Trapped

Sara pressed the call button, but didn’t speak. She wasn’t sure how to say what she was thinking without sounding paranoid.

Not that she didn’t have good reason to be paranoid.

Captain Prendick must have guessed her intent, because when she released the button he was in mid- sentence. “…try it for yourself. Emergency frequency is on channel A, one, five, six, point, eight, zero, zero. Use the word mayday. The Coast Guard will respond. Over.”

“Say that again. What do I press?”

“Hit the 16/9 button two times. That resets it to the emergency channel. Then hit it two more times to be able to reach me again. Over and out.”

Sara followed instructions, then pressed the call button again.

“Mayday, mayday, this is Sara Randhurst. I’m on Rock Island with several children and we need help.”

After a pause, a nasally voice said, “Mrs. Randhurst, this is the Coast Guard. We have been informed of your situation. Estimated time of arrival is nineteen minutes. We’ll be coming ashore on the north-east beach, over.”

“Thank you so much,” Sara said. She took a quick glance at the still-twitching cannibal and added, “Bring guns. Lots of guns.”

“Roger that, Mrs. Randhurst. Coast Guard over and out.”

Sara clipped the walkie-talkie to her belt and let out a long breath. They needed to get moving. Not only because of the danger, but because Sara didn’t want to sit still long enough to deal with everything on her mind. She and Cindy helped Tyrone to his feet, Sara shouldered the backpack, and the trio got on their way.

The woods were dark. Quiet. Scary. Sara stopped often to check the compass and scan the outlying foliage for pursuers. Tyrone was moaning softly, but not soft enough. Sara was afraid he might be heard.

Cindy whispered, “How much farther?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tyrone is really cold.”

“I think he’s going into shock, Cindy.”

“What do we do?”

“We keep going. Help is on the way. They’ll take care of him.”

A few steps later, Tyrone couldn’t walk anymore. Sara sat him down and handed Cindy a bottle of water.

“Make sure he drinks this.”

“Where are you going?” The teen looked panicked.

“I think I can hear waves. I’m only going a few yards ahead.”

“Please don’t leave us, Sara.”

Sara drilled her eyes into Cindy. “I won’t. You have my word. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Leaving Tyrone in Cindy’s capable hands, Sara pressed ahead. In just a few steps she found something. Not Lake Huron, but something that indicated the water was close.

A boat.

It was on its side, the hull split wide open, vines and overgrowth obscuring the outline. Sara guessed it had been here for years. She played the tiny flashlight beam across the bottom, up the side, to the stern, and read the fading name painted there.

SS MINNOW

That was the boat from the TV show Gilligan’s Island. But it was also the name Martin had used in his campfire story, when he talked about the party of eight who had come to the island and were attacked.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. This must have been the boat he was talking about. But how could he have known? Unless…

Sara crept around to the other side of the boat, a growing feeling of dread creeping up her back. She had to fight the thicket, and branches poked at her hair and caught on her clothing. The cabin was setting on the ground, partially crushed like a stepped-on soda can. Two of the bridge windows were broken out. Sara shone the light through one, peering into the cabin interior.

The inside was filled with mud and dead leaves. Pieces of a deck chair, part of a life preserver, and various other detritus vied for space with an abandoned raccoon nest. Amid the mess, resting on a pile of disintegrating magazines, was a hardcover book that looked disturbingly familiar. The silver embossing on the cover was faded and dirty, but it clearly said, LOG.

Sara reached through the window, brushing the book with her fingertips. She leaned in further, snagged it, and then something screeched. Before she could pull back, it pounced, scrambling up her arm, over her shoulder, and racing into the forest.

Guess that raccoon nest wasn’t abandoned after all, Sara thought, leaning against the wreckage, clutching the book to her hammering heart. When her pulse returned to something resembling normal, she took a closer look at the log.

Please don’t let this be what I think it is.

The book was damp and smelled of mildