfied here. But at the same time, I feel like a failure for never completing my mission, so perhaps it's time I resume my old life." You're not sure, but it sounds like you are being given the option to choose not only your fate, but hers as well. Her indecisiveness is puzzling, and it only inspires you to make your choice that much more firmly. __________________________________________________ > You go to Woban Island with Cynthia Bolt. You remember telling Diane Chambers that day back at Cheers that you wouldn't need any guides, but now it looks like that's exactly what you have. "The Auris trade with the Wobans all the time," Cynthia Bolt tells you later that day, after the chief releases you to prepare for your journey. "We don't go too far inland, but yeah, in my time here I've had plenty of opportunities to scout the most direct route to the summit temple." "That's terrific," you say, although you are secretly disappointed that she might make this job too easy if she really does know as much as she says she does. And is she going to expect a share of your two million dollars? "But there's one minor problem: someone stole my boat last night." "I can't say I'm surprised," Bolt says. "The competition can be pretty cutthroat." "And yet nobody has snagged the Stone of Vul-Kar yet?" you say. "Strange setbacks always seem to befall those who try. Take me, for instance. At about the same moment I first laid eyes on Woban Island, my boat caught fire and sank. I blamed myself for the longest time, because I've always had the worst luck. Every venture I've ever touched has ended in failure — careers, relationships, you name it. I have a PhD in linguistics, but look at how much good that's done me. Which was why I was looking for the Stone of Vul-Kar in the first place: I really needed the money. So there I was, adrift in this tiny life raft, eventually landing on the same beach here on Auri that you landed on. I learned the language, and the chief made me one of his advisors because he wanted to know why all of a sudden there were so many outsiders interested in these islands. Life here really has been kind to me. I don't know why I let the chief talk me into going with you to Woban." Your camping gear is still down by the beach, right where you left it; even though some unknown persons came in the middle of the night to steal your Zodiac, nothing else seems to be as tempting a target, apparently. You're not comfortable with the idea of mingling with the villagers, so you return to your tent for the evening. This time, however, you dispense with the campfire. Early the next morning, Dr. Bolt awakes you inside your tent. "Come on!" she says. "I have boat we can use to get us across the channel." She is still wearing her Auri grass skirt. And it's worth pointing out that on Auri Island, skirts are the only items in anyone's wardrobe; Dr. Bolt has clearly adopted the local custom of displaying her body with pride. "You know, we'll get farther on Woban Island if we both blend in," she says as you pack your gear. "You won't last five minutes dressed like a Westerner. I have something I think will fit you perfectly! I'll be right back." Before you can object, she is gone. __________________________________________________ > Next page. The boat she has procured for your use turns out to be a dugout canoe with a pair of outriggers. Instead of the outboard motor you had with the Zodiac, this beauty comes with a pair of paddles. "How far is it to Woban Island?" you say, trying to calculate just how arduous this journey is going to be. "Not quite three miles," Dr. Bolt says, concerned that you still haven't ditched your manufactured Western clothing in favor of her hand-woven grass skirt... which you understand is something she has made herself during her time on the island. "How does this thing handle ocean waves?" you ask. "Quite well, actually. We surf in canoes like this. But the weather is calm today, so we shouldn't have any issues." It's not like you see many alternatives, so together you push the canoe into the water and climb inside. The sun is not as hot as you expected, but it is still somewhat early in the morning. As it climbs higher into the tropical sky, however, there is no escaping its intensity. You're somewhat embarrassed to look at your half-dressed companion, even though she is sitting in front of you in the canoe and there is no real way you cannot look at her. Stare, actually. In her native state she is quite fair-skinned, despite all her time here on the islands; now, as you paddle the channel that separates Woban Island from Auri Island, she is turning pink right before your eyes. "Those slopes look pretty steep over there," you say, trying to distract yourself by studying Woban Island's rugged shoreline. "Where does anybody make landfall in a place like that?" "That's the hehi mu," Dr. Bolt says. "That part of the island is uninhabitable. No, we have to paddle around that headland on the left. That's where we land." The canoe cuts through the water surprisingly well, and in just forty-five minutes you are turning the corner around the small point. You can now get a better look at the bulk of Woban Island, which is ruggedly mountainous at its south end, but tapers off into a long cape to the northeast. The jungle still seems thick and dark, but there are at least beaches on this part of the island. But then you spot something bright red ahead of you on the shore. "That's my Zodiac!" you say. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was," Dr. Bolt says. "Somebody else probably didn't like their own boat, so they took yours." As you get closer, you can see the Zodiac has been beached directly ahead of you. There are no people around, but the dark object beside your stolen boat turns out to be a small dinghy. Both boats are sitting right where Dr. Bolt wants to land, and the implication makes you nervous: the people who stole the Zodiac from you are probably nearby. Your topless companion doesn't seem concerned at all. "Looks like it's a busy day on Woban Island!" she says. "Thankfully there are still plenty of parking spaces left." As you near the shoreline she starts paddling faster instead of easing up, so you do the same. A wave picks up the canoe and floats it onto the sand, and you come to rest on Woban Island with a minor thud. The dugout is now parked right beside the dinghy and the Zodiac. "Are you sure you won't change your mind about your clothes?" Dr. Bolt says. "Every adventurer on the island is probably dressed like a model in a Cabella's catalog, so if we—" Just then you hear shouting coming from somewhere in the woods. "What's that?" you ask. "Someone's in trouble," Bolt replies. "Come on!" And before you can discuss it any further, your companion — with her uninterrupted run of bad luck, and her apparently heedless optimism (among her other assets) — runs off into the woods, towards the sounds of trouble you just heard. Towards the people who probably stole your boat. You follow her up a narrow trail, finding that it leads to a small campsite about a hundred yards inland. There are two young people, a man and a woman, standing in the middle, frantically waving sticks. "Go away!" the woman shouts. "Shoo! Our friends will be here any moment, and they have guns! You know: Bang! Bang!" It's not you they're trying to frighten off, though. As Dr. Bolt pulls you to a hasty hiding spot behind a tree, you see three large figures steadily advancing on the two people. "Wobans!" you whisper. "Yes, trying to expel a few more outsiders from their sacred island," Bolt says. "These two people are toast, I'm afraid. Wobans show no mercy." "If they aren't looking for us, then we should get out of here." "What do you mean? We need to help them. They are such a cute couple!" she says. You suppress a groan. "OK. How?" "Those Wobans are very strong. I say we create a diversion, let those men run for cover." "Then what do we do when they come after us?" you say. "If we're going to do something, we should make a frontal attack, use the element of surprise to overpower the Wobans. The advantage will be ours for only a moment, though." __________________________________________________ > You create a diversion. "So tell me," you whisper to Dr. Bolt. "What kind of diversion do you have in mind." "Wobans have good vision, but their sense of hearing is sub-par," she says. "Here, take this stone. On three, throw it over their heads into the woods. They'll hear it land and think there is someone coming from the opposite direction." It seems like a weak plan, but the Wobans are advancing quickly on the couple in the campsite, so there is no time for debate. You take your stone, step out from behind the tree so that you'll have a clearer shot, and wait for Bolt's signal. Your shot flies over the Wobans, just as you intended. But Dr. Bolt's run of bad luck rears its ugly head when her stone bounces off a tree and strikes one of the man-beasts in the head. She's managed to distract them away from the two young people, all right — now they're after you! She at least has the presence of mind to run back towards the beach, just as you do when you see one of the seven-foot-tall, three-eyed figures splitting away from his companions to give chase to the two of you. She is running back for the boats, and you realize that is not a bad idea. You are a pretty good runner, and the odds look pretty good that you'll make it in time to get out to the relative safety of the water. Better yet, this will be your chance to reclaim the Zodiac. But what you can't appreciate is just how much faster the Wobans are compared to an ordinary human. Even as you are starting to make plans for your next attempt to land on the island, your pursuer overtakes you. With one swipe of his claw-like index finger, you are cut down. The last thing you see is Dr. Bolt frantically trying to get one of the boats off the beach and onto the water. THE END

The boat she has procured for your use turns out to be a dugout canoe with a pair of outriggers. Instead of the outboard motor you had with the Zodiac, this beauty comes with a pair of paddles. "How far is it to Woban Island?" you say, trying to calculate just how arduous this journey is going to be. "Not quite three miles," Dr. Bolt says, concerned that you still haven't ditched your manufactured Western clothing in favor of her hand-woven grass skirt... which you understand is something she has made herself during her time on the island. "How does this thing handle ocean waves?" you ask. "Quite well, actually. We surf in canoes like this. But the weather is calm today, so we shouldn't have any issues." It's not like you see many alternatives, so together you push the canoe into the water and climb inside. The sun is not as hot as you expected, but it is still somewhat early in the morning. As it climbs higher into the tropical sky, however, there is no escaping its intensity. You're somewhat embarrassed to look at your half-dressed companion, even though she is sitting in front of you in the canoe and there is no real way you cannot look at her. Stare, actually. In her native state she is quite fair-skinned, despite all her time here on the islands; now, as you paddle the channel that separates Woban Island from Auri Island, she is turning pink right before your eyes. "Those slopes look pretty steep over there," you say, trying to distract yourself by studying Woban Island's rugged shoreline. "Where does anybody make landfall in a place like that?" "That's the hehi mu," Dr. Bolt says. "That part of the island is uninhabitable. No, we have to paddle around that headland on the left. That's where we land." The canoe cuts through the water surprisingly well, and in just forty-five minutes you are turning the corner around the small point. You can now get a better look at the bulk of Woban Island, which is ruggedly mountainous at its south end, but tapers off into a long cape to the northeast. The jungle still seems thick and dark, but there are at least beaches on this part of the island. But then you spot something bright red ahead of you on the shore. "That's my Zodiac!" you say. "I wouldn't be surprised if it was," Dr. Bolt says. "Somebody else probably didn't like their own boat, so they took yours." As you get closer, you can see the Zodiac has been beached directly ahead of you. There are no people around, but the dark object beside your stolen boat turns out to be a small dinghy. Both boats are sitting right where Dr. Bolt wants to land, and the implication makes you nervous: the people who stole the Zodiac from you are probably nearby. Your topless companion doesn't seem concerned at all. "Looks like it's a busy day on Woban Island!" she says. "Thankfully there are still plenty of parking spaces left." As you near the shoreline she starts paddling faster instead of easing up, so you do the same. A wave picks up the canoe and floats it onto the sand, and you come to rest on Woban Island with a minor thud. The dugout is now parked right beside the dinghy and the Zodiac. "Are you sure you won't change your mind about your clothes?" Dr. Bolt says. "Every adventurer on the island is probably dressed like a model in a Cabella's catalog, so if we—" Just then you hear shouting coming from somewhere in the woods. "What's that?" you ask. "Someone's in trouble," Bolt replies. "Come on!" And before you can discuss it any further, your companion — with her uninterrupted run of bad luck, and her apparently heedless optimism (among her other assets) — runs off into the woods, towards the sounds of trouble you just heard. Towards the people who probably stole your boat. You follow her up a narrow trail, finding that it leads to a small campsite about a hundred yards inland. There are two young people, a man and a woman, standing in the middle, frantically waving sticks. "Go away!" the woman shouts. "Shoo! Our friends will be here any moment, and they have guns! You know: Bang! Bang!" It's not you they're trying to frighten off, though. As Dr. Bolt pulls you to a hasty hiding spot behind a tree, you see three large figures steadily advancing on the two people. "Wobans!" you whisper. "Yes, trying to expel a few more outsiders from their sacred island," Bolt says. "These two people are toast, I'm afraid. Wobans show no mercy." "If they aren't looking for us, then we should get out of here." "What do you mean? We need to help them. They are such a cute couple!" she says. You suppress a groan. "OK. How?" "Those Wobans are very strong. I say we create a diversion, let those men run for cover." "Then what do we do when they come after us?" you say. "If we're going to do something, we should make a frontal attack, use the element of surprise to overpower the Wobans. The advantage will be ours for only a moment, though." __________________________________________________ > You make a frontal attack. You pride yourself in not being a violent person. Your job is to obtain objects, not inflict harm; you carry no weapons because doing so can only escalate a situation, igniting what you would rather defuse. You are no idiot; you are fully aware that more than a few of the other people in your profession take the opposite view. But this is a philosophy that has served you well over the years, from that episode in Burma to your little escapade in Peru. The downside, though, are the moments like this, in which you have rashly committed yourself to a course of action… without the luxury of time to think the situation through. Without any further discussion, you rush out from the hiding spot behind the tree, charging directly at the three Wobans, armed with nothing more than the first stick you find. You can only hope that Dr. Bolt is right behind you, because then it will at least be two against three — and if the two men you are rescuing take the cue, it will be four against three. But you have only been in the presence of Wobans for about fifty seconds, so you can be forgiven (sort of) for not fully appreciating what you're up against. That realization hits you mid-stride, as you are running forward, stick raised high, preparing to swing at the first figure in your path. They are huge, a good seven feet tall; hominids, but not human, with a curved black fingernail on each index finger like the claw of a velociraptor. You are unarmed by choice, but the Wobans bear no weapons because they have no need to use them. When they turn and see you, what they perceive with those three eyes must not be anything of concern to them. All it takes is a quick flick of the wrist, and you are instantly cut down, never to rise again. Whether your actions allowed others to live, you'll never know. THE END

The Auris surround you, their spears ready for action. You gently lower the satellite phone to the ground, then raise your hands to shoulder-level, hoping that this was the universal gesture for surrender even in the Stone Age. One of your captors responds by motioning with a sideways tip of his spear, which you assume means he wants you to follow. You wouldn't still be in this business if you weren't smart enough to know when to admit defeat, so you fall in line as the natives march you through the forest. They lead you to the foot of a mountain where, in a small clearing, you find a group of grass huts huddled together. A wall of rock five feet high rises above the level of the village, and on top of this sits a larger hut — clearly the dwelling of someone significant. Above the village rises the bare, rocky slopes of the mountain. When you hesitate, the Auri behind you gives you a firm shove. You feel as if you are being paraded through the village, with the inhabitants staring at you as you pass by. The two warriors ahead of you lead the way up a set of rough-hewn steps to the top of the rock wall, to what you presume to be the chief's hut. However, this structure is even grander than you first believed. The hut turns out to be a mere foyer for a large, cavernous room set into the mountainside. At the far end of the chamber sits a man on an elaborate wicker chair — more like a king than a tribal chieftain. Several servants, both men and woman, serve as his retinue. The five Auris who captured you at your campsite form a line behind you, blocking any possibility of escape, and the largest of them forces you into a kneeling position before the chief-king. This cave-like room is dimly lit, but not entirely dark; you suspect there is an opening in the ceiling above you, but you dare not look up lest it be seen as a sign of disrespect. This feels like a very deadly situation, so it is best to keep your wits about you. The chief-king draws one of his woman servants closer to him. "E ninau no ka mea a keia malihini e hana nei ma ko makou 'aina. 'O keia mau 'opala i holoi 'ia ma ke kahakai?" he says to her. The woman then turns to you. "The Chief of the Auris wishes to know why you are on this island." Her English is quite good, albeit uncertain, like someone who once knew the language well but has not had much occasion to speak it recently. "Um, tell him I am merely passing through," you say, speaking to the woman but keeping your eyes on the chief. He is adorned with the bones and feathers of many creatures, but you are relieved to see that none appear human. There may be a way out of this yet. "Passing through to where?" the woman says, before translating your statement to her chief. Her English has a peculiar accent, which you can't quite place. "To Woban Island," you say. She turns back to the chief. "Ua 'olelo 'ia he hiamoe wale no ia ma ka makou kahakai i ka 'mokupuni o Woban. 'Lelo ia e mihi a 'a'ole ia e hana hou." The chief guffaws loudly. "E aho kahi e'au'au me ka pulu," he says. "Ae, ku'u haku," she responds. "'Ike like keia mea 'ano ia 'oe," the chief says, looking you up and down from his wicker throne. "Ma'ia paha he hoaaloha hou paha 'oe!" He laughs even louder, as if he has just told a great joke. The woman sounds disgusted with whatever it was he just said. Turning to you, she asks in English, "What is your business on Woban Island?" "I, ah, have been hired by someone to, um, conduct research." You know from past experience that native populations can be sensitive to the idea of Westerners plundering their cultural artifacts, so for the moment you feel it's best to remain cagey about your true purpose here. But as it turns out, you have no need to be coy. "Let me guess," the Auri translator says. "You're after the Stone of Vul-Kar." "Yes?" Your admission comes off more as a question, because you are hoping that honesty truly is the best policy in this situation. "Of course you are!" she says. "Why else would an American be here?" This woman's English is way too good. If you didn't know any better, you'd say she was from Michigan — like Mackinac, or someplace way up north. "If you don't mind me asking, who are you?" you say. "E hu 'oe!" the chief shouts, rising from his throne. "E ha'i mai i ka mea ana i 'olelo ai." "Ke 'imi nei keia 'Amelika i ka pohaku o Vul-Kar," the woman says to him. "Pela oe i hana ai," says the chief. "E hui pu me ia." "'A'ole hiki ia 'oe ke ho'okau i kekahi o kou po'e," she says. "Pono 'oe i kela me keia kanaka no ka kiu." "A laila noi ia ia e noho. 'A'ole malama wau i kau mea au e hana ai." The woman sighs and shakes her head. Then she steps forward, closer to you, so that you can see her more clearly in the dim light of the chamber. This person is no Auri at all! Whereas the natives have the complexion of a mild tea, the translator is as white as her Midwestern accent. "To answer your question: My name is Cynthia Bolt, and I once sought the Stone of Vul-Kar, just as you do now. But my boat sank, and I landed here. The Auri people took me in and accepted me as one of their own. I have been living here for the last year." Cynthia Bolt! While you were on the plane from Boston, Jimmy had you reading up on all the past expeditions to Woban Island, and hers was one of the first. The report was very short, though, because Bolt disappeared almost instantly upon setting off. Otherwise, despite the fact the two of you seem to work in the same profession, you've never met. "I'm glad to hear you're safe," you say. "But what do these people want with me?" "The chief doesn't really want anything. He says I can go with you to Woban Island, since that was my original purpose for coming here, or you may stay here on Auri Island as I have been doing." That last option takes you by surprise. "Why on earth would I want to stay here?" "You'd be surprised," Bolt says. "Life here is very simple, in tune with natural rhythms in a way that modern life will never be. I have been very satisfied here. But at the same time, I feel like a failure for never completing my mission, so perhaps it's time I resume my old life." You're not sure, but it sounds like you are being given the option to choose not only your fate, but hers as well. Her indecisiveness is puzzling, and it only inspires you to make your choice that much more firmly. __________________________________________________ > You remain on Auri Island and join the tribe. The possibility of escaping the rat race and living out a peaceful existence here on Auri Island captures your imagination in a way you never expected. It is as though something that had been sleeping inside of you is suddenly awakened, and a future that was never available to you previously has now been revealed. Diane Chambers was going to pay you two million dollars for obtaining the Stone of Vul-Kar on her behalf, but what would that money buy you other than things you will never need? And what will acquiring those useless things inspire you to do, except to desire even more stuff? It's an endless cycle of futility, and for the first time in your life you've been presented with an exit ramp. Therefore you agree to remain on Auri Island, becoming the second outsider to be accepted into the village. You are given the traditional dress of the tribe — a grass skirt, worn by both men and women — and Cynthia Bolt teaches you the local language. As it turns out she holds a PhD in lingusitics (or held one, since the actual document remains in her old home back in Minneapolis) therefore she insists you call her Dr. Bolt so long as you are her pupil. Soon you are an Auri hunter, joining hunting party after hunting party — a tradition that, like many others on this small island, is shared by all. Other than the native people, the only wildlife on the island are birds and sea turtles. It takes great skill to bring down a bird in flight with nothing more than a stone, but you accept the challenge and soon become good at it. Your civilized sense of modesty finds it difficult to adapt to the grass skirts, though, so you frequently revert back to your old adventurer's garb, which consists of polyester hiking pants and sweat-wicking shirts. This makes you stand out from all of your neighbors, though, so to atone for your non-conformist manner of dressing you decide to tackle all of the washed-up plastic that virtually rims the entire island. The refuse from the so-called developed world is a blight on this paradise, so you take it upon yourself to try and make it go away. But it's plastic, and it never will go away. At first you try and bury it in the sand, but the wind and rising tides always manage to uncover it again — and each passing storm manages to bring even more floating waste to your shores. So then you begin to throw all the plastic into towering piles on the beach, which for a short time you consider setting on fire. But that would only create a plume of putrid smoke, befouling the atmosphere of the entire island and giving everyone cancer, so your piles remain like giant idols scattered all around the island's shores. The other Auris are unable to make sense of your actions. They see you with your plastic clothes, your plastic backpack, and your plastic tent, and they see you laboring before your great piles of plastic flotsam. "Ho'omana 'o ia i kahi akua 'e," they say; "That one worships a strange god." So despite your efforts to make Auri Island a more pristine place, you never do fit in. THE END

On the afternoon of your fifth day aboard the Sam Malone, as you are standing on deck and watching the blankness of the ocean pass by, the captain approaches you. He is a small man, Pakistani by birth, and until this trip the idea of a Pakistani ship captain never occurred to you. On this voyage you have apparently been an added responsibility for him — a draw on the ship's stores, but not a source of useful labor. While his crew has been scurrying about the ship to keep it functioning, you have been lolling around like an idle tourist. "This is as close to Auri Island as we'll get!" he says. "Really?" you say. "I can't even see it." "Of course not. You're on the port side of the ship. Auri Island is to starboard." You're about to walk around to the other side of the boat to see the island for yourself when the captain extends his arm to block you. "There's no time for sightseeing!" he scolds. His fondness for efficiency seems almost British, as does his accent. "My men are preparing a small boat for you right now. You need to get your things so you can be on your way. Hurry now!" You rush to the quarters that had been assigned to you below: a small room, yes, but comfortably furnished with a vanity, a queen-sized bed, and a wardrobe filled with women's clothing. You have been spending as little time here as possible, because you get the strong vibe that this is where the "female companionship" would normally reside... if you hadn't come along to displace that person, perhaps forcing the captain to leave her behind in Hawaii. Or maybe he just has some embarrassing dressing habits, when he thinks no one is looking. Either way, this would explain his impatience with you, and his eagerness now to get you off the ship. It doesn't take long to gather your belongings, which are all contained in a single backpack. Then you rush back up to the deck, curious to see how the captain plans to get you ashore. The crew is gathered at the stern of the ship, where they have just lowered a boat over the side. You look over the rails and see a sporty red Zodiac bobbing beside the hull of the cargo ship. "Use this rope to lower yourself down!" the captain says. "Hurry! Hurry! Before she drifts away!" Did they really lower the Zodiac down to the water's surface without tethering it to the Sam Malone? There's no use in arguing with the man if indeed that's what happened, so you grab hold of the rope and rappel down the side of the hull until you are safely in the Zodiac. The rope is immediately reeled back into the ship, as if to prevent you from changing your mind. The crew doesn't even linger to wish you a safe journey. The Zodiac is essentially a raft with an outboard motor, with enough space for you and your pack, but not a heck of a lot else. This might be the perfect boat for tooling around some lake, but here in the South Pacific — with the cargo ship speeding away toward Tahiti — you feel tiny and vulnerable. At least you have calm seas in your favor. Another boon: the outboard engine starts on the first try, and purrs as if it were brand new. Auri Island, with its gentle and verdant slopes, is a few nautical miles ahead of you; Woban Island is some distance beyond. So off you go, piloting the red Zodiac across the waves, your next adventure about to start in earnest. Despite the odd and rushed manner in which you departed the Sam Malone, it feels good to be in the open air, alone and in pursuit of a clearly-stated objective — and hopefully with no plaid suits for thousands of miles around. Your only regret is not grabbing something to eat before leaving the ship. You can't help but notice that the hour is getting late, though. There is only a short period of twilight at these latitudes, and darkness can set in quickly. It's going to take you a while to reach the islands, so you have a choice to make: Do you head to Auri Island, the closer of the two, and spend the night there? Or do you steer the boat toward Woban Island so you can get a head start on your mission? Auri looks like a typical tropical island, with broad beaches and an inviting shoreline. Woban Island, of course, is where you ultimately need to be, but from this distance its coastline looks like a series of cliffs plunging into the ocean. Finding a suitable place to land might take time — daylight that you may or may not have at your disposal. __________________________________________________ > You head straight to Woban Island. It is best to remain focused on your goal, and in this case your goal is to obtain the Stone of Vul-Kar and deliver it to Boston for two million dollars. You will not be furthering your cause by spending the night on Auri Island, and Diane Chambers will not pay you if no purple gem is procured. Or if someone gets to it before you do. Therefore you choose to motor right by Auri in the Zodiac, heading straight for Woban instead. But as you get closer to Woban Island, proximity doesn't make the view any more flattering; what appeared to be steep cliffs and mountainsides plunging straight into the sea from a few miles away prove to be exactly that upon closer inspection. What you wouldn't give for a topographic map right about now! You had assumed a tiny little island would be simple to navigate — just climb to the highest point, grab the stone, and go home — but you can see now that the geography here is a lot more complicated. From what you can gather, the southern end of the island is occupied by this range of small mountains that you now see, and the jewel must be securely hidden somewhere among them. You examine the mountains as you putz past them on the water, looking for signs of the temple on the highest summit, but everything up there looks thickly forested. And steep. You didn't realize this might become a mountaineering adventure. If it does, you're going to be woefully underprepared. There are of course no published maps of the place that you can buy from Amazon, and even Google hasn't updated its digital cartography to show these new land discoveries. The best you could do in your limited prep time was print off some satellite imagery using a laser printer you found on the Sam Malone. According to your low-grade, grayscale screen capture from Google, the land tapers away for several miles beyond the mountains to the northeast. So it looks like you will need to land there and then navigate your way inland through the foothills — some way, somehow. The problem is that it will take you several miles to get to that other side of the island where landing is possible, and this Zodiac can only go so fast. You give this southern part of the island a wide berth; who knows what reefs might be lurking just below the water's surface, capable of shredding the Zodiac to pieces before you even realize there's a problem. If that were to happen, there would be no place for you to reach shore safely. Instead, you tool along to the northwest about a full mile from the shoreline, heading to a prominent headland that you think marks the corner of the island. Get around that, and you should start to see more landing opportunities on the other side. Not surprisingly, though, this is turning into a race with the setting sun, which is only a few fingers above the western horizon. Your little boat is not equipped with any spotlights, and once you lose the daylight you'll be stranded in the darkness. C'mon, little Zodiac! Steady as she goes! You can do it! Don't fail me now! These and other forms of mental encouragement don't seem to have much bearing on the speed of the boat, though. The sun is setting just as you near the tip of the headland. The clock is set: in maybe thirty more minutes, night will have settled in over Woban Island. Had you chosen to stop at Auri, you'd probably be enjoying life beside a campfire right now. As it stands, you can only hope you'll find a place to safely make landfall before the clock runs out. Then you can look forward to a night of sitting in the dark, with no idea where exactly you are. You decide it's worth cutting the corner a bit around the headland; you might still hit something submerged, but you'll be traveling less distance around the cliffy peninsula. As you steer the boat around its tip, you see that the mountainous portion of the island is coming to an end, with miles of sand beaches beyond. The end is in sight! Even if darkness overtakes you, all you have to do now is point the boat toward land, ease up on the throttle, and take it slowly until you hear waves breaking ahead of you. Hold on, what's that? On the nearest section of beach, just ahead of you, you see a flickering orange light. Actually, the light is not on the beach, but a short distance back in the jungle. A campfire, without a doubt. And that dark object you see on the sandy shoreline? That looks like someone's boat. This puts a wrinkle in your plans. You knew you'd have competition from other jewel-seekers, but it never occurred to you that you might run into them so soon. Are these people friendly? Many of the people in your "profession" are highly competitive and will do anything to knock their opponents out of the race. On the other hand, there are several research teams that have been studying Woban Island ever since its discovery a few years ago, and you'd expect such people to be collegiate and cordial. You'd rather avoid the former type of people at all costs, but the latter kind could actually be interesting. Who knows what kinds of useful information you might glean from spending a night with people whose interest in the island is purely science-minded? Maybe they would even have a spare map of the island to give you. But here's the bottom line: Whoever is there has certainly heard your boat by now; sneaking past them is not a possibility. So you have the option to either land there in the few remaining minutes of twilight available to you, or to venture further up the beach in the dark. You won't be able to see anything, and where you land will be a crapshoot. __________________________________________________ > You land near the other boat and the campfire. You point the bow of the Zodiac in the direction of the campfire and ease off the throttle. If there is danger here, it is best to confront it head-on — you've already inadvertently revealed yourself anyway, so even if you did continue up the beach, the trouble would probably just follow you. On the other hand, if these people are friendly, you might as well see if they are useful as well. The twilight is very dim now, almost completely vanished for the evening, but even so you can make out two figures making their way down a path from the fire to the beach. You cannot make out any other details about them, even as they stand by the water's edge watching you slowly approach. Are they armed? The only thing you can say for sure is that they are keeping quiet — and they are probably just as apprehensive about you as you are of them. Can you blame them? You must look pretty suspicious yourself. Who would be taking a pleasure cruise in a Zodiac around Woban Island? And who would be doing so in the dark? You decide to make the first move. You turn off the outboard motor about two hundred feet from shore. If these people were hostile and wanted to shoot at you, they would have done so by now. "Hello there!" you shout to the shadowy duo. "I'm looking for a place to camp for the night. Do you mind if I come in?" "Are you from the university?" It's a woman's voice. "University?" you say. "We've been expecting more people." It's just as you thought: this must be a research team from some school with a top-notch ethnography program. In other words, you've stumbled across some harmless academic types. "I'm not from a university," you call back across the dark water. "I'm just looking for a safe place to land." "Well come on in," the woman shouts back. "We've got plenty of room!" You restart the motor and slowly move closer to the beach, cutting it off again and tipping it up just before making landfall. An incoming wave helps push the Zodiac onto the beach. "Here, let me give you a hand with that." It's a man's voice. The figure flicks on a headlamp strapped to his forehead, making it difficult for you to look at him. But he is tugging at one of the handles attached to your inflatable boat to pull it the rest of the way out of the water. You hop out on the other side so you can match his effort. The woman flicks on her headlamp and grabs a strap near the bow. "On three," the man says, and when he gives the mark all three of you tug the Zodiac up the beach, finally stopping just before the treeline. Your boat comes to rest beside a small dinghy, which has been flipped upside-down for the night. "Nice boat," the man says. You see his headlamp beam tracing the length and width of your ride as he looks it over. "Yours?" "I'm borrowing it from a friend," you say, not yet ready to reveal all of the details of why you're here. "I see. Need a hand with anything?" "Everything I own is in this pack here," you say, hoisting your backpack out of the Zodiac and over your right shoulder. "Will the boat be safe here?" "It should. The tide doesn't come this high." "Hey, come up to the campsite," the woman says. "You must be tired and starving!" She's right on both counts. You follow their headlamp beams up a dark trail into the jungle, where you find a spacious campsite well-lit by their small fire. "If you brought a tent, you can set it up over there," the woman says. You turn to see that they have both switched off their headlamps, so you can look at them without being blinded. They are fairly young, probably both pursuing doctoral degrees or something. She has an athletic build, wearing khaki shorts and a white tank top, with her blond hair drawn into a ponytail. He is wearing long clothing, walking around in a pair of unlaced boots. He sports a set of mutton chop sideburns, glasses, and a twill flat cap — a rather hipsterish look for someone way out here in the wilds of the South Pacific. He looks like a fugitive from a microbrewery. Setting your backpack down in the space you have been offered, you begin to rummage inside for something to eat. "Would you like some fish?" your hostess asks. "Gordy caught a mahi-mahi today, and it was more than we could finish. The leftovers are on that bench over there. Help yourself." She is pointing to a cluttered table to the side of the campsite, of the kind that can be collapsed down into a portable bundle. There is a gas stove on top, and half a dozen discarded propane canisters on the ground around it. "Um, thanks," you say. Their hospitality is more than you ever expected. It looks like you made the best possible decision in coming here! __________________________________________________ > Next page. Later that evening, after first finishing off the mahi-mahi like someone who hasn't seen food in days, and then setting up your little dome tent in the space you have been offered, you join your new companions around their campfire. "Is it really just the two of you here?" you say, deciding you ought to pump these people for information — without seeming to be overly nosy. What you really want to know is whether or not they have any maps of the island, of course. If you ask for one right away, they'll probably hesitate at first until they think of something they want in return. But if you can build a rapport first, they might just give you a map as a favor. "We're keeping an eye on things while everybody else goes back for a resupply," the man says. A resupply? you think. Is there a grocery store somewhere around here? You look around the campsite. In addition to the table, there is a cluster of larger tents off to one side, and stacks of plastic totes to the other. Someone wrote "UofC" with a Sharpie on the side of each tote, some of which are made of clear plastic. They still look full. "I see half a dozen tents over there," you say. "How big of a group do you have?" "Good question," he says to his companion. "What are there, twelve people?" Instead of answering, the woman turns brightly toward you. "We never introduced ourselves, did we? My name is Charlei. This here is Gordon; I call him Gordy." After telling them your name, you add, "I've never met a girl named Charlei before. Short for Charlene?" "No, just Charlei. Charlei Goodcheer." She leans into Gordy, clutching his arm and shoulder affectionately. "And this is Gordon Fellows. Together we're the Goodcheer-Fellows!" With that, she holds up her left hand briefly so you can see the gold ring. Gordy leans in gives his wife a quick kiss on the head. "You two look like you're on your honeymoon," you say. "Well, we're trying to earn a little money to pay off our student loans and maybe buy a house, if you know what I mean," Gordy says. You want to ask them about the "UofC" and which university program they're working for, but instead Charlei gets her question out first. "How about you? What brings you out here all by yourself?" "Me?" you say. "My story is not too interesting." You'd rather be learning more about them, but you can't appear pushy. Hopefully, like most people, they'll lose interest in you and start gushing about themselves. "Oh, I'm sure it is interesting," she says. "Boring people don't ride a little inflatable Zodiac across the Pacific Ocean just to go camping out on Woban Island." "Well, no, I guess n—" "I'll bet you're here to find the Stone of Vul-Kar," Gordy says, almost like he's teasing you. "Don't worry, we don't judge," Charlei says. "You're not the only person on this island who'd like to get their hands on the stone." One of the reasons you've been skittish about revealing your true reasons for being on Woban Island is that every now and then you meet one of these academic types who looks down at you and your livelihood. You remember well how one rugged-looking archeologist became outraged at you, dismissing you as a "self-involved thrill seeker", right after you suggested your professions were essentially the same thing. "How dare you insult me like that!" he said, his voice having turned stentorian in his indignation. "I advance human knowledge. All you do is loot and plunder." To be fair, though, that was just one encounter, and from what you can tell this happily wedded couple couldn't be more different. You repeat their name in your head: the Goodcheer-Fellows. Usually the sound of one of those trendy hyphenated surnames makes you groan, but you have to admit this one has a clever ring to it. You get the sense Charlei and Gordy enjoy introducing themselves using the same exact routine they just used on you. "That Zodiac looks brand new," Gordy says. "Is that a Mark III?" You're confused by the question. "I wouldn't know. It belongs to the person who hired me." "So someone just dropped you off so you could explore Woban Island all on your own?" he says. "Pretty much, yes," you say. "That is so friggin' cool! So is this, like, your job or something? Are you a professional adventurer?" "I guess you could say that… ." "This must just be another day at the office for you, then." "I never thought about it that way, but yeah, sure, I guess." The Goodcheer-Fellows are sitting together on a large log next to the fire. Charlei leans into her husband, as if the act of listening to you talk about yourself makes her feel more romantic toward Gordy. "Aren't you scared to be out here alone?" she says. "Do you carry a gun?" "No, no guns," you say. "They cause more trouble than they solve, in my opinion." "Well, I'd want to carry gun," Charlei says. Then she cranes her chin up to look at Gordy. "Wouldn't you carry a gun, honey?" Instead of responding to his wife, Gordy has more questions for you. "Someone with your experience must have a plan for getting the stone." "I'm still working out the details," you say. "I didn't realize I'd be making landfall so late in the day. I plan to get my bearings in the morning." "It's OK if you don't want to tell us your plan," Charlei says. "It's just that we've heard lots of people come to Woban Island looking for the stone, but you're the first one we've met." "We must be keeping you up," Gordy says with an apologetic note. "You're probably someone who gets up at the crack of dawn." Charlei, who is practically reclining in his lap, stretches her arms as she yawns. "We're keeping me up. Do you have any more of that sleep aid?" Gordy reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small flask. Charlei sits up, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig. "Gin. You want some?" she says, holding the flask in your direction when she's done. "No, thanks." With his lap now empty, Gordy stands up. "It's way past our bedtime. Are you ready to turn in, honey?" "I'm beat. It's been a long day." Then she stands up too, her face contorted in a big yawn. "It was great meeting you!" "Yeah, same," you say. "Have a good night." "Good night," Gordy says. But then the two of them walk off into the woods, not toward any of the tents. He sees you following them with your eyes, and he notices your curious expression. "I set our tent up over here, so Charlei wouldn't have to walk too far in the dark to find the latrine. See you in the morning." Moments later, you find yourself alone by the dwindling campfire, surrounded by the dark jungle and all of the "UofC" camping gear. You're a little disappointed with yourself for losing control of the conversation, and talking so much about yourself. You learned nothing about the "UofC" or when the remainder of the research team is due back — from wherever it was they went. The Goodcheer-Fellows lived up to their shared surname, and you enjoyed their company, but this encounter didn't go quite the way you planned. You're not quite ready to turn in for the night, so you grab a few more sticks from a stack of wood near the fireplace. You toss them into the small blaze, giving it a few more minutes of life. With no more chatter to distract you, all you hear is the babbling of a small brook in the nearby woods, and the rhythmic splashing of the waves down on the beach. You don't hear a peep from Gordy and Charlei. An idea occurs to you. If you didn't learn what you wanted to know through conversation, maybe you should use a more direct method. After all, you are now alone in a campsite filled with gear and supplies. The maps you need so you can find your way to the Stone of Vul-Kar must be safely stored in those totes, or perhaps in one of the tents. And who knows what else you'll find in the process? Extra food, a better sleeping bag, maybe a "UofC" Nalgene bottle to take as a souvenir? This expedition looks like it was well outfitted, and you feel certain you'll find what you're looking for, and more; that which Diane Chambers was unable to provideth, may the "UofC" furnish for the glory of your expedition. In your experience, nosiness often pays off. Indeed, it has served you well so far tonight. But, yeah, the Goodcheer-Fellows were nice people, and stealing is bad. So there is that to consider. __________________________________________________ > You take a look around the campsite. You throw a few more sticks on the fire, letting the flames build higher so they can illuminate more of the campsite. This will call less to attention to yourself, you reason; if you fetched your own headlamp out of your pack and used that as you snooped through the university's gear, the erratic beams of light would telegraph your activities to your neighbors. You pause one more time to make sure you can't hear Charlei or Gordy moving around, and then you pad quietly over to the collection of totes. There are about a dozen of them, stacked in three columns about twenty feet from the nearest tent. Only a few of them are clear-sided, and these don't seem to contain much of anything exciting; one is filled with toilet paper rolls, another seems to contain nothing but cans of ground coffee. Most of the totes, though, are made of solid gray plastic, meaning you will have to open them to see what's inside — and so of course these are the ones that intrigue you the most. You take one down from the top of the nearest stack and set it at your feet. You grab each end of the lid and gently tug at it, but it still comes off with a sharp snap! that freezes you in momentary terror. In the calm of the night, the sound seemed amplified. You stand there for a few seconds, holding the lid in your hands like the guilty snoop that you are, until you are satisfied that there is no sound of movement from the direction of the Goodcheer-Fellows' tent. It is therefore very disappointing to look down and see that you have opened a container full of dehydrated food, all of it neatly organized in plastic freezer bags: assorted fruits and vegetables, mostly, with hand-printed labels. It must have taken somebody a month to prepare all this stuff using one of those do-it-yourself food dehydrators you can buy for your kitchen. This is all very interesting, but of course this isn't what you were hoping to find. You leave that tote opened on the ground, because if you find nothing better you may want to come back and help yourself to some dried fruit. The next tote you pick is from the stack that is to the rear of the other two; and in the hope that randomness in the selection will yield more interesting results in the contents, you pick the third one from the top. After moving the top two totes out of the way, you place your selection beside the first tote you opened. You try your best to be as gentle as possible this time, but apparently these lids were designed by a jack-in-the-box manufacturer. Despite your efforts to be quiet, this one too opens with a sharp snap. You might as well be banging on a soup pot with a heavy stick. Spaghetti, boxes of it. And not even the good kind, either, but the whole wheat variety. There are also several jars of meatless sauce. These two items constitute the entire inventory of the second tote. You aren't doing so well here; so far the most tempting items you've come across are an extra roll of T.P. and a baggie of dried strawberries. Perhaps it's time to move on to the quieter pursuit of snooping inside the tents. As before, you toss a few extra sticks on the fire to build it back up; the tents are in a shadowy part of the campsite, so the extra light will be helpful. Then you proceed to nearest of the nylon shelters. You hadn't noticed this before, but the flap is unzipped; the mesh panel that should be kept closed to keep the bugs out is hanging limply in the night air. No, actually — it's torn, as if something crashed through it. And why does the ground in front of it look dark and wet? With growing apprehension you look inside, and see several people sprawled out inside. Are they sleeping? It's too dark to tell. You reel back, worried that your presence at the entrance of the tent might wake them. But how is it you never even knew they were here until now? How did they not wake up while you were talking loudly with the Goodcheer-Fellows? And didn't Charlei and Gordon tell you there was no one else here? The situation is not adding up. You distinctly remember being told that the rest of the people had left to get more supplies, but from what you just saw in the totes this camp was already well-stocked in food and staples. And people sleeping? No, can't be. The next tent to your right is also open — but also partly collapsed, as if something fell on it. In the darkness you almost didn't notice it, but there are a pair of legs sticking out of this one. Do you dare take a closer look? You have to, so you step closer, ever so gingerly. Yep, those are legs — attached to a body that collapsed on its side, a look of horror evident even in the profile of its down-turned face. The shirt is tattered and soaking with blood. "There are ten people over there. Go on; you can count them if you want." Holy! You never heard them coming. You turn and see Gordon and Charlei standing between you and the campfire. Now that they have your attention, they both turn on their headlamps, making it impossible to look directly at them. "The cook and the guide got away," Gordon continues. "They took the boat with them, which was what we really wanted." "We like your boat, though," Charlei says. "That little dinghy we found wasn't going to be enough to get us out into the shipping lanes. It almost tipped over while we were fishing with it today." Their voices are even and measured, almost chilling in their calmness. It's clear now you had been played this evening by the campfire. Now your only way out of this is to see if you can find some way to be useful to your "friends". "So you guys are after the Stone of Vul-Kar, too?" you say, trying your best to suppress all signs of fear from your voice. It isn't easy. "Of course, silly," Charlei says. "We're trapped in student loan debt, and at the rate we're going we won't be able to afford a house until we're in our fifties. All we want is to stand on our own two feet. So the way we see it, our options are to either win the lottery — lame! — or take matters into our own hands." "Let me help you!" you say. "I'm good at this. We can head up the mountain first thing in the morning. I—" "You've already sold the stone to some wealthy collector!" Gordon says. "You're just a mercenary, hired by the One Percent to do their bidding. We don't need your help." "It's a pity your code of honor or whatever doesn't allow you to carry a weapon," Charlei says. "It's better if you carry a gun. Isn't that right, sweetie?" "That's the way I was raised." As Gordon says this, he raises something long and thin that he had been holding at his side. You hadn't noticed it before in the shadowy light cast by the fire, not to mention the glare of the headlamps, but now you are certain it is a gun pointed straight at you. "I hate this part!" Charlei says. "Why don't you head back up to the tent, sweetie. You don't have to watch. It's been a busy day." "All right, I'll see you up there. Don't be long." "I love you." "Love you too!" Charlei disappears into the darkness, leaving you alone with Gordon. Even as his wife parts company with him, his headlamp beam never moves away from you. "Gordon. Gordy! I can—" you start to say, but there is a flash of light from his hands. The shot knocks you off your feet, and when you hit the ground you become the eleventh body in the campsite. THE END

Later that evening, after first finishing off the mahi-mahi like someone who hasn't seen food in days, and then setting up your little dome tent in the space you have been offered, you join your new companions around their campfire. "Is it really just the two of you here?" you say, deciding you ought to pump these people for information — without seeming to be overly nosy. What you really want to know is whether or not they have any maps of the island, of course. If you ask for one right away, they'll probably hesitate at first until they think of something they want in return. But if you can build a rapport first, they might just give you a map as a favor. "We're keeping an eye on things while everybody else goes back for a resupply," the man says. A resupply? you think. Is there a grocery store somewhere around here? You look around the campsite. In addition to the table, there is a cluster of larger tents off to one side, and stacks of plastic totes to the other. Someone wrote "UofC" with a Sharpie on the side of each tote, some of which are made of clear plastic. They still look full. "I see half a dozen tents over there," you say. "How big of a group do you have?" "Good question," he says to his companion. "What are there, twelve people?" Instead of answering, the woman turns brightly toward you. "We never introduced ourselves, did we? My name is Charlei. This here is Gordon; I call him Gordy." After telling them your name, you add, "I've never met a girl named Charlei before. Short for Charlene?" "No, just Charlei. Charlei Goodcheer." She leans into Gordy, clutching his arm and shoulder affectionately. "And this is Gordon Fellows. Together we're the Goodcheer-Fellows!" With that, she holds up her left hand briefly so you can see the gold ring. Gordy leans in gives his wife a quick kiss on the head. "You two look like you're on your honeymoon," you say. "Well, we're trying to earn a little money to pay off our student loans and maybe buy a house, if you know what I mean," Gordy says. You want to ask them about the "UofC" and which university program they're working for, but instead Charlei gets her question out first. "How about you? What brings you out here all by yourself?" "Me?" you say. "My story is not too interesting." You'd rather be learning more about them, but you can't appear pushy. Hopefully, like most people, they'll lose interest in you and start gushing about themselves. "Oh, I'm sure it is interesting," she says. "Boring people don't ride a little inflatable Zodiac across the Pacific Ocean just to go camping out on Woban Island." "Well, no, I guess n—" "I'll bet you're here to find the Stone of Vul-Kar," Gordy says, almost like he's teasing you. "Don't worry, we don't judge," Charlei says. "You're not the only person on this island who'd like to get their hands on the stone." One of the reasons you've been skittish about revealing your true reasons for being on Woban Island is that every now and then you meet one of these academic types who looks down at you and your livelihood. You remember well how one rugged-looking archeologist became outraged at you, dismissing you as a "self-involved thrill seeker", right after you suggested your professions were essentially the same thing. "How dare you insult me like that!" he said, his voice having turned stentorian in his indignation. "I advance human knowledge. All you do is loot and plunder." To be fair, though, that was just one encounter, and from what you can tell this happily wedded couple couldn't be more different. You repeat their name in your head: the Goodcheer-Fellows. Usually the sound of one of those trendy hyphenated surnames makes you groan, but you have to admit this one has a clever ring to it. You get the sense Charlei and Gordy enjoy introducing themselves using the same exact routine they just used on you. "That Zodiac looks brand new," Gordy says. "Is that a Mark III?" You're confused by the question. "I wouldn't know. It belongs to the person who hired me." "So someone just dropped you off so you could explore Woban Island all on your own?" he says. "Pretty much, yes," you say. "That is so friggin' cool! So is this, like, your job or something? Are you a professional adventurer?" "I guess you could say that… ." "This must just be another day at the office for you, then." "I never thought about it that way, but yeah, sure, I guess." The Goodcheer-Fellows are sitting together on a large log next to the fire. Charlei leans into her husband, as if the act of listening to you talk about yourself makes her feel more romantic toward Gordy. "Aren't you scared to be out here alone?" she says. "Do you carry a gun?" "No, no guns," you say. "They cause more trouble than they solve, in my opinion." "Well, I'd want to carry gun," Charlei says. Then she cranes her chin up to look at Gordy. "Wouldn't you carry a gun, honey?" Instead of responding to his wife, Gordy has more questions for you. "Someone with your experience must have a plan for getting the stone." "I'm still working out the details," you say. "I didn't realize I'd be making landfall so late in the day. I plan to get my bearings in the morning." "It's OK if you don't want to tell us your plan," Charlei says. "It's just that we've heard lots of people come to Woban Island looking for the stone, but you're the first one we've met." "We must be keeping you up," Gordy says with an apologetic note. "You're probably someone who gets up at the crack of dawn." Charlei, who is practically reclining in his lap, stretches her arms as she yawns. "We're keeping me up. Do you have any more of that sleep aid?" Gordy reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a small flask. Charlei sits up, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig. "Gin. You want some?" she says, holding the flask in your direction when she's done. "No, thanks." With his lap now empty, Gordy stands up. "It's way past our bedtime. Are you ready to turn in, honey?" "I'm beat. It's been a long day." Then she stands up too, her face contorted in a big yawn. "It was great meeting you!" "Yeah, same," you say. "Have a good night." "Good night," Gordy says. But then the two of them walk off into the woods, not toward any of the tents. He sees you following them with your eyes, and he notices your curious expression. "I set our tent up over here, so Charlei wouldn't have to walk too far in the dark to find the latrine. See you in the morning." Moments later, you find yourself alone by the dwindling campfire, surrounded by the dark jungle and all of the "UofC" camping gear. You're a little disappointed with yourself for losing control of the conversation, and talking so much about yourself. You learned nothing about the "UofC" or when the remainder of the research team is due back — from wherever it was they went. The Goodcheer-Fellows lived up to their shared surname, and you enjoyed their company, but this encounter didn't go quite the way you planned. You're not quite ready to turn in for the night, so you grab a few more sticks from a stack of wood near the fireplace. You toss them into the small blaze, giving it a few more minutes of life. With no more chatter to distract you, all you hear is the babbling of a small brook in the nearby woods, and the rhythmic splashing of the waves down on the beach. You don't hear a peep from Gordy and Charlei. An idea occurs to you. If you didn't learn what you wanted to know through conversation, maybe you should use a more direct method. After all, you are now alone in a campsite filled with gear and supplies. The maps you need so you can find your way to the Stone of Vul-Kar must be safely stored in those totes, or perhaps in one of the tents. And who knows what else you'll find in the process? Extra food, a better sleeping bag, maybe a "UofC" Nalgene bottle to take as a souvenir? This expedition looks like it was well outfitted, and you feel certain you'll find what you're looking for, and more; that which Diane Chambers was unable to provideth, may the "UofC" furnish for the glory of your expedition. In your experience, nosiness often pays off. Indeed, it has served you well so far tonight. But, yeah, the Goodcheer-Fellows were nice people, and stealing is bad. So there is that to consider. __________________________________________________ > You mind your own business and go to bed. You decide that the more rational course of action is to simply ask your new friends if there is a map of the island you can study; if need be, you can copy the salient details into your notebook. The Goodcheer-Fellows were so friendly and accommodating — not to mention interested in your mission — that you foresee no problems with this plan. It would be nice to have some allies on this island, and snooping around all of the "UofC" gear could only lead to trouble if you were caught in the act. So, content that your first night on Woban Island has gone well, and with a belly-full of mahi-mahi, you decide to call it a day. You linger for a few more minutes by the fire as the last of the wood turns to coals and the flames fade away, then you retreat to your little dome tent and the comfort of your sleeping bag. Your sleep is fitful, however. Whether it is because of anxiety over the unknown risks that await you on your quest, the fear of what would happen if you failed to deliver the gem to Diane Chambers, or maybe some morsel of undercooked fish, you cannot say. But you dream that you are adrift in a boat on a featureless ocean. The boat is smaller than the Zodiac, and there is no motor. You have no way to control your direction, no means of improving your situation in any way. You bob along, helpless, alone, friendless — a victim of unknown circumstances, a prisoner of an indifferent ocean. You shift position in your sleeping bag, but even these small moments of wakefulness are not enough to nudge you out of this dream. It is not until the crack of dawn that the dream finally loses its hold on you; only then are you able to drift into a more restful sleep. You imagine the Goodcheer-Fellows outside cooking breakfast, keeping respectfully quiet so as not to wake you. You think of joining them, but it feels so good here inside your bag. Hours later, you wake up for good. The sun has climbed high in the sky, casting leafy shadows on the fly of your tent. The air has grown sultry, telling you that you have slept much later than you intended. You look at your watch and learn than it is nearly ten o'clock. The campsite is quiet. You quickly extract yourself from your bag and crawl out of the tent, surprised to see no sign of Charlei and Gordy. Not only is the fire cold, but there is no indication that anyone has touched it since you let it die down last night. The propane stove also appears untouched, and there is no sign that anyone has cooked breakfast. Must be your companions are sleeping even later than you did. It looked like they were very much into each other when you were chatting with them, so maybe they kept themselves busy long into the night… that, or they're just inveterate late sleepers. Didn't Gordy say the latrine was up this way, not far from their tent? There is some business you need to conduct before anything else. You follow the path into the woods, careful to be quiet so as not to disturb your neighbors. It is easy enough to find the rustic latrine, which looks like a Boy Scout project involving sticks, twine, and a privacy screen fashioned out of a blue tarp — but you are royally disoriented when you see no signs of a tent anywhere nearby. You didn't dream up Charlei and Gordy, did you? A quick check of the woods around the latrine reveals that not only is there no tent now, but that there probably never was one. The woods are too thick, the ground too uneven for camping. What is going on here? The next place you investigate is the beach, where hours ago you landed the Zodiac in the dark. But now, in broad daylight, you see no Zodiac, no dinghy — no nothing. Maybe the high tide swept the two boats away, but you're certain that was not the case. Somebody took them on you. This leaves you with a feeling of momentary disorientation — especially the part where you misjudged the character of your two companions last night. How could you be so easily fooled — all that feigned interest in your mission, and all those questions about the Zodiac? You were played by a pair of experts. With a sinking feeling, you rush back to your tent. You missed it a few minutes ago when you first got up, but now you can clearly see that your backpack is missing too. Your satellite phone, your gear, everything except your sleeping bag and some extra clothes — all gone. You are certain you had left the pack in the tent's vestibule before you went to sleep; anyone could have taken it without making a disturbance. All your moral reservations about perusing the contents of the campsite fade away. Starting with the totes, you do eventually find that map you wanted, but not after opening tote after tote of non-perishable food and other basic supplies. So at least your situation isn't completely hopeless. Soon, though, you become aware of a horrible smell emanating from the cluster of tents. Food that was left to spoil, perhaps? But when you take a look, the blood drains from your flesh. These are no longer camping tents, they are mausoleums containing the bodies of ten people — members of the research team, you suppose, all of them with shotgun wounds to the chest. The implications are chilling. You landed at a crime scene last night, and told your story to a pair of murderous Millennials. Evil had looked you in the eye and fed you leftover mahi-mahi, and you were completely fooled. They slaughtered all of these people for reasons you can't begin to understand, but all Charlei and Gordy took from you was your pack and the Zodiac. It's enough to knock your self-confidence in your abilities to carry out your mission completely off its foundation. THE END

It is best to remain focused on your goal, and in this case your goal is to obtain the Stone of Vul-Kar and deliver it to Boston for two million dollars. You will not be furthering your cause by spending the night on Auri Island, and Diane Chambers will not pay you if no purple gem is procured. Or if someone gets to it before you do. Therefore you choose to motor right by Auri in the Zodiac, heading straight for Woban instead. But as you get closer to Woban Island, proximity doesn't make the view any more flattering; what appeared to be steep cliffs and mountainsides plunging straight into the sea from a few miles away prove to be exactly that upon closer inspection. What you wouldn't give for a topographic map right about now! You had assumed a tiny little island would be simple to navigate — just climb to the highest point, grab the stone, and go home — but you can see now that the geography here is a lot more complicated. From what you can gather, the southern end of the island is occupied by this range of small mountains that you now see, and the jewel must be securely hidden somewhere among them. You examine the mountains as you putz past them on the water, looking for signs of the temple on the highest summit, but everything up there looks thickly forested. And steep. You didn't realize this might become a mountaineering adventure. If it does, you're going to be woefully underprepared. There are of course no published maps of the place that you can buy from Amazon, and even Google hasn't updated its digital cartography to show these new land discoveries. The best you could do in your limited prep time was print off some satellite imagery using a laser printer you found on the Sam Malone. According to your low-grade, grayscale screen capture from Google, the land tapers away for several miles beyond the mountains to the northeast. So it looks like you will need to land there and then navigate your way inland through the foothills — some way, somehow. The problem is that it will take you several miles to get to that other side of the island where landing is possible, and this Zodiac can only go so fast. You give this southern part of the island a wide berth; who knows what reefs might be lurking just below the water's surface, capable of shredding the Zodiac to pieces before you even realize there's a problem. If that were to happen, there would be no place for you to reach shore safely. Instead, you tool along to the northwest about a full mile from the shoreline, heading to a prominent headland that you think marks the corner of the island. Get around that, and you should start to see more landing opportunities on the other side. Not surprisingly, though, this is turning into a race with the setting sun, which is only a few fingers above the western horizon. Your little boat is not equipped with any spotlights, and once you lose the daylight you'll be stranded in the darkness. C'mon, little Zodiac! Steady as she goes! You can do it! Don't fail me now! These and other forms of mental encouragement don't seem to have much bearing on the speed of the boat, though. The sun is setting just as you near the tip of the headland. The clock is set: in maybe thirty more minutes, night will have settled in over Woban Island. Had you chosen to stop at Auri, you'd probably be enjoying life beside a campfire right now. As it stands, you can only hope you'll find a place to safely make landfall before the clock runs out. Then you can look forward to a night of sitting in the dark, with no idea where exactly you are. You decide it's worth cutting the corner a bit around the headland; you might still hit something submerged, but you'll be traveling less distance around the cliffy peninsula. As you steer the boat around its tip, you see that the mountainous portion of the island is coming to an end, with miles of sand beaches beyond. The end is in sight! Even if darkness overtakes you, all you have to do now is point the boat toward land, ease up on the throttle, and take it slowly until you hear waves breaking ahead of you. Hold on, what's that? On the nearest section of beach, just ahead of you, you see a flickering orange light. Actually, the light is not on the beach, but a short distance back in the jungle. A campfire, without a doubt. And that dark object you see on the sandy shoreline? That looks like someone's boat. This puts a wrinkle in your plans. You knew you'd have competition from other jewel-seekers, but it never occurred to you that you might run into them so soon. Are these people friendly? Many of the people in your "profession" are highly competitive and will do anything to knock their opponents out of the race. On the other hand, there are several research teams that have been studying Woban Island ever since its discovery a few years ago, and you'd expect such people to be collegiate and cordial. You'd rather avoid the former type of people at all costs, but the latter kind could actually be interesting. Who knows what kinds of useful information you might glean from spending a night with people whose interest in the island is purely science-minded? Maybe they would even have a spare map of the island to give you. But here's the bottom line: Whoever is there has certainly heard your boat by now; sneaking past them is not a possibility. So you have the option to either land there in the few remaining minutes of twilight available to you, or to venture further up the beach in the dark. You won't be able to see anything, and where you land will be a crapshoot. __________________________________________________ > You continue up the beach in the dark. The first rule on any assignment like this: you have no friends. Trust no one. Assume everyone has an agenda — especially in a primitive environment like Woban Island, where civilization and the rule of law are distant memories, and raw wealth is something that people come to conquer. The likelihood of meeting a Good Samaritan here is about as high as encountering a native Woban who will just hand the Stone of Vul-Kar over to you. In your line of work, people are trouble, and if you give someone a chance they will prove that axiom over and over again. You are on your own for a reason, and it's better that way. You just hope the people with the campfire feel the same way about it as you do. Hopefully the quickly-fading daylight is already too dark for them to get a good look at you; let them think this is a boat filled with mercenaries, dirty, vulgar, and armed to the teeth. "Best to keep a safe distance from a crew like that," they will say, assuming the worst and acting in their own self-interest accordingly. No other specks of light appear on the dark stretch of island ahead of you. Soon the twilight fails you completely, and Woban Island becomes a nebulous silhouette against the starry sky, as hard as it is to believe a land so dark could have become even darker. You cut the motor and let the waves carry you into shore; it will take a little longer to make landfall that way, but for anyone who may be within earshot it will be more difficult to track your progress. You reach down toward the floor of the Zodiac for something that you vaguely remember seeing when it was still light out, tucked away to the side of the craft. Your fingers clasp the smooth plastic shaft, and you pull the oar from the straps holding it in place. You dip it into the water behind the boat, using it as a rudder to keep the bow pointing toward the shadowy shoreline. Then you hang tight and let the waves do their work. No lights come from this part of the island, but with the motor shut off you can hear many of the familiar sounds of the jungle: waves crashing on the beach in rhythmic repetition, trees rustling in the slight breeze blowing off the ocean, raucous bird calls from deep in the forest, the sound of a small stream babbling over a bed of rocks as it spills into the sea. But there is something else on this calm night, too: the sound of distant singing and chanting, coming from somewhere well across the island. You can only assume this is the native population putting on some kind of celebration. Maybe it's someone's birthday, maybe it's a Bar Mitzvah — it doesn't matter. The important thing is that whatever the event, it is being held a long way from here. Instead, you focus on that sound of running water. Since in reality you have no idea where you are relative to the island's major landmarks, and you are literally about to run ashore blind, this little stream may prove to be a useful reference point in the morning. After all, you're going to need to park the Zodiac somewhere while you explore the mountain, and if there happens to be a little inlet here that might the perfect hiding spot. So you tune everything else out and just focus on the sound of the stream, using the oar to steer the Zodiac straight towards it. You can't see much in the starlight, but when you hear the sound of the crashing waves to your right and left you know you have found a gap in the beach. The stream is somewhere straight ahead of you, just a few yards away. You've been keeping your headlamp handy all this time, and now that you think you've found a secluded little nook you decide it's safe to turn on the light. Indeed, you have navigated your way into a short inlet surrounded by jungle vegetation, with the open ocean about twenty yards behind you. Given the circumstances, this seems like a pretty good place to be. You tie off the bow of the boat to the trunk of an overhanging tree, then you settle back into the Zodiac. The weather looks like it will remain calm tonight, so you decide to remain right where you are all night long, eating a few snacks and then sleeping in the rubbery confines of your small boat. In the morning, your neck is sore and your legs are stiff after falling asleep inside the Zodiac; there are worse places you could have spent the night, but this inflatable boat was not designed with sleepers in mind. The important thing is that you had no visitors during the course of the night, and all of your belongings are still present and accounted for. At this early hour, the portion of the sky that you can see through the jungle trees seems pale silver in color. You hoist yourself up onto the round gunwale of the raft-like boat and look for a safe way to step ashore. It looks as though you've found a popular watering hole for the local wildlife, as there are multiple little game trails converging on this inlet. One good path leads down to the beach, so you stroll down toward the ocean with the hopes of getting your bearings. Beside you is the narrow inlet through which the mouth of the stream flows, and in the other direction is a long stretch of beach extending almost all the way to that headland you passed last night, during your race against the setting sun. The campsite that you passed was near the base of that peninsula; in the daylight, you can see that you put nearly two miles between you and whoever else is camping out down there. What you were hoping to see, however, is nowhere in sight. The mountains are behind you now, and you would need to be taller than the trees to see in that direction. Getting there is going to be difficult if all you have to navigate with is that Google screen capture printed on a piece of limp copy paper. All you need is a good look at the terrain so you can pick out the best route. Otherwise you'll just be bushwhacking through the jungle in the blind. There is nothing you can do about that here, though. What matters is that you've successfully made it to Woban Island, and the Stone of Vul-Kar is just a few measly miles away. That two million dollars is as good as yours. Right? Hours pass as you climb… something. All you know is that you've been going uphill ever since you left the Zodiac safely concealed under a screen of giant fern fronds back by the inlet. The stone that you seek is located in the ruins of some temple high on a mountaintop, so you've been telling yourself all morning that if you are climbing, then you are heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, you are smart enough not to believe your own lies; you saw enough of these mountains last night from the boat to know there is more than one rugged summit in this range. Sure, you are gaining elevation, but in all likelihood this is just some inconsequential foothill. For kicks, you tried using your handheld GPS unit earlier in the hike to see if it helped with your navigation problem. It was worth trying, you suppose, but the results were pretty much as expected. Sure, the little palm-sized receiver could lock onto six separate satellite signals and pinpoint your location to within twenty-four feet, or so the graphic on the LCD screen said. But Garmin hasn't updated their maps either, and so when the on-screen topo showed you walking across the Pacific Ocean, you categorized the GPS as being useless as far as Woban Island goes. On the other hand, you've been following a pretty good trail for most of the way. You had heard rumors that the island was crisscrossed with a robust trail network, and you are happy to have a clear path to follow — wherever this is taking you. The alternative would be to bushwhack your way through the jungle, which grows thickly on these warm and damp slopes; you'd be lucky to cover one mile an hour that way. So, bottom line: trails are good. Let's hope this one doesn't lead you into trouble. Otherwise the slope is steep and rugged, with rock ledges punctuating your climb as frequently as the word "and" in a run-on sentence. The one small mercy is that you are ascending the mountain's northwestern slope, placing you mostly in the shade from the morning sun, which is ascending to the northeast. That leaves you with only the humidity to deal with. Then, just before noon, the trees part and you find yourself on a rocky knob covered with shrubs and sparse grasses. After scrambling up a few more rock ledges, you push through a sultry meadow that is fully exposed to the hazy atmosphere. There is no shade, and nothing is damp except for the heat that assaults you. It would be a highly unpleasant place at this time of day, except for one redeeming feature: this bald summit offers an outstanding view of the rest of the mountain range. The ocean is three miles behind you, and Woban Island's lowlands stretch for a good five miles to the northeast. But just ahead of you, maybe another mile-and-a-half to the southeast, is the highest summit. As you examine it from the top of this peripheral peak, you realize that what you saw last night from the Zodiac must have been some other false summit, because this is completely different. It reminds you a bit of Devils Tower in Wyoming, in that it looks like a column of rock rising unnaturally out of the landscape. There is an object on the mountain's flat top that must almost certainly be man-made. The temple ruins! You are encouraged that the mountain appears so close, and you give yourself good odds that you can make it to the base of the rock spire with relative ease. The problem is that you have no idea how you're going to scale all that rock once you get there. That's not something you need to worry about now, however; if somebody built a temple on the summit, then obviously there must be a way up. In the meantime, you pull your notebook out of your pack, flip to a blank page, and begin sketching a map of all that you can see. The sweat on the palm of your hands leaves wet marks all over the paper. __________________________________________________ > Next page. The next afternoon sees you slowly threading your way through the thick tropical forest, trying not to slip down a steep, wet slope. You spent the previous night camping high in a mountain pass, where you found a tiny spring emerging from under a mossy rock. The spot was on the fringe of the same type of high-elevation grassland as the bald summit where you had drawn your map, and chances are if you had reached it any earlier in the day the place would have been hot as an oven. But in the evening, when you stumbled across it, your little campsite was cool and pleasant. Your ten-year-old REI backpacking tent was more spacious than the Zodiac had been the first night, and so your first full day on the island ended pleasantly. If the Wobans were throwing themselves another party, you were now too far away to hear it. It hadn't all been fun and games, though. Yesterday, after you had stopped to sketch the map, your progress had been slowed unexpectedly. Getting down from that grassy bald had been simple, but the next little summit in the ridgeline was steep and cliffy. Going over it was not possible, and you could see no further signs of a trail, so you saw no option but to descend a few hundred feet and find an easier way around this part of the mountain. Regaining all that lost elevation was discouraging, but then you discovered the spring and all was forgiven. Now, almost a full day later, here you are making your way over the third summit in the chain, and although this one is higher than the other two it has been completely wooded so far. Without a trail to follow, you have been forced to thrash your way through the thick vegetation. There is no graceful way to travel in these conditions, so you have been taking your time. Although the tower-like main summit is now maybe half a mile away, you can scarcely see it. Actually, you are slowly working your way down toward a large blank spot on your map, where you have little idea what to expect. When you had stopped to sketch your map yesterday, you were able to see a good swath of the island, but not the parts that were concealed by the various mountain summits. It looked like there had been a sizable gap between the third and final peaks, but you had not been able to see what that gap contained. Whatever is there, you're about to be wandering through it in just a matter of minutes. And so, after another fifteen minutes' worth of scrambling down steep, moss-covered slopes and crawling under fallen trees, the terrain flattens out. You continue forward, marveling that after all that ridiculous toil over the wooded summit, the vegetation is thinning out again here in the broad space between the mountains. You are tired, dirty, and hungry — as well as intrigued by what is opening up ahead of you. The forest trees thin into scattered shrubs, and once again you are walking across a baking-hot grassland. This one is immensely picturesque, though. It is a high-elevation plateau, broad and mostly flat. The main summit spire rises almost five hundred feet above you, but you have arrived too late in the day to be in its shade. And dotting this tropical prairie are the remains of an ancient complex of buildings. Various weeds and vines crawl over the cut-stone structures like a riot of snakes. The place is like an archeologist's wet dream, the remains of a civilization that had until recently been completely unknown to modern academia. The artistic and architectural styles on display here seem to be a mishmash of global influences: humble dwellings that resemble scale models of Mayan pyramids, rows of toppled Greek columns, eroded statues that seem to depict a horned cherub, like a satanic Buddha or something. You could spend a year exploring the place — but only if some rich fat cat thought there was something worth collecting here, and was willing to bankroll your expedition. As impressive as the lost city is, the rocky tower is downright intimidating. How the heck is anyone expected to get up that thing? This is a challenge that is going to require some thought. Perhaps you should start looking for a place to camp. As awesome as this plateau is, you see no sources of water here, so you'll need to venture back into the woods to search for other options. You decide to look along the northern side of the plateau, where based on experience you expect to find a verdant and moist slope leading down from the highlands. Hopefully you'll stumble across another spring — or better yet, a pool. You could use a good rinse. So, veering northward, you soon reach the point where the terrain begins to slope downward, and trees once again become larger, albeit sparsely populated. You are wading through ferns, exalting in the fact that you have just spotted a glint of sunlight off a pool of water just ahead of you, at the foot of the hill. The terrain is gentle and open, water seems to be in abundance, and there is a good view of the mountain spire that stands between you and victory. The odds are good you have just found tonight's campsite. You run like a giddy child to the edge of the pool. You can see right away that it is not a natural pond, but a square-edged reservoir of some kind, yet another artifact from the ancient city. Happily, the water is clear and clean. You bend down to splash its cool goodness over your face. But what you fail to notice — until it is much too late — is the figure that rises from the ferns just around the corner. It is only when it begins to move forward through the vegetation that you turn and see it — a Woban, with tattooed and deeply tanned skin, a bone necklace, grass skirt, and a long spear. Above all, the most distinctive feature is that eerie third eye that sits directly above the bridge of his nose. You surmise he had been hunting, waiting among the tall ferns for his prey to come, when you bumbled into the scene instead. "O Manu o Ke Kaua ko'u inoa!" he shouts. "I keia la wau e lilo i kane, aka mua au e ku i ka pa'akiki. Pono e luku au i ka holoholona ae hanai i ka io i ko'u makuakane. E ho'omakaukau ia 'oe iho e make, holoholona!" "Whoa, hold on, chief!" you say. "We're all friends here." "E pale ia 'oe iho!" His speech is fast and clipped. Not a single word makes any sense, but the provocative way he is shouting them at you gives you the general idea that this is a hostile confrontation. The Woban is only about six feet tall — big enough, to be sure, but not one of the seven-foot giants you heard about. Maybe this is an adolescent, trying to prove himself in the world. "Hey, make nice. Let's be friends." "E pale ia 'oe iho! 'A'ohe hanohano i ka pepehi 'ana me ka pa'akiki 'ole." "Look, I haven't the slightest idea what you're saying. Can't—" Then he does the unexpected thing and tosses his spear at your feet. It is not a gift, because the rage in his voice is still evident, even if the words are unintelligible to you. "E lawe i ka ihe a kaua mai ia'u!" Well, you're at an impasse as far as verbal communication goes, but you think you're getting the gist of the body language. The young Woban wants you to fight him, and to make the odds more even he is letting you use his spear. If he assessed that you're not much of a physical threat when matched up against a six-foot Woban, he would be correct. At least with the spear in your hands, you would have a sporting chance. So you have to make a decision: fight or flight? The Woban is glaring at you, all three eyebrows furrowed in a kind of rage you'll never understand. Eventually he'll charge at you, regardless of what you choose to do. So either you can pick up the spear at your feet and defend yourself, or you can run. With all of the ruined buildings around here, you would have plenty of places to hide — assuming, of course, you can outrun a Woban. __________________________________________________ > You get out of here as fast as possible. So clearly it's in your best interest not to stay and fight this Woban; you would have nothing to prove by doing so, but everything to lose when you inevitably got your head handed to you. Therefore you need to figure out a way to get out of here. If you just turn and run, all you'd be doing is turning this into a footrace, which you know you'd lose just as surely as you would lose the fight. The only way this will work is if you manage to trip up your opponent in the first few moments. Fortunately, the young Woban has given you exactly what you need. Without taking your eyes off him, you squat down and reach for the spear at your feet. Then you slowly stand, holding the primitive weapon as if you are still considering how best to use it. "Maika'i loa!" he says in his incomprehensible language. "Ua koho 'oe e kaua ia'u. I keia la he la maika'i ia e make!" "That's easy for you to say. All right, let's get this over wi— Ohmygod, what is that!" It's a trick you've probably been using since kindergarten: fake an expression of surprise, point to some imaginary spot past the Woban's shoulder, and then run in the opposite direction the moment he turns to look. So far, so good! You've managed to momentarily confuse your opponent, and now you are fleeing for your life. The only way to go is back up the hill, towards all the strange ruins. Knowing your head start is only going to last a matter of seconds, you listen closely for the sound of the Woban pursuing you. He doesn't leave you waiting for long. "'A'ole hiki ia 'oe ke holo mai o'u aku nei!" You continue running until he is nearly upon you, and then you fling the spear as hard as you can, aiming for his legs. The shaft gets caught between his knees, and in a shout of frustration he goes down to the ground. Success! But of course now you are out of tricks, and he has the spear again. The only things you have to work with now are your own speed and the timely appearance of an effective hiding place. You dash up the hill at your best possible pace, not daring to look back and see where your pursuer is. Your muscles are already tired and your lungs are spent by the time you reach the top, but there is no time to stop and catch your breath. This is not some schoolyard game where you can simply call "time out." Once again you are on the open plain dotted with the mysterious ruins from the ancient city. Now what are you going to do? Your original thought was to evade the Woban by seeking cover inside one of these ancient structures, but the nearest ones seem rather small. They look like miniature stepped pyramids, scale models of their larger cousins in Guatemala. They have entrances leading into some kind of enclosed space, where you are sure you could take cover. The problem is that these smaller structures are probably just dead ends — only one way in, and only one way out. Perhaps you could do better than this, though. Up ahead, in the middle of town, is a larger structure, where you might expect more opportunities to evade your pursuer. That's entirely theoretical, however, because you have no way of knowing what you'll find. Whatever it offers, that crumbling stone building is another hundred yards or so ahead of you — a distance across which you'll have to continue sprinting, in plain sight of the Woban. Think quick! You can hear the Woban behind you, shouting angrily as he sprints up the hill. If you duck into the nearest structure, there is a chance he may not see you. Or you can continue to that larger building and hope for the best when you get there. How does that old saying go — the one about the "bird in hand"? __________________________________________________ > You keep running to the large structure and hope for the best. Those little pyramids, each with its hideous horned Buddha (or whatever) dancing a ossified dance on top, look too much like death traps to you. "Adventurers check in, but they don't check out," just like the roaches in those old TV commercials. As you run by, you imagine the alternate outcome that might occur if you were to stop: flipped over on your back in the doorway, your arms and legs stuck lifelessly in the air, the Woban's spear planted in your belly like a flagpole, and the Woban himself looking up cannibalistic recipes on Pinterest. No, you don't want to hide here. Whoever built this forgotten city and lived in these queer structures was also a fan of paved streets, for you are no longer striding across tropical dirt but a narrow lane hardened with cut stone. So much grassy vegetation is growing up through the cracks that you never knew the surface existed until you could feel it beneath your feet. It is lined with crumbling foundations and toppled statues; fallen columns lie across your path like windblown trees. "Aia 'oe, ka i'a make! 'A'ole e malama keia mau pohaku kahiko ia 'oe!" Ahh, you'd recognize that voice anywhere, shouting his words of encouragements at you. There is no time to stop and look to see how much distance there is between you, but by the sounds of it you have no more than a hundred feet on your adversary. "Ua ho'ohaumia 'oe i keia wahi ho'ano! E ho'olo'ihi aku au i kou make i na la he 'umi!" He sure is a chatty fellow, isn't he? You've never had so much motivation to keep running. The overgrown and cluttered street extends right to that curious building that seems to occupy the center of the ruined city, as if it were some kind of ancient City Hall. It looks like a rectangular block of rock sitting upon a pedestal of steps, with arched doorways all around it, one after the other. The steps feel crumbly under your feet as you dash up them, as if your boots are pounding the stone into dust. The structure has dozens of entrances, so you see no point in stopping to choose which one to enter. If you linger too long, you'll be within range of the Woban's spear. So you run into the entrance directly ahead of you, plunging yourself into the darkness. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, but when they do you can see that you are not inside some small chamber or narrow passageway, as you had expected. The inside of the building is actually one large space, its darkness perforated by the light coming in through the dozens of archways on all four sides. In other words, it's an arcade — and it is providing a grand view of the Woban as he charges up the street, with the intent to inflict death upon you evident in his three-eyed glare. Well nuts, this place has as many hiding spots as a picnic pavilion. You've wasted too much time, so you have to act fast before the Woban enters the building and finds you. With nothing better to work with, you back up against a section of wall between two of the arched entrances, and then you wait in the shadows. It is a very short wait, for moments later the Woban dashes into the dark arcade and comes to a stop just a few yards away from you. The only thing concealing you is the shadow you're standing in, so you hold your breath and stand as still as possible. You expect him to make another one of his angry pronouncements, but instead all he does is pound the butt end of his spear shaft on the stone floor, as if in disgust. Then you watch as he continues straight ahead, exiting the building to look for you out among the ruins. That was a very lucky break! For the moment you feel safe enough to resume breathing again, and considering how hard and fast you just ran you really need to rest for a bit. Remaining in the same shadow that hid you from the Woban, you crouch down and sit on the floor. And that's when you see it: in the middle of this shadowy arcade, there is an even darker set of stairs leading downward. __________________________________________________ > Next page. You feel compelled — whether by simple curiosity or the desire to find a secret way out of this place, you're not sure — to get back up and see where those steps lead. They descend from an otherwise nondescript spot at the center of the arcade, a narrow and dark entrance to whatever it is that lurks below. It almost seems like the entire point of this building was to shelter those steps, so it is funny that the Woban didn't consider looking for you down there. Carefully you make your way down in the darkness. There are no railings to hold onto, and who knows how much rubble there might be waiting to trip you up. For all you know, you're about to walk into a bat cave. You have a headlamp in your backpack, so you stop before you go too far and pull it out. The little beam of light reveals a chamber that appears to be as long and wide as the arcade above, but with a ceiling so low you can touch it without stretching. The place looks like a warehouse for strange and grotesque stone carvings, including an entire battalion of those horned cherubs you've been seeing all over the place. Some of them still bear patches of pigment, as if they were at one time all painted in vibrant colors that have long since flaked away. The statues are lined up in rows, with parallel aisles between them; as you explore the chamber for a possible way out, you walk up and down these aisles like a shopper looking for the peanut butter section of a grocery supermarket. You don't see any signs of an alternate exit, but in a far corner of the room you find something else that at once intrigues, sickens, and terrifies you. She has been lying there for years, it appears, face down on the stone floor with arms and legs sprawled out, and small darts snagged in the moth-eaten clothing. She has long, dyed-blond hair but pitch-black roots, telling you her hair continued growing an inch or two even after she was killed. Although something has been pecking away at her corpse, it is otherwise well preserved in this dark and dry chamber. After a moment you realize that you recognize who she is: Beatriz Paya-Vallejo, a rival adventurer from the north of Chile. The two of you have crossed paths more than once, in places like Nepal, Mali, and Tunisia. None of your encounters were friendly ones. In most cases you were each working for competing collectors, which meant you were both after the same prize — and in the early years, she was too often the one in possession of whatever valuable object you had been sent to obtain. Because of her, you missed out on a few too many payouts and was almost laughed out of your profession. But also because of Paya-Vallejo, you learned to up your game and become better at what you do. An olive-green knapsack still hugs her back, bulging with its contents. As the beam from your headlamp glances across it, you briefly see a purple reflection. That's way too strange. Despite your repulsion at the idea of touching a mummified corpse, you can't resist seeing what's inside that military-surplus backpack of hers — and you have a pretty good idea what it is. You undo the strap that closes the knapsack, and immediately a large object slides out and lands with a thud on the ground. It is a gem of tremendous dimensions, purple and flawlessly faceted. There is only one thing it could possibly be: the Stone of Vul-Kar. Damn you, Beatriz! You hadn't seen her in several years, nor had you heard any news. The people in your profession sometimes manage to fall off the earth for a few years it seems, only to reappear alive and well at the oddest times and places, much to the consternation of their competitors. You never wasted much time thinking about what Paya-Vallejo might be up to, because as long as she wasn't searching for the same thing you were, her whereabouts didn't matter to you. But here she is now, dead on Woban Island. And she had found the Vul-Kar gem, too! Had she not fallen to these Woban darts, this would have been yet another victory for her — a win added to the tally in her column, and a loss added to yours. You pick up the stone and are impressed by its heft. The thing must weigh twenty pounds, at least. No wonder so many people have been coming here to find it! No wonder Diane Chambers is willing to pay you two million dollars to bring it back to her in Boston! So apparently there is no need to climb to the summit temple after all. Beatriz Paya-Vallejo was already there, and managed to get it this far, but no further. No one but her employer probably knew she was here, and now no one but you knows she had removed the Stone of Vul-Kar from its fabled resting place. Everyone coming to Woban Island has been searching for it in the wrong place. The gem is so large you have to rearrange the items in your backpack to make room for it — and you know that when you shoulder your pack once more, it is going feel very much like you're toting around a couple bowling balls on top of everything else. But before you do, there is something you need to consider: above you in the daylight, there is still a Woban who seems hellbent on killing you. Unless you want to end up like your former competitor here, you're going to need to use extreme caution to get out of this ancient city alive. This room seems to be a safe place to remain, since the Woban who was chasing you never thought to look here, and the Stone of Vul-Kar has been hiding here in Paya-Vallejo's knapsack for several years without anyone's knowledge. You could probably remain here until nightfall, and if your Woban friend is still looking for you, it will be easier to sneak by him in the darkness. On the other hand, it seems equally desirable to get out of here as quickly as possible. Nighttime will arrive on the island in a couple hours, and it would be nice to get as far into the jungle as you can in the remaining daylight. __________________________________________________ > You wait until nighttime. For practically two days straight you've been climbing mountains in the tropical heat, bushwhacking through the thick jungle vegetation, and more recently running for your life from a murderous Woban. In a very lucky break you've just now managed to find the Stone of Vul-Kar in an unexpected place, but that doesn't mean you couldn't use a short break. Nightfall is not that far off, and you seem to have the perfect hiding spot. You'd be a fool to run out of this ancient basement too soon. You do need to conserve the battery life of your headlamp, though. So the first thing you do is find a place to sit far away from Paya-Vallejo's corpse. Thank you, O Beatriz, for finding the Stone of Vul-Kar for me. May you rest in peace and yadda yadda. God bless and Amen. There is a spot next to the stone steps that seems like a suitable place to hang out, with no grinning horned statues and no dried-up bodies. Being close to the stairs means you will be able to hear any sounds of movement above you, should there be any. You settle down and fish out a couple packages of flavored tuna — sun-dried tomatoes and cracked peppercorn. Then you turn off the headlamp and sit in near-absolute darkness. When you wake up, you have no idea how much time has passed — until you light up your Timex and see that it's a quarter to nine at night. You didn't plan to wait this long to make your escape, and despite the unplanned nap you don't really feel all that rested. Although technically there is no set time you need to be back at the Zodiac, you feel foolish anyway, like someone who missed the alarm clock and is now a couple hours late for work. Flipping the headlamp back on, you pack up the empty tuna packages and shoulder your heavy backpack once more. A few hours ago, there was a Woban outside wandering the ruins with the single-minded goal of killing you. So much time has passed that you have no idea what to expect. Is he still combing the ruins, looking for some trace of you? Is he hiding, lying in wait for you to show yourself? Did he do the sensible thing and go home for supper? You can at least take solace in the fact that the arcade at the top of the stairs seems quiet. Slowly, and very carefully, you take the steps one at a time. If it was dark before in the late afternoon, you feel as if you've been swallowed by a shadow now in the nighttime. You don't dare use your headlamp because you have no idea who might be out there watching for you, so you feel your way up each step with your feet. Hearing and touching are your only remaining senses. Five steps, six, seven. On the the seventeenth step, your lead foot finds nothing but a level floor in front of it. That is your only clue that you are back in the arcade. At first you assume the faint light coming through the arches is moonlight. But then you notice the shadows and glows across the stone floor are like restless spirits, dancing and shifting in an unpredictable pattern. And the light, faint as it is, is a reddish orange, not the pale silver cast of moonlight — and never mind the fact that the moon is in a waning phase this week, not even visible until much later in the morning. Slowly, and with dread, you make your way toward one of the outer wall of arches. What you see makes your body tingle with a sense of hopelessness and fear: dozens of torches, held by shadowy beings who are systematically searching the ruins of the ancient city, slowly making their way toward the arcade in which you've been hiding. Now you know how the Woban passed the time while you were asleep: he went home and mustered his fellow villagers as reinforcements. They have you surrounded. You are doomed. THE END

You feel compelled — whether by simple curiosity or the desire to find a secret way out of this place, you're not sure — to get back up and see where those steps lead. They descend from an otherwise nondescript spot at the center of the arcade, a narrow and dark entrance to whatever it is that lurks below. It almost seems like the entire point of this building was to shelter those steps, so it is funny that the Woban didn't consider looking for you down there. Carefully you make your way down in the darkness. There are no railings to hold onto, and who knows how much rubble there might be waiting to trip you up. For all you know, you're about to walk into a bat cave. You have a headlamp in your backpack, so you stop before you go too far and pull it out. The little beam of light reveals a chamber that appears to be as long and wide as the arcade above, but with a ceiling so low you can touch it without stretching. The place looks like a warehouse for strange and grotesque stone carvings, including an entire battalion of those horned cherubs you've been seeing all over the place. Some of them still bear patches of pigment, as if they were at one time all painted in vibrant colors that have long since flaked away. The statues are lined up in rows, with parallel aisles between them; as you explore the chamber for a possible way out, you walk up and down these aisles like a shopper looking for the peanut butter section of a grocery supermarket. You don't see any signs of an alternate exit, but in a far corner of the room you find something else that at once intrigues, sickens, and terrifies you. She has been lying there for years, it appears, face down on the stone floor with arms and legs sprawled out, and small darts snagged in the moth-eaten clothing. She has long, dyed-blond hair but pitch-black roots, telling you her hair continued growing an inch or two even after she was killed. Although something has been pecking away at her corpse, it is otherwise well preserved in this dark and dry chamber. After a moment you realize that you recognize who she is: Beatriz Paya-Vallejo, a rival adventurer from the north of Chile. The two of you have crossed paths more than once, in places like Nepal, Mali, and Tunisia. None of your encounters were friendly ones. In most cases you were each working for competing collectors, which meant you were both after the same prize — and in the early years, she was too often the one in possession of whatever valuable object you had been sent to obtain. Because of her, you missed out on a few too many payouts and was almost laughed out of your profession. But also because of Paya-Vallejo, you learned to up your game and become better at what you do. An olive-green knapsack still hugs her back, bulging with its contents. As the beam from your headlamp glances across it, you briefly see a purple reflection. That's way too strange. Despite your repulsion at the idea of touching a mummified corpse, you can't resist seeing what's inside that military-surplus backpack of hers — and you have a pretty good idea what it is. You undo the strap that closes the knapsack, and immediately a large object slides out and lands with a thud on the ground. It is a gem of tremendous dimensions, purple and flawlessly faceted. There is only one thing it could possibly be: the Stone of Vul-Kar. Damn you, Beatriz! You hadn't seen her in several years, nor had you heard any news. The people in your profession sometimes manage to fall off the earth for a few years it seems, only to reappear alive and well at the oddest times and places, much to the consternation of their competitors. You never wasted much time thinking about what Paya-Vallejo might be up to, because as long as she wasn't searching for the same thing you were, her whereabouts didn't matter to you. But here she is now, dead on Woban Island. And she had found the Vul-Kar gem, too! Had she not fallen to these Woban darts, this would have been yet another victory for her — a win added to the tally in her column, and a loss added to yours. You pick up the stone and are impressed by its heft. The thing must weigh twenty pounds, at least. No wonder so many people have been coming here to find it! No wonder Diane Chambers is willing to pay you two million dollars to bring it back to her in Boston! So apparently there is no need to climb to the summit temple after all. Beatriz Paya-Vallejo was already there, and managed to get it this far, but no further. No one but her employer probably knew she was here, and now no one but you knows she had removed the Stone of Vul-Kar from its fabled resting place. Everyone coming to Woban Island has been searching for it in the wrong place. The gem is so large you have to rearrange the items in your backpack to make room for it — and you know that when you shoulder your pack once more, it is going feel very much like you're toting around a couple bowling balls on top of everything else. But before you do, there is something you need to consider: above you in the daylight, there is still a Woban who seems hellbent on killing you. Unless you want to end up like your former competitor here, you're going to need to use extreme caution to get out of this ancient city alive. This room seems to be a safe place to remain, since the Woban who was chasing you never thought to look here, and the Stone of Vul-Kar has been hiding here in Paya-Vallejo's knapsack for several years without anyone's knowledge. You could probably remain here until nightfall, and if your Woban friend is still looking for you, it will be easier to sneak by him in the darkness. On the other hand, it seems equally desirable to get out of here as quickly as possible. Nighttime will arrive on the island in a couple hours, and it would be nice to get as far into the jungle as you can in the remaining daylight. __________________________________________________ > You flee into the jungle now. Back in Boston there is a woman who is willing to pay you a wad of money if you are able to bring this big purple stone back to her. You're not going to get there by crouching here in the dark, and you would like to get as far from these ruins as you can before the sun sets. Therefore you decide not to prolong your stay in this hidden basement full of grotesque statues. Indeed, your backpack does feel heavy when you put it back on — about two million dollars heavier, you estimate. It's not an entirely horrible feeling, although you will probably start to think differently once you start hiking over those mountain summits again on your way back to the Zodiac. Your journey begins by cautiously ascending the stone steps back up to the arcade, where not very long ago you narrowly avoided the young Woban. After climbing a few steps you poke your head above the level of the stone floor, looking around like a wary prairie dog for signs of predators. At least the shadowy arcade still seems quiet. When nothing lunges at you — or begins shouting unintelligible epithets at you — you climb the rest of the way out of the basement. You have no idea where your three-eyed "friend" might be; his pursuit of you had seemed so single-minded that you find it hard to believe he has simply given up and gone home. So you survived the first phase of your grand escape, but the fact that you hear or see no sign of your old adversary doesn't relieve you. In fact, it gets your heart pounding in suspense. Your muscles are tense, your breaths are short. When you knew the Woban was sprinting fast behind you, your course of action was clear. Now that you haven't the slightest idea where he is, you fear that he could be anywhere. Before you can draw up the courage to leave the arcade, you make a quick patrol around its periphery, peeking through the arches to look for signs of movement out among the ruins. Everything seems as peaceful and abandoned as you thought it was when you first found this ancient city. It's not what you were expecting. Damn that Woban! Even his absence is threatening. All you can do now is hope you haven't been deceived into exposing yourself. You circle back to the corner of the arcade that is closest to the first of the three summits, a dome of trees and rock lit in the golden light of the evening sun. There is no point in worrying about the possibilities here, so you take a deep breath, adjust the waist strap on your backpack, and then run down the steps. The grass offers no resistance as you rush through it, passing all manner of bizarre structures and ancient artwork. For all you know there could be priceless treasures everywhere in these ruins. In a less stressful situation you might be tempted to "shop" for a little souvenir of your own, but with the possibility that death could be lurking behind any mossy pedestal or vine-covered wall, you're in no mood to go sifting for loot. But when you make it to the edge of the mountain plain unscathed, it seems like an anticlimactic end to your day. It was such a long run through the ruins that if the Woban was still present, there is no way he would have missed you — how could he, with those three eyes of his? Is it really possible that after all that drama of chasing you into the arcade, he just gave up and went home? You have no way of knowing for sure what happened here this evening; you're just relieved that there now seems to be a chance you'll make it out of here alive. And with the Stone of Vul-Kar securely stowed in your backpack, too. You afford yourself three seconds to stop and look back across the plain, with its gray-green ruins and backdrop of sheer rock — a strange and beautiful place to visit, but not anywhere you'd want to live. It was just a few short hours ago you were scrambling down the steep mountain slope that now lies ahead of you. Never did you expect to be back here so soon. The jungle grows thickly around you again as you exit the plain, and soon the terrain slopes upward. The mud is slippery, the rock ledges are frustrating, and your belly feels hollow and desirous of nourishment — but so long as there is daylight remaining you want to get as far away from those ruins as you can. You are still climbing even as the tropical twilight quickly fails you. And you might continue to climb through the darkness if some strange sound behind you didn't capture your attention. It sounds like distant voices — lots of them. Just above you is a small rock ledge with what looks like a natural window through the forest canopy, so you scramble up to the top. From a corner of the ledge you have a partial view back over the wide plain between the mountains, and to your horror you see dozens of torchlights wandering through the darkness — an entire army of Wobans combing the ruins. You can only assume they are looking for you. So now you know where the your guy went: he did go home, but not to nurse his wounded pride. He went and gathered reinforcements. If you were still down there in the city, you'd have no avenue of escape. At least you managed to put considerable distance between you and your three-eyed pursuers — so much distance that for the first time in hours you actually feel somewhat secure. It is now too dark to continue climbing this wooded summit without a light, and you fear that if you switched on your headlamp you'd reveal your location to the Wobans. So you decide to remain here for the night, watching the goings-on below you. Tired, thirsty, and hungry, you watch with much interest as the Wobans methodically scour the ruins until their torches start to falter. Then they coalesce into an uneven line and file into the forest, heading northward out of the mountains and back to whatever village they came from. This leaves you alone on the side of the mountain summit, beneath a sky full of stars. After emptying a few packages of flavored tuna, you lean back against your pack and fall asleep within seconds. When morning arrives, the plain of ruins below you is deserted once more, now in the shadow cast by the island's main summit. As you munch on some Clif bars you watch for signs of movement down there, but nothing stirs. It is starting to look like you evaded the natives, but you know better than to let yourself become complacent; you have a long way to go before you are safely off this island. You remember well the qualities of each of the three summits that stands between you and the shoreline. As the morning's coolness gives way to the heat of the tropical day, you toil the rest of the way across the first summit. In the notch that follows, you find the spot where you camped so contentedly the night before last, and once again you replenish your water supply in the spring. Then, knowing better than to even try climbing the middle summit, you contour around it, finding an alternate route that entails less elevation loss. Strangely, you pass much of the day thinking about Cheers. It's not even the money that has captured your imagination this morning; you're just thinking about that Giant Norm Burger, or whatever it was called. You can't believe you turned your nose up at the idea of such a beefy indulgence last week, because right now you could go for two or three of them. Easily three. Which reminds you: you have a phone call to make. By early afternoon you are ascending the third and final summit, the one with the bald face where you sketched your map two days ago. A large cloud has parked itself over the island, so while the summit remains humid it is not quite as hot as you remember without the sun. There have been no signs of the Wobans all day, and this view really is enchanting. Now, though, instead of gazing over the island, your attention is drawn to the endless ocean ahead of you, and all of the piles of fattening food and comfortable beds you will find on the far side of that ocean. With two million dollars to your name, you'll be able to fête yourself with quite the feast. But not if you can't hitch a ride on a boat somehow. So after an ascetic lunch pulled from the supplies in your pack, you pull out the satellite phone that Jimmy gave you so long ago. You see that there is one number programmed into its memory. "Yes?" You never thought you'd be so happy to hear Jimmy's voice. "I can only assume that if you're calling this number, your mission has been successful." "Oh, it has, it has," you say. "Now I suppose you want a boat to pick you up." "That would be great. And two million dollars. Let's not forget about that." "Whoah, now, Chief," Jimmy says. "There are procedures to follow. The item will need to be inspected, of course. No funds will be transferred until our employer is satisfied." "Of course. I was just being facetious. But I really am ready for that big boat home." "How soon?" "Tonight would be good. I'm about three miles from that Zodiac of yours, but it's all easy hiking from here. I should be there by nightfall, easily." "Tonight?" he says. "That's much quicker than we were expecting. Are you certain you found the item?" "Well, let's just say I am in possession of a big purple rock. Your boss seemed quite eager to obtain it the last we met." "Well, yes, but we were also under the impression that it would be a major undertaking. Our people just dropped you off a few days ago." "I got lucky, leave it at that. I'd be happy to tell you all about it when we get back to Boston." __________________________________________________ > Next page. And so it comes to pass that three days later you are back on Beacon Street, following Jimmy into the basement portion of Cheers. It's a Saturday night, so the place is far more bustling than the last time you were here. Tonight it looks like any other corner pub, except for the familiar logo on all of the pint glasses. "I should warn you, our employer has been in a bad mood lately," Jimmy says as he leads you through the bar. "Kelsey Grammer was here a few days ago, getting a lot of fan attention. Nobody had much interest in her that night. She still hasn't gotten over it." He is wearing another one of his plaid suits, but this one takes the cake: the red, white, and black pattern looks like he ripped it off a dead lumberjack stock broker. You're embarrassed to be seen with him, so you hang back about twelve feet. You weave between tables full of happy people eating, the smell of hamburgers and french fries everywhere. Despite all the time you've been off the island now, you still haven't been treated to a full meal. You can only hope that Diane Chambers is feeling generous — and hungry — tonight. Fashion concerns aside, you're curious to hear more about the Kelsey Grammer story, but the ambient noise is too loud and Jimmy is moving too fast. Once again he leads you out what appears to be a back door, and then up the steps leading into the Set Bar. Tonight the place seems less like a museum to a thirty-year-old TV show and more like a functioning commercial establishment. The cardboard cutouts of Woody and Norm are gone, replaced with live bartenders pouring beers, and actual people occupying all of the tables and booths. So many of the customers are wearing "Boston" shirts and hats — of the chintzy kind you would buy from a street vendor — that it's obvious the entire place is populated with tourists. Diane Chambers is still wedged into the same booth where you first met her, but instead of plate full of chicken wings the table is covered with eight-by-ten glossy photos of Shelley Long. "Yeah, I was real upset that Sam and I never got together," she is saying to a middle-aged couple standing in rapt attention beside her table. The man is counting out some cash as he listens to her story. "But, you know, the studio wanted to maintain the suspense. People kept tuning in every Thursday night because they wanted to see if we would do it. If we didn't, then they'd keep tuning in. It was a cold business calculation, and it broke my heart. And that's the real reason why I left the show." "Oh, I just knew that had to be the reason!" the wife says. "Cheers was just never the same after you left. We were never fans of Rebecca, were we, Frank?" The husband just grunts an affirmative Hmm as he hands over the five twenties he has finished counting out of his wallet. Diane accepts the cash. "How would you like me to make this out?" she says, picking up a pen and one of the glossy photos. After a moment of thought, the woman says, "Just 'To Frank and Margaret' would be good." Your employer scribbles across the photo of the actress she is impersonating, and then notices you and Jimmy approaching the booth. "Oh my, you're just in time! Here comes the illegitimate love child I had with Cliff!" She is, of course, pointing to Jimmy. The reactions of the two Cheers fans are priceless: she is agog with joy; he scowls with skepticism, worried that he might be asked to dole out another hundred dollars for a second autographed photo. "I never knew!" Margaret says. "Doesn't he look just like his father, Frank?" "Funny no one ever heard about that," Frank says dryly. "Of course not!" Diane says. "The studio paid good money to keep it out of the National Enquirer." Jimmy ignores the couple as he steps up to the table. "Our friend has returned from the South Pacific, ma'am." "I see that. Hopefully not empty-handed, either." "No, ma'am." "Look how politely he addresses his mother, Frank," Margaret says. "I wish our two boys were like that. Don't you?" You decide to say nothing, lest you be insinuated in Chambers' little fraud. Who would she try and pass you off as — Lilith's second cousin? Watching her reaction as you do so, you set the sack containing the Stone of Vul-Kar down on the table. Instead of that grubby backpack you toted across Woban Island, the gem is now concealed in a draw-string knapsack with a Patriots logo, as provided by Jimmy. It lands with such a thud on the tabletop that the condiment rack rattles. Diane's eyes light up. "I'm afraid I have to take care of some business," she tells the fawning woman and her husband without taking her gaze off the knapsack in front of her. "It was very nice meeting you. And congratulations on the birth of your granddaughter! You should buy her a little pink Cheers onesie from the gift shop on your way out!" "Oh, we will! We will! Thank you again ever so much, Ms. Chambers!" You slide into the booth opposite Diane. To your profound dismay, Jimmy slides in beside you. You feel trapped. Your employer pushes aside the stack of glossies. "I have sooo been waiting for this moment — almost as much as I am for the moment when I get to show this little trinket to that old blowhard, Walter Berringer." She pulls on the drawstring to open the sack, and then peers inside without removing the contents. "Lordy, lordy," is all she says. "I hope you find it satisfactory," you say. "Indeed. Indeed. And you retrieved it so expeditiously, too!" "Well, that was just… ." She cuts you off. "Thomas! Hey, Thomas!" she shouts toward the bar. "We need some drinks over here. What was that you were having last time? Oh, that's right — bring us three of those Green Monsta IPAs!" Thomas the bartender looks like he is swamped with other drink orders, but he promptly takes three of those Cheers pint glasses and starts pouring the beers. "I don't want to look at it here," Diane says, closing the Patriots knapsack up once more. "Too many people here. But I'm hosting a gathering in two weeks, and my rival Walter Berringer will be there. I can't stand him, never have, but we both serve on the same board of directors, so he can't really back out. He's been moping all month because the Red Sox finished the year nineteen games behind the Yankees. When he sees this, it'll push him over the edge. I can't wait." A waitress arrives with the three beers. Diane raises her glass. "Cheers!" It takes you a second to realize she's not stating the name of the establishment, but proposing a course of action. "Cheers!" Jimmy dutifully returns, and the three of you clink your glasses together. "You truly are good at what you do — worth every penny." As she says this, she slides a debit card across the table to you. "I opened this account this morning. The balance is exactly two million dollars. The PIN on the Visa is one nine eight two." "One nine eight two," you repeat. "Should be easy to remember. That was the year Cheers debuted. Now, Jimmy was telling me you found the stone in an entire city filled with odd statues?" You nod. "Ooooh!" she squeals. "This could become an entire collection! How soon can you go back?" You want to think she's kidding, but when Jimmy shows you two tickets for a flight back to Honolulu, you know she's dead serious. Hopefully by now the Wobans have given up looking for you. THE END

