“You wanna take the point?” Swaney shot back.
Vince did not reply. No one else volunteered. They picked up their equipment and began moving. There was more thunder and it seemed closer. When the rain began, dusk enveloped the jungle. They hacked out a small clearing and searched every log and burrow and pile of leaves for snakes. Roy and Vince had packed rain flys, and they strung them between two saplings for shelter. The rain, though, was kept away by the canopy. As it grew heavier it leaked down the trunks of the trees and began soaking the ground.
Swaney checked his watch at 8:00 p.m. Its dial gave the only faint light. The jungle was black, so dark and dense that the men could not see each other. They sat on the damp soil, backs to each other, watching the ground, trying to see signs of anything that might cause trouble. Swaney said he would pull the first hour of sentry duty. Exhausted, the other three finally nodded off. The thunder and rain faded as the storm moved away.
The jungle was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the rustling of tree limbs high above. Swaney fought to stay awake, and had nodded off himself when he heard panthers in the distance.
7
Their second day on Dark Isle was beginning to look like their first, when they suddenly saw light. The canopy thinned ahead of them and the vegetation was not as dense. As weary as they were, they managed to shift to a faster walk and were soon on the beach. They had survived a nightmare, fought off poisonous snakes and avoided being mauled by panthers, and they were still in one piece. All four had numerous cuts and scratches but nothing serious.
They emerged at the far north end of the island, on the Atlantic side, about a mile from their camp. An hour later they saw their dinghy where they’d left it. Their tents were still pitched. The coolers had not been touched. They opened them and almost celebrated with cold water, ham sandwiches, and fruit. As they ate, they broke camp and tossed everything into the dinghy. A speedy exit from Dark Isle was underway. When they were in open water, their cell phones and GPS monitors suddenly had service.
Swaney avoided the harbor at Santa Rosa and navigated through the inlet to the Atlantic. At the southern tip of Camino Island, they puttered into a small marina. They moored the dinghy at the pier, unloaded it, then jumped into a waiting van. At the Sheraton, they showered, ate some more, and spent an hour on a conference call with headquarters in Atlanta.
By then, all four were complaining of fever and stomach cramps. They disbanded at the hotel, said quick goodbyes, and went separate ways. Vince, though, was too dizzy to drive and stayed in a hotel room. The small cuts on his arm were throbbing and blisters were forming on both wrists. His bowels were in turmoil and he sat on the commode for a long time. When he realized he could not walk without leaning against the walls, he called an ambulance and was taken to the hospital in Santa Rosa.
Swaney drove forty minutes to the airport in Jacksonville. His flight to Atlanta was two hours away, but he never made it. A violent case of diarrhea hit him in the terminal and he collapsed in the men’s room. He had a high fever, severe chills, and blisters were popping up on his forearms. He was taken to a hospital in Jacksonville.
Roy lived in Ponte Vedra, ninety minutes south of Camino Island, and by the time he pulled into the driveway his wife was waiting. He had vomited on himself and was so dizzy he could barely see. He was delirious and kept saying he had no idea what was happening. His arms and legs were swollen and his hands were turning red. His wife was terrified and called 911.
Marcus died first. They found him the following day slumped in the front seat of his car at a rest area off Interstate 10 near Tallahassee. He had called his brother and reported that he was deathly ill, delirious, and suffering from acute diarrhea, among other things. His brother lived in Chicago and could not render aid at the moment. The state trooper who tapped on his window, saw his body, and finally opened the door, was nearly knocked out by the nauseous odor. Blisters and lesions covered his face and arms. First responders quickly realized it was too late and eventually hauled his body to the county morgue.
Swaney’s doctors were the first to diagnose his condition — Vibrio vulnificus. Flesh-eating bacteria. It had apparently entered his body through one or more of the many nicks, scratches, and cuts he had incurred but largely ignored. Now they were so swollen and painful he had to be sedated. From there he went into a coma and never came out.
Vince died in the Santa Rosa hospital while his doctors were still scratching their heads. Roy lingered for a week in Ponte Vedra as his wife watched in horror as his skin rotted and turned black. When the doctor said it was time to turn off the machines, she did not object.
It took Harmon a couple of weeks to piece together the puzzle. All four men died of Vibrio vulnificus, which led to a condition called necrotizing fasciitis, type 3. It was a rare flesh-eating bacteria but not unheard of. In the United States there are about thirty such deaths each year, almost all in warm, tropical climates. Since the four deaths occurred in separate places, there was no way to link them to the job at Dark Isle. Indeed, that little project had been secretive, and Harmon wasn’t about to divulge anything that was not required. The company had done nothing wrong, nor had anyone else. It would be difficult if not impossible to prove where and when the bacteria was encountered.
The report to Tidal Breeze did not mention the four deaths. It said nothing about the mysterious, temporary blackout of all communications. It certainly didn’t mention the threat of wild animals — panthers and diamondbacks. It assured the client that there were no signs of ancient life on the island. No roads, trails, abandoned dwellings, fences, settlements, cemeteries. Nothing. Nothing but piles and mounds of fallen trees, broken limbs, and dead vegetation. Clearing the island for development would be a “substantial challenge,” since so much would have to be hauled away, but it was possible.
The report was exactly what Tidal Breeze had in mind, and with it in hand the company pushed on with its aggressive plans to develop Panther Cay.
Chapter Three
The Curse
1
After two weeks of sightseeing, hiking, camping, pub-crawling, and loafing in the chilly air of the Highlands, Mercer and Thomas had returned to the heat and humidity of summertime Florida. It was a rude reentry. The first morning back, they tried to enjoy coffee on the veranda but quickly surrendered to the heat and bugs. Their previous coffee had been on the terrace of a Scottish castle, wrapped in quilts.
But life goes on. It was now already July, and classes started at Ole Miss in late August. The summer was half over.
They were consumed with Lovely’s history of Dark Isle. Mercer wanted it to be her next book but could not decide if it should be fiction or nonfiction. She could easily take the story, otherwise known as “stealing” in the trade and perfectly acceptable, and change the names and as many of the facts as she wanted. She would have complete literary license to create and fabricate. Thomas preferred nonfiction and wanted her to stick to the truth. He had sort of agreed to work as her researcher, though they had a long way to go. Being married would be enough of a challenge. They weren’t sure if they could survive working together.
They went together to the Santa Rosa library and got lost in old newspapers, but didn’t find much about Dark Isle. Lovely’s story spanned over 250 years and had plenty of gaps. They didn’t expect to verify any of it, but they had to dig anyway. Her story also stretched the imagination at times, almost to the point of disbelief.