She knew she would never finish the story she’d been working on. She had something different to write now.
Something that would consume her.
11
“Anything?” Robert asked.
A second of static, then Enrique’s voice came over the radio. “No. Nothing.”
“What about you, Evan?”
“Still clear over here, too,” Evan reported.
Thankfully the moon had come up an hour earlier, giving the spotters plenty of light to see most vessels that might approach the island.
“Great. I’ll check back in a bit.”
It had been a wild, unreal few days.
Isabella Island was a small private bump of land, sticking out of the ocean thirty-five miles off the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica. It had been purchased several years earlier by the Albino Entertainment Group — owners of hotels in Las Vegas, Macau, Greece, and the French Riviera — and turned into an island-wide resort that shared the island’s name. Twice a day, a private ferry would shuttle new guests to Isabella, and take those who had checked out back to the mainland.
The island was far enough offshore that Costa Rica was below the horizon, and, if guests wanted to, they could pretend they had found a bit of paradise in the middle of nowhere. Every Christmas, the resort ran a special deal aimed directly at singles who were looking for alternatives to spending the holidays with relatives they’d rather avoid. In fact, the humorous ad campaign they ran each year had won numerous Clio Awards, and was the main reason the island was always at full capacity during the holidays.
The management had expected to have every room occupied by Christmas Eve. What they hadn’t counted on was a worldwide terror attack.
On Thursday, December 22nd, the resort had been running at sixty percent capacity, with the bulk of guests due to arrive the morning of Christmas Eve. As usual, most of those already on the island spent their day by the water — sunbathing, jet skiing, swimming, and surfing.
One of the appealing features of the hotel was that none of the rooms had televisions. In fact, there were only five on the entire island. One in the manager’s office, one in the lobby that normally played a feed from a computer that listed the day’s available activities, and the other three in the open-air bar on the veranda overlooking the ocean.
On that Thursday, instead of being tuned to sporting events, the bar’s TVs were playing a marathon of Christmas movies off Blu-ray discs, so news of what was happening in the rest of the world didn’t reach anyone on the island until Dominic Ray, the manager, received a call from his brother over the satellite phone at a quarter to five in the afternoon. Before he’d hung up, Dominic had turned on the television in his office, and watched in stunned silence at the unfolding drama surrounding the mysterious shipping containers.
The businessman in him wanted to keep the news to himself, and let his guests continue to enjoy their stay. But he was, at heart, a man of good conscience, so there was no way he could keep this quiet.
He picked up the hotel phone and called Renee, his assistant manager.
“In five minutes, I want you to sound the tsunami alarm.”
“The alarm? Why?”
“I want to do a drill.”
“We never do drills this late in the day. We haven’t even briefed the new guests.” The last ferry of the day had made its stop fifteen minutes early, leaving eleven new guests while taking away seventeen.
“I don’t care. Just do it.”
Because of the tsunami that had struck the Indian Ocean back in 2004, the resort’s owners had been required to install an alarm and conduct weekly drills. After each group of guests finished checking in, they were given a briefing and a pamphlet that explained what was to be done if the alarm went off — make their way as quickly as possible to the hotel restaurant. The hotel itself was built in tiers up the side of the island’s only hill, with the restaurant at the top where the view was best.
Dominic reached the restaurant just as the alarm went off.
There was minor confusion at first, not only with the unprepared guests, but also with the staff who had not expected a test. Most of the employees, after a few seconds of surprise, decided it must be real, and started directing the guests where to go.
As people began streaming into the restaurant, Renee, who arrived right after the alarm was activated, counted them off. Since the island was private, management knew the exact number of visitors.
The guests were a mix of the winded, the scared, the confused, and the annoyed. Those closest to Dominic asked him what was going on, but all he said was, “In a minute.”
Finally, Renee worked her way through the crowd to where he was standing. “I think that’s it.”
“Everyone?”
“No. We’re missing five guests. Apparently there was a small group that went around to the far side.”
Dominic frowned. He had hoped everyone would be there, but it wasn’t surprising. “Thanks, Renee.”
He pulled out a chair from a nearby table, and climbed onto it so he was high enough for all to see him.
“Everyone! Everyone, if I could have your attention.”
The noise in the room lowered but didn’t die.
“Please,” he said. “This is important.”
It took another moment, but finally they all quieted down.
“First of all, there is no tsunami.”
Voices again, most relieved, but a few angry.
“So this was just a drill?” someone shouted.
“It’s not a drill, either.”
That garnered him several curious looks. He waited until he had everyone’s attention again, then said, “There’s something you need to know.”
It wasn’t exactly a mad rush down to the bar after the meeting, but close to it. Once everyone was reassembled there, Robert, the bartender and Dominic’s best friend, switched off Miracle on 34th Street and turned on CNN International.
Though the crowd numbered nearly two hundred, for the first ninety minutes there weren’t more than a dozen words spoken. The only reason that changed later was because Dominic told Robert that for the rest of the night, it would be an open bar. Surprisingly, only a handful of people drank more than they should have. The rest nursed their booze while they digested the unbelievable news.
It wasn’t until late that night before people started returning to their rooms. Eventually, only Dominic, Robert, and Renee remained. They sat together at a table, a bottle of barely touched Johnnie Walker Blue Label whiskey in front of them.
“So I’ve been thinking,” Robert said.
“What?” Dominic asked.
“The ferry. What happens when it comes in the morning?”
“You’re thinking a lot of people will want to go home?” Renee said.
“Well, yeah.”
“Anyone who wants to go should be able to,” Dominic said. “The boat can hold up to a hundred, if need be.”
Robert nodded, and was quiet for a moment. “Good, but that’s not really what I’m concerned about.”
“Okay,” Dominic said. “What, then?”
“What if there are new guests on the boat?”
Dominic shrugged. “We give them rooms.”
Again, Robert took a second before he spoke. “I don’t think anyone on that boat, guest or crew, should get off.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dominic, there’s none of those containers here on the island.” Though there had been no search done since they’d heard the news, the staff knew the island well. If there had been a container there, it would have been spotted already. “Costa Rica, on the other hand, is one of the places that’s reported having them. What if that woman in that video they’ve been playing is right, and the containers have been spitting out the Sage Flu? Right now, we’re all safe. But if someone on the boat tomorrow morning came in contact with that stuff, then…”