So clearly it's in your best interest not to stay and fight this Woban; you would have nothing to prove by doing so, but everything to lose when you inevitably got your head handed to you. Therefore you need to figure out a way to get out of here. If you just turn and run, all you'd be doing is turning this into a footrace, which you know you'd lose just as surely as you would lose the fight. The only way this will work is if you manage to trip up your opponent in the first few moments. Fortunately, the young Woban has given you exactly what you need. Without taking your eyes off him, you squat down and reach for the spear at your feet. Then you slowly stand, holding the primitive weapon as if you are still considering how best to use it. "Maika'i loa!" he says in his incomprehensible language. "Ua koho 'oe e kaua ia'u. I keia la he la maika'i ia e make!" "That's easy for you to say. All right, let's get this over wi— Ohmygod, what is that!" It's a trick you've probably been using since kindergarten: fake an expression of surprise, point to some imaginary spot past the Woban's shoulder, and then run in the opposite direction the moment he turns to look. So far, so good! You've managed to momentarily confuse your opponent, and now you are fleeing for your life. The only way to go is back up the hill, towards all the strange ruins. Knowing your head start is only going to last a matter of seconds, you listen closely for the sound of the Woban pursuing you. He doesn't leave you waiting for long. "'A'ole hiki ia 'oe ke holo mai o'u aku nei!" You continue running until he is nearly upon you, and then you fling the spear as hard as you can, aiming for his legs. The shaft gets caught between his knees, and in a shout of frustration he goes down to the ground. Success! But of course now you are out of tricks, and he has the spear again. The only things you have to work with now are your own speed and the timely appearance of an effective hiding place. You dash up the hill at your best possible pace, not daring to look back and see where your pursuer is. Your muscles are already tired and your lungs are spent by the time you reach the top, but there is no time to stop and catch your breath. This is not some schoolyard game where you can simply call "time out." Once again you are on the open plain dotted with the mysterious ruins from the ancient city. Now what are you going to do? Your original thought was to evade the Woban by seeking cover inside one of these ancient structures, but the nearest ones seem rather small. They look like miniature stepped pyramids, scale models of their larger cousins in Guatemala. They have entrances leading into some kind of enclosed space, where you are sure you could take cover. The problem is that these smaller structures are probably just dead ends — only one way in, and only one way out. Perhaps you could do better than this, though. Up ahead, in the middle of town, is a larger structure, where you might expect more opportunities to evade your pursuer. That's entirely theoretical, however, because you have no way of knowing what you'll find. Whatever it offers, that crumbling stone building is another hundred yards or so ahead of you — a distance across which you'll have to continue sprinting, in plain sight of the Woban. Think quick! You can hear the Woban behind you, shouting angrily as he sprints up the hill. If you duck into the nearest structure, there is a chance he may not see you. Or you can continue to that larger building and hope for the best when you get there. How does that old saying go — the one about the "bird in hand"? __________________________________________________ > You enter the nearest structure before the Woban sees you. Actually, that saying goes: "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." Applied to your situation, this bit of folk wisdom is trying to tell you it's better to seek cover in one of the nearby structures, rather than risking everything to reach that larger structure a hundred yards away. So that's exactly what you do. On your right are three of those miniature stepped pyramids, each the size of a small house. Vines are crawling over each one, with small trees sprouting from cracks in the rock. All three structures are capped with one of those strange statues you noticed earlier, almost like a Buddha with ram's horns, although there is no time to ponder the actual cultural references on display here; the Woban will be reaching the top of the hill any second now, and the only way your strategy will work is if you can disappear inside one of these buildings before he sees you. Therefore the one nearest you will have to do. You are happy to see that the opening is unobstructed, even if the interior is completely dark. With a quick turn to the right, you pass through a doorway that has perhaps not seen another human being step across its threshold in centuries, if not longer. A single shaft of light falls into the dark space, but otherwise you are unable to see anything else inside the chamber you have just entered. You back up until you are completely out of the light, and then you drop to your knees, hoping you won't be giving yourself away by your heavy breathing; if you aren't able to quiet yourself, that uphill sprint for your life may prove to be your undoing yet. And as it turns out, you've found this spot just in time — the Woban is now running up the same ancient street you just vacated. But then his footsteps come to a stop just outside your hiding place. "'O na i'a make! Ke pa'ani nei 'oe i na pa'ani o kahi keiki, hnh? E loa'a wau ia 'oe, a laila luku wau ia 'oe!" He sure is going on about something! Unfortunately, it sounds like he's figured out that if you couldn't outrun him, then you must be hiding. It takes all of your willpower to suppress your labored breathing; the Woban may not be able to see you, but he can certainly hear you if you don't take control of yourself. For extra measure, you also scoot further back into the darkness until you hit the rear wall. You can hear the Woban outside, still on the overgrown street in front of the three dwellings. What is he doing? For the first time since this encounter began, you wish he'd say something, because then you could determine with more certainty where he is out there. His silence is driving you crazy with suspense. Then he appears in the doorway like a living shadow, silhouetted by the bright sunlight of the mountain plain. He merely stands there, holding the spear to his side and sniffing the air. He's trying to smell you! All you can do is hope that a Woban's sense of smell is no more developed than a human's — that, and you hope the purpose of the third eye is not to allow him to see better in the dark. But then, with a grunt of disappointment, he turns and exits the doorway. This is followed by the sound of his footsteps jogging down the ancient street, away from your hiding spot. It worked! You fooled the Woban, and now he has no idea where you are. The next problem you have to face will be getting out of here unseen — and then somehow scaling up the mountain to the summit temple, which is of course the entire reason you are here. But these are problems you'll have to break down into their constituent elements, managing your way through them one at a time. Before you can act, though, you need to gather some intel. You stand up from your kneeling position in the dark, with the intent of slowly advancing toward the door so you can peer outside and see where your adversary has gone. But as you rise, something leathery brushes your cheek. "Holy crap!" Your reaction is almost involuntary, and you regret the exclamation as soon as you make it. But the consequences are irreversible: you have just startled a hidden colony of bats, and now they are fleeing out of this cave-like chamber in a flutter of fur and fleshy wings. Please don't let the Woban see this. Please don't let the Woban see this. Please don't let… . But it's too late. You hear his footsteps pounding the ancient paving stones, running back toward your hiding spot. "Ua loa'a wau ia 'oe, ka'u i'a make!" he says. "'Ano ua lilo 'oe i 'aha'aina a ko'u makua kane!" You have no idea what he just said, but you know it can't be good. THE END

The next afternoon sees you slowly threading your way through the thick tropical forest, trying not to slip down a steep, wet slope. You spent the previous night camping high in a mountain pass, where you found a tiny spring emerging from under a mossy rock. The spot was on the fringe of the same type of high-elevation grassland as the bald summit where you had drawn your map, and chances are if you had reached it any earlier in the day the place would have been hot as an oven. But in the evening, when you stumbled across it, your little campsite was cool and pleasant. Your ten-year-old REI backpacking tent was more spacious than the Zodiac had been the first night, and so your first full day on the island ended pleasantly. If the Wobans were throwing themselves another party, you were now too far away to hear it. It hadn't all been fun and games, though. Yesterday, after you had stopped to sketch the map, your progress had been slowed unexpectedly. Getting down from that grassy bald had been simple, but the next little summit in the ridgeline was steep and cliffy. Going over it was not possible, and you could see no further signs of a trail, so you saw no option but to descend a few hundred feet and find an easier way around this part of the mountain. Regaining all that lost elevation was discouraging, but then you discovered the spring and all was forgiven. Now, almost a full day later, here you are making your way over the third summit in the chain, and although this one is higher than the other two it has been completely wooded so far. Without a trail to follow, you have been forced to thrash your way through the thick vegetation. There is no graceful way to travel in these conditions, so you have been taking your time. Although the tower-like main summit is now maybe half a mile away, you can scarcely see it. Actually, you are slowly working your way down toward a large blank spot on your map, where you have little idea what to expect. When you had stopped to sketch your map yesterday, you were able to see a good swath of the island, but not the parts that were concealed by the various mountain summits. It looked like there had been a sizable gap between the third and final peaks, but you had not been able to see what that gap contained. Whatever is there, you're about to be wandering through it in just a matter of minutes. And so, after another fifteen minutes' worth of scrambling down steep, moss-covered slopes and crawling under fallen trees, the terrain flattens out. You continue forward, marveling that after all that ridiculous toil over the wooded summit, the vegetation is thinning out again here in the broad space between the mountains. You are tired, dirty, and hungry — as well as intrigued by what is opening up ahead of you. The forest trees thin into scattered shrubs, and once again you are walking across a baking-hot grassland. This one is immensely picturesque, though. It is a high-elevation plateau, broad and mostly flat. The main summit spire rises almost five hundred feet above you, but you have arrived too late in the day to be in its shade. And dotting this tropical prairie are the remains of an ancient complex of buildings. Various weeds and vines crawl over the cut-stone structures like a riot of snakes. The place is like an archeologist's wet dream, the remains of a civilization that had until recently been completely unknown to modern academia. The artistic and architectural styles on display here seem to be a mishmash of global influences: humble dwellings that resemble scale models of Mayan pyramids, rows of toppled Greek columns, eroded statues that seem to depict a horned cherub, like a satanic Buddha or something. You could spend a year exploring the place — but only if some rich fat cat thought there was something worth collecting here, and was willing to bankroll your expedition. As impressive as the lost city is, the rocky tower is downright intimidating. How the heck is anyone expected to get up that thing? This is a challenge that is going to require some thought. Perhaps you should start looking for a place to camp. As awesome as this plateau is, you see no sources of water here, so you'll need to venture back into the woods to search for other options. You decide to look along the northern side of the plateau, where based on experience you expect to find a verdant and moist slope leading down from the highlands. Hopefully you'll stumble across another spring — or better yet, a pool. You could use a good rinse. So, veering northward, you soon reach the point where the terrain begins to slope downward, and trees once again become larger, albeit sparsely populated. You are wading through ferns, exalting in the fact that you have just spotted a glint of sunlight off a pool of water just ahead of you, at the foot of the hill. The terrain is gentle and open, water seems to be in abundance, and there is a good view of the mountain spire that stands between you and victory. The odds are good you have just found tonight's campsite. You run like a giddy child to the edge of the pool. You can see right away that it is not a natural pond, but a square-edged reservoir of some kind, yet another artifact from the ancient city. Happily, the water is clear and clean. You bend down to splash its cool goodness over your face. But what you fail to notice — until it is much too late — is the figure that rises from the ferns just around the corner. It is only when it begins to move forward through the vegetation that you turn and see it — a Woban, with tattooed and deeply tanned skin, a bone necklace, grass skirt, and a long spear. Above all, the most distinctive feature is that eerie third eye that sits directly above the bridge of his nose. You surmise he had been hunting, waiting among the tall ferns for his prey to come, when you bumbled into the scene instead. "O Manu o Ke Kaua ko'u inoa!" he shouts. "I keia la wau e lilo i kane, aka mua au e ku i ka pa'akiki. Pono e luku au i ka holoholona ae hanai i ka io i ko'u makuakane. E ho'omakaukau ia 'oe iho e make, holoholona!" "Whoa, hold on, chief!" you say. "We're all friends here." "E pale ia 'oe iho!" His speech is fast and clipped. Not a single word makes any sense, but the provocative way he is shouting them at you gives you the general idea that this is a hostile confrontation. The Woban is only about six feet tall — big enough, to be sure, but not one of the seven-foot giants you heard about. Maybe this is an adolescent, trying to prove himself in the world. "Hey, make nice. Let's be friends." "E pale ia 'oe iho! 'A'ohe hanohano i ka pepehi 'ana me ka pa'akiki 'ole." "Look, I haven't the slightest idea what you're saying. Can't—" Then he does the unexpected thing and tosses his spear at your feet. It is not a gift, because the rage in his voice is still evident, even if the words are unintelligible to you. "E lawe i ka ihe a kaua mai ia'u!" Well, you're at an impasse as far as verbal communication goes, but you think you're getting the gist of the body language. The young Woban wants you to fight him, and to make the odds more even he is letting you use his spear. If he assessed that you're not much of a physical threat when matched up against a six-foot Woban, he would be correct. At least with the spear in your hands, you would have a sporting chance. So you have to make a decision: fight or flight? The Woban is glaring at you, all three eyebrows furrowed in a kind of rage you'll never understand. Eventually he'll charge at you, regardless of what you choose to do. So either you can pick up the spear at your feet and defend yourself, or you can run. With all of the ruined buildings around here, you would have plenty of places to hide — assuming, of course, you can outrun a Woban. __________________________________________________ > You stay and fight the Woban. The Woban is clearly young, and therefore probably also over-confident. By contrast, what you lack in strength — not to mention skill with a spear — you should be able to compensate with patience and cunning. He will think he has the advantage, but he is what, all of fifteen years old? And less educated than your typical fifth grader? He will do something rash; you will recognize his obvious strategy right away, and handily defeat him with some run-of-the-mill move that you learned many years ago while playing flag football. So what are you so nervous about? You got this! Right? At any rate, standing your ground seems preferable to running, so you slowly squat down to pick up the spear, never taking your eyes off your opponent. The Woban gets excited when he sees you reaching for the weapon he tossed you. He starts whooping and doing an odd dance, hopping from foot to foot and shifting his head from left to right. His tongue hangs down to his chin, making the entire act seem like a ritualistic taunt. You notice that his tattoo pattern extends across both shoulders, with lines that resemble stylized feathers; you suppose it is meant to resemble some kind of bird of prey, but the dance gives you the impression more of a gooney bird. So now you are holding the spear in your hands, pointed straight ahead. You bend your knees and widen your stance, ready to spring into action as soon as he lunges at you. But nothing happens. The Woban continues his silly dance, his nonsensical shouting growing louder and louder. Then he adds a slow rotation to his routine, showing you the tattooed feathers on his back for a short moment, his tongue still extended when he turns back in your direction. "Come on, come and get me!" you say, briefly tilting the spear upward to signal your readiness to defend yourself. But still the young Woban does not charge. "E kaua ia'u, nene me ka wawae ho'okahi!" he grunts. "Ua moe kolohe kou makuakane me kahi i'a make!" "Look, that's nice. It's great to meet you too. Now can we get this over with?" He shakes his head with his tongue protruding downward again. "AGGGH! Ke maka'u nei ka i'a make e ku'e ia'u!" This is going nowhere. You have been waiting for him to attack first, but it is becoming clear he has no such intention. So what exactly are you supposed to do? If the Woban is trying to taunt you into charging straight at him with the spear, then you can safely conclude that is the last thing you should do. "That's a nice necklace. Are those shark teeth?" "Hiki ia'u ke kali i ka la apau, i'a make. Hiki ia 'oe ke kali mau loa?" He continues to shift back and forth from one foot to the other, making his bare chest a moving target. If you did have to make the first move, though, it's not his chest you'd aim for — that damn tongue would be a much more satisfactory target. But something has to give; it's not like you can just stand here doing this all day long. But what are your options? Make a feint, catch him off balance? Fake a distraction, strike when he's not looking? Then an idea occurs to you: just do what Paul Newman would do if he were in a situation like this! Specifically, you're thinking of that knife fight scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. It's one of the best moments in movie history, and you doubt this Woban has ever seen it; what's old to you will be new and unexpected to this cretin. You stand up out of your defensive posture and hold the spear to your side like a walking stick. "I'm not going to fight with you — not until we get the rules straightened out." "He ho'omake'aka keia!" While the Woban appears momentarily confused by your words and change in posture, you casually step forward as if to greet him as a friend, tossing the spear aside. "What, no rules? Then one-two-three-go!" And once you are within range, you kick your opponent in the groin. The Woban's reaction does not go according to script, however. He does immediately bend over in pain, but he is not as debilitated as you had hoped for. When you turn to deliver the knock-out punch, he is not on his knees like it was in Butch Cassidy, but enraged and coming straight at you. Your horror is short-lived. In a pure contest of strength and brutality, you don't stand a chance against the Woban, and he doesn't leave any time for any more tricks. As it turns out, he was not as gullible as you had hoped he would be. THE END

You do your best to seem disinterested and confused, but the man persists in this one-way conversation of his. "Does an even two million sound right to you?" he says. Again, he seems to know more about what is going on than you do. You fumble for your phone in your pocket, desperately trying to maintain the illusion of disinterest and mild irritation, but the words two million are still resonating in your brain. You have no idea what kind of mission Mr. Berringer wants to hire you for. Well, scratch that; you do have a very good idea. Your potential new employer in Boston is the type of person who desires certain items, and you are the type of person who can procure them. The only thing you don't know at the moment is what the item is in this case, and where you'll need to go to find it. But if this guy with the bad hairdo and worse clothing is willing to pay you two million... . Well OK, you tell yourself, let's not get greedy. You have no idea what Berringer's offer is going to be. On the other hand, though, here you are flying on the ticket he purchased for you, chilling near the rear of the plane in economy class. And next to you is a guy who seems eager to steal you away. He doesn't look nearly as well-heeled as your usual employers, but maybe he's just the messenger for somebody else. And to be frank, two million would be real money. Assuming that we're talking dollars here, and not something idiotic like Bitcoins. The last thing you need is a bank account full of arcade tokens. But working for Mr. Berringer is like playing in the big leagues — an opportunity that is likely to lead to others. That is worth thinking about, too. __________________________________________________ > You ignore him and wait for your meeting with Mr. Berringer. This conversation is getting out of hand; encounters in a public space like this one is not how these transactions usually occur. It is becoming clear to you that Mr. Plaid Suit is an amateur at this kind of game, and based on his appearance it seems unlikely he has two million of anything to give you. Best to end this now, you think. "Not interested," is all you say, your jaws clenched and your voice low. The last thing you want is to be overheard by anyone else on the plane. "Can I interest you in a soft drink?" The attendant's voice startles you; the cart has now reached Row 30, but you were so distracted you had lost track of it's progress. The woman in the window seat seems to wake from her nap in an instant. "Yes," she says. "Do you have Coke or Pepsi products?" "We have Coke products: Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite. We also have coffee, orange juice, and water." "I'll have a Diet Coke, please," the woman says. As the attendant pours the soda out of the can into the plastic cup, she asks Mr. Plaid Suit, "And you, sir?" "I'm fine, thanks." The attendant hands you the Diet Coke to pass along to the woman in the window seat. "How about you?" she says to you as you hand off the cup. "Coffee will be good," you say. And a moment later you are cradling a paper cup full of black coffee in your hands. This entire interruption has thrown your neighbor off his game. He continues to fidget in his seat, but with the woman to his left in the window seat no longer napping, and with you clearly not interested in his solicitations, he acts as though the remainder of the flight has no purpose for him. Out of the corner of your eye you see him reaching for the newspaper again, only to put it pack in the magazine pouch as if faintly disgusted with it. He pulls out a dog-eared copy of Condé Nast Traveler instead and pretends to be interested in some article about an apple festival in Upstate New York. The plane touches down at Logan before you even finish your coffee, and you make a hasty exit off the plane. There is no need to go to the baggage return because everything you need is in your carry-on — traveling light is always a boon in your profession. So you rush through the terminal, not even looking to see if Mr. Plaid Suit is following you. The airport is already filling with people, a medley of humanity in motion, and you can only assume that the bald man with the bagel breath is now busy looking for the next flight back to New York. Outside the terminal, dozens of people are lined up at the taxi stand waiting to hail a ride, or waiting for their Uber to arrive. You're already ahead of that game; as soon as the plane landed and you were able to turn on your phone, you hailed a ride of your own. Now you have a message that your ride has arrived: a black Camry driven by someone named Julio. Indeed, you see a car matching the description across the street, just behind a family of weary but excited travelers loading their suitcases into the back of a minivan, telling the relative who is picking them up about their flight from Cleveland. You are musing to yourself about how every man, woman, and child in this family is wearing either a Red Sox or a Patriots shirt when you hear the whiny revving of a four-cylinder engine. Too late, you turn to see the Camry charging out of its waiting spot, clipping you as it weaves through the dawdling taxis and Ubers and then speeds toward the city. The last thing you remember is your face hitting the hard pavement. __________________________________________________ > Next page. When you come to, you are in a hospital room. There is a window, but the only thing it reveals is what must be the next wing over. The TV is turned off, and the only voices are coming from down the hall. You have no time for this; you're going to miss your meeting with Berringer! Swinging your feet out of bed, you realize you are wearing nothing but a standard-issue hospital robe; and as you try and sit up, your left arm tugs at all the medical equipment that you didn't realize were tethered to you. Two nurses rush into the room. Are they more concerned about you, or the equipment you almost toppled over? "You're awake!" the lead nurse says, wearing a loose-fitting maroon scrub and paisley leggings. "Yes," you say, "but I can't stay." Your voice is raspier than it should be. "Oh, is that so?" the nurse says. "I have a meeting. I can't afford to be late." "Well how about we just lie back in bed and get yourself comfortable? Then we can get Dr. Green to come in and have a chat with you." She is speaking as though she is making a suggestion, but she and her confederate are already lifting your legs back into the bed and guiding your head back toward the pillow. "But—" "I'm sure your meeting can wait," she says. "Besides, you're in no shape to be interviewing for a job, or wherever it was you were going. If you like, I can turn the TV on for you. Do you like Jeopardy! ?" Who's got time for game shows? you think, but you're starting to realize you don't have the energy to put up a fight. The nurse points the remote control at the TV, and indeed Jeopardy! is the first thing you see. Alex Trebek is reading a clue off the blue video screen. "In the 2002 movie Gangs of New York, the Five Points crime boss William Cutting is also known by this macabre nickname." "Who is Bill the Butcher? I'll take 'Scorsese Flicks' for five hundred." The nurse stands back to regard her handiwork, once you are tucked back in the bed where she seems to think you belong. "There. Better?" Maybe. Probably. Actually, you have no clue what happened or why you are here, except that you have this unusual headache. The pain is dull, so you must be medicated. "Oh, by the way, these flowers came for you today. Would you like to read the card that came with them?" She points to a small calling card, propped on a plastic stick and surrounded by a bouquet of blue and white flowers. Who even knows you are here? You nod, and she hands the card to you. It reads: Get well soon. Regards, Walter Berringer. PS: Better luck next time. THE END

The hospital seems to be completely empty. You wake up in an old rundown hospital with no memory of how you got there. You look around and see broken equipment lying around the room. > You leave the hospital and see if there is anything outside. Outside the hospital you see a worn down road and empty cars. Everything is strangely quiet and you start getting worried. You feel hungry and wonder when the last time you ate was. > You try to find a working car. You find a car with the keys in the ignition and try to start it. Nothing happens. You keep looking and find another car that looks like it might work. You manage to get the engine started. > You drive around looking for any people or stores that might have supplies. You drive around the town and see many boarded up buildings, but no people. Eventually you find a store that you think might have supplies. > You go inside the store and see if there are any supplies. It looks like the store has been ransacked and all the shelves are empty. You manage to find a package of granola bars and a flashlight behind the counter. > You eat a granola bar. You feel a little bit better. But you're still hungry. > You eat another granola bar. You feel better. You should probably save the rest of your food though. > You leave the store and get back in the car. As you leave the store you notice movement out behind your car. A man steps out with a hungry look in his eyes. His clothes are in tatters and he is carrying a crowbar. > You run at the man and attack him. You run forward to attack the man. His crowbar crashes into your chest and you fall to the ground. He kicks you a few times and then grabs your granola bars and runs off. > You go after him. You go after him. As you try and stand up though you realize you're in extreme pain. You think one of your ribs is broken. You manage to get yourself on your feet, but realize catching him is impossible. > You look for something to wrap your chest with. You walk back into the store and find a few shirts that you tear and wrap around your chest. It helps you feel slightly better. But you're still in a lot of pain.

As you leave the store you notice movement out behind your car. A man steps out with a hungry look in his eyes. His clothes are in tatters and he is carrying a crowbar. > You ask the man what he wants and where everybody is. He looks at you confused. "What are you stupid? This is the end of the world man!" he says. > You say "What do you mean? I just woke up in a hospital with no memory. What happened?" He responds "Like I said, the end of the world. When the bombs starting falling three years ago we thought we could pull through. But then the skies turned black, crops started dying and everyone went crazy. Most people died in the first couple months." > You ask him how he managed to survive. He tells you that he was away hunting when it all started happening. He managed to live off the land for the first little while. But after the animals started dying he ran out of food and came to the city. > You ask him if you two can work together. The man shakes his head. "Hardly enough food for one person. I've only lived this long by looking after myself." He turns and starts walking away. > You run after the man and tell him you'll both do better together. He stops and thinks about it for a second, then says, "Fine. I guess there might be advantages to working together." > You ask him where he thinks you should go next. He tells you there is a house on the road that looked undisturbed that might be worth checking out. > You start going towards the house. You are walking towards the house. You reach an intersection. There is a police station on one corner an office building on another. The house is another half mile down the road. > You keep going towards the house. You keep walking and eventually reach the house. You see a two story house that looks fairly undisturbed. There's a garage on the right and a path to the backyard on the left. > You go around the house to the backyard. You go to the backyard of the house. There's a dirty grill and an overturned slide. There's a door to the house on the back porch. > You open the back door into the house. You open the back door into the house and go inside. You're in a combined kitchen and living room. You see several cupboard doors are hanging open, a fridge and several couches around a TV.

The man shakes his head. "Hardly enough food for one person. I've only lived this long by looking after myself." He turns and starts walking away. > You leave the store and get back in your car. You think about what the man said. How is this possible? Why were you in that hospital and what should you do now? > You drive back to the hospital to see if you can find any clues. As you pull in to the hospital parking lot the car sputters and dies. It's out of fuel an slows to a halt. > You go back to the room you woke up in. You get to the room. It's the same as how you remember it. Broken equipment everywhere. But there's also a small notebook that you didn't notice before lying on the floor. > You read the notebook. It looks like a journal. As you flip through the pages you see drawings of the death and destruction. The journal talks about someone's horrific experiences during the aftermath of the war. > You try to see if anything in it sparks your memory. you read for a while hoping this will give you some clue. None of the events written about spark anything, but you do read someone's name that you feel like you should know. "Sarina". It says she heard about a community called "Bright Meadow" that was safe and had food and was leaving to find it. > You see if you can find out where Bright Meadow is from the journal. You look through the journal to see if there are any clues about where Bright Meadow is. You find a crude map that shows Bright Meadow to the north of a town called Clayton. > You go to Clayton. You don't know where Clayton is. But maybe if you found a map you could figure out where it is. > You look for a map somewhere in the hospital. You start looking around for a map. You find an administrator's office that you think might have one. > You search the office for a map. You look through the filing cabinets for a map. You find a bunch of patient records in a filing cabinet. In the desk you find a map that shows other hospitals in the region. It says Clayton is 15 miles to the West of here. > You leave the hospital and start heading towards Clayton. As you're walking to to Clayton you start getting hungry. You remember that you have few granola bars in your pocket.

As you're walking to to Clayton you start getting hungry. You remember that you have few granola bars in your pocket. > You eat a few granola bars. You finish off the rest of your granola bars. You're full now, but are worried about what you'll eat when you get hungry again. > You keep walking towards Clayton. You walk for two hours and take a break. You've left the town you were in and are now in a more rural area. There's a farmhouse to your right and a forest on your left. > You go in the farmhouse and look for food. You try to open the farmhouse front door, but it's locked. There's a broken window on the right and a shed behind the house. > You go through the window into the farmhouse. You break the rest of the glass in the window and try to carefully crawl through. You cut yourself on the edges as you're climbing in, but you make it inside. > You search the farmhouse for food. You search around the farmhouse for food. You find some thick sturdy shirts and some rusty tools but no food. It's getting dark outside. You think it might be a good idea to sleep the night here. > You sleep the night in the farmhouse. You wake up in the middle of the night sweating from a nightmare. In it you saw a woman screaming in some dark place. You feel like you need to rescue her and that you're the only one who can help her. > You go back to sleep till the morning. You try to go back to sleep, but can't shake the feelings from your dream. You decide you might as well get up and see if you can do anything productive. > You look around the farmhouse for anything else useful. You look around the farmhouse for anything else useful. You don't find anything else useful. > You leave the farmhouse and continue walking towards Clayton. You get back on the road and continue your journey. After a few hours you realize how starving you are. You' really need to find a food. > You look around to see what's around you. There's an old warehouse and a few mechanics shops.

You try to open the farmhouse front door, but it's locked. There's a broken window on the right and a shed behind the house. > You head towards the shed behind the house You notice there is a padlock on the shed. Maybe you can find a key or a tool to get in. > You head back towards the broken window of the farmhouse You have to go through the window to look for tools. You careful break the window more to go inside. > You go through window You cut yourself on the edges as you're climbing in, but you make it inside.You find some thick sturdy shirts and there are rusted scattered tool scattered throughout. There doesn't seem to be any food around, however you wonder if there is a tool or key to open the shed. > You search the farmhouse You're Not the best educated when it comes to tools but you have an idea of what kind of tool you need to use. You see lots of shovels, rakes, and pitchforks. You notice something that looks like big pliers...maybe that can work? > You grab bolt cutter You could go back out to open the shed but it is starting to get dark. You think about resting in the farmhouse or going to check the shed out. > You go back to shed Dusk is setting and you climb out the window unscathed. You walk over to the shed and begin to attempt cutting the lock off. Your stomach growls as you place the bolt cutter on the lock. In that moment you think you hear rustling behind you. You turn to look and nothing is there. so you resume cutting the padlock off. > You enter the shed You remove the padlock and slowly open the door. With the sun setting, it's a bit difficult to see the contents of the shed. > You search the shed You can make out that there are some storage shelves and a few tables. You see something that looks a tin pot or jug to some sort. You check it and it has nothing inside. Next to it on a table you see a matchbox. You take the matchbox because it's likely to help you see. > You strike a match The first match goes dull quick. The second and third match break as you try to strike them. There are only two matches left. You try to relax a bit to keep yourself from breaking another match. You strike the match and it stays lit. > You search the shed slowly To your right you see jars filled with preserved fruits and vegetables. To your left you see more jars but can make out the contents clearly.

To your right you see jars filled with preserved fruits and vegetables. To your left you see more jars but can make out the contents clearly. > You eat some preserved fruits and vegetables You delight it some pickled okra and some peach preserves. You think about bringing some food with you, but it will be too heavy for travel. So you try to eat as much as you can now. You decide to have some for the morning as well. It's getting late and with your full belly you are feeling quite tired. You can reenter the farmhouse or sleep in the shed. > You stay in the shed You remembered the noise you heard early and decide to holed up in the shed. > You find a place in the shed to relax You use your hands to guide you around the space. Just past the preserved goods on the shelves there seems to be a small rug that is folded. > You adjust the rug to lay on it As you kneel down to adjust the rug your hand touches something cold and metal-like. > You access the metal object It seems to be a large metallic ring connected to the floor. > You pull the ring The floor lifts slightly and a dusty smell wafts out. > You shut the hatch back It seems to be a hatch that leads to an underground area like a cellar or bunker. > You open the hatch again You open up the hatch again but a little wider and stick your head in a bit. It's too dark to see anything. All you can do is smell the muskiness of whatever is below. > You close the hatch and resume to try to sleep You lay on the small rug and try to get comfortable. You hold yourself and try to get a grasp on reality before fading to sleep. > You wake up You awaken to some sunlight beams leaking in through the shed. You stretch and yawn as you look at the jars of preserves.

You awaken to some sunlight beams leaking in through the shed. You stretch and yawn as you look at the jars of preserves. > You have some preserves for breakfast You eat some green beans, carrots, and applesauce. You figure this will be enough nutrients for now. > You look around You look back to the other shelf and see it has some weird contents. Some sort flesh and meat compositions that repulses you. You don't wanna know if its animal or...something else. > You check the hatch You the hatch door wide open and look down into it. You see a few more shelves and notice that room leads further back. You feel a draft coming from that direction. > You exit the shed Deciding against jumping down into a creepy underground room, you open the shed door. As you eyes san the area, you recall generally where you need to go to get to Bright Meadow. > You get back on the road to Clayton You walk down the country road and slowly scan your surroundings. Everything seems so silent. It's almost unnatural and surreal. > You continue down the road It's been roughly an hour now and the sun is really shining down you. You are becoming a little parched and in need of refreshment. > You scan your surroundings To the right there are fields that use to hold crops that are currently in decay. To the left there is a slightly decaying forest. > You walk left into the forest You walk into the woods and sit on a rock between a group trees. You wonder if there is some form of running water somewhere in here. You notice there are small pebbles at your feet. > You pick up a pebble You pick up the pebble and notice the ground if very dry. This makes you uncertain a water source could be nearby. You could try to go further into the forest or suckle on the pebble to create saliva to help your body sustain a bit longer. > You suckle on the pebble You roll the pebble around in your mouth and your mouth begins to salivate.

You roll the pebble around in your mouth and your mouth begins to salivate. > You head back to road You continue down the road for another hour. You finally see a road sign saying "Clayton 5 Miles". This sparks a bit of joy in you. By this rate you'll definitely be there within an hour and half. Then to Bright Meadow within two to three hours. > You move forwards faster Your energetic boost pushed you further down the road. In the distance you spot an abandoned car. > You search vehicle You look through the windows and don't see much left in the car. One of the side windows was broken open. > You get into the car You immediately check for keys and they aren't in the ignition. You decide to search the car more. > You check the glove box You open the glove box and it has papers in it. Mostly car insurance and information. > You check the backseat You notice a dried blood stain on the back car seat. There is also some trash. > You check the floors You scan underneath the front car seats and the floors. You find the car keys were just out of sight under the driver's seat. > You start the car You try to start the car several times and nothing happens. You think of the possibility it needs gas and maybe they had spare gas in the trunk. > You pop the trunk You press the button to unlock the trunk. It slowly lifts open. > You check the trunk You get out of the car and walk towards the trunk.

You walk back into the store and find a few shirts that you tear and wrap around your chest. It helps you feel slightly better. But you're still in a lot of pain. > You take a quick rest You slouch down to the ground and try to breathe steadily. The pain beings to magnify. You wonder what has happened to the world and if there are more hostile people out there like the guy who attacked you. > You move further to the back of the store Worried there are more hostiles around, you drag yourself to the back corner of the store. > You access the area The corner is a bit dark as the natural light hardly reaches there. There also seems to be some rubbish on the floor. > You lay down the corner You feel a little dizzy so you bring yourself to the dark corner to rest a bit. > You take a short rest You awaken to the sound of some footsteps nearby. Being a bit startled you pull yourself more into the dark corner. A sharp pain goes rings up from your ribcage. > You listen for the footsteps After you moved you couldn't hear the footsteps anymore. You try to steady your heart rate and your breathing. After a few minutes you hear the footsteps again. > You stay quiet A back door opens to your right and it startles you. You feel a cough well up inside you. > You hold in the cough You place you hand over your mouth as you see a women cautiously come inside. She doesn't really look harmful but who knows what could be on her mind. > You stay hidden and attempt to escape The woman looks around and beings to check the materials and rubbish scattered around on the floor mostly in the well lit areas. Your cough lets out. > You make a run for the back door You dash out the back door and hear the woman scream, "Wait! Watch out!!". You take a few steps forward through the door and suddenly fall down into a hole. You are knocked unconscious.

The man shakes his head. "Hardly enough food for one person. I've only lived this long by looking after myself." He turns and starts walking away. > You he's right. You look around at the everything and realize that taking care of yourself might be the best bet. get back in your car > You are uncertain of where you are, but at least you have this car for now. You ride down the main road and look for a bigger city. You pass a farm house and you approach what looks like a warehouse and a mechanics shop just across from it. > You pull up to the mechanics shop You figure its possible to find more gas at the mechanics shop so you pull up to the garage. > You check the garage door The door is locked and the windows to get in are too high to reach. Maybe there is a key in the front desk area. > You check the front desk office You check the front and back door, they are both locked. However there are several windows you can break through. > You break window Thinking on it, you wrap your shirt around fist and bust the window open. You clear off as much debris as you can. > You crawl through window You pull yourself through and find yourself in a small bathroom. There doesn't seem to be anything important here. > You open door to front desk area You slowly open the door and see the front desk area is mostly untouched.There's lots of dust flying around. > You search the desk area You begin to scan the desk, there are lots of papers and receipts. You open the first drawer and find some keys. > You take keys You walk over to the front door and the keys on them. They don't seem to work.

You open the back door into the house and go inside. You're in a combined kitchen and living room. You see several cupboard doors are hanging open, a fridge and several couches around a TV. > You check the kitchen You go through cupboards and find a few cans of beans. You pull the them out and place them on the counter. You hear the other guy rummaging through things upstairs. > You check the refrigerator You open the fridge and are greeted by a magnificent mold colony. However there are three bottles of water that can be saved. > You put water on the kitchen counter As you place the water on the counter you hear a shuffle and crash from upstairs. Muffled yelling from the man you entered the house with. > You check on the man You quickly head up the stairs and enter the room with the open door. You the man cradling his hand and cursing. > You ask him what happened "Was some sort of freaky looking rodent!! It bit me on my hand when I reached under the bed. I think it's still under there..." I tell him that i'm gonna lift up the bed if he will ready his crowbar to kill it. He nods in agreement. > You lift the bed up You lift up the bed and wait for him to have some reaction. You watch him crouch down and use the crowbar to hit some boxes and bags. > You ask him if he can see it "I would say something if I did" he sasses back at you. Maybe it's in one of the boxes or bags trying to hide. You are starting to get tired holding up the bed. > You ask him to hurry He scoffs at you and begins to wail the crow bar on the boxes and bags. We don't hear anything or see anything. > You tell him you need to place the bed back down He pulls the boxes and bags out with the crowbar and places them to the side. He nods at you. > You put the bed down You both slowly look through boxes and bags. You find a hanger and use it to poke through things.

There's an old warehouse and a few mechanics shops. > You check warehouse Uncertain you'd find anything of need at the mechanics you head towards the warehouse. You're not certain what kind of warehouse it is though. > You open door You go straight for the front door and its locked. The windows are too high to break in to. > You check the back of the warehouse It takes you a minute to walk along to backside of the building. There you find several loading docks for semi trucks. You see on of the loading gate open just enough for to squeeze through. > You access the loading gate You check the loading gate before going under it. It seems pretty stuck. > You squeeze through the gate You sit on the ground and put your legs through the open. You laying down fully you pull your body through the opening. > You look around The warehouse looks slightly undisturbed. There are some boxes that have tipped over and scattered pallets in messy piles. > You check some boxes You grab the top of a box and pull it down. The box shifts forward and a bunch of doll heads spill. This startles you and causes you to gasp loudly. > You examine the rest of the warehouse You begin walking down the aisles and assume this a warehouse for toys or just parts of dolls. Then you distantly hear a playful voice say, "This way...come this way". They don't sound harmful. > You go in the direction you heard the voice come from "Hey, over here..." you hear the playful voice say from a short distance away. > You walk towards the voice You head in the direction you heard the voice come from. After passing a few aisles of stacked boxes you see an old man stand holding a doll. He beings to cackle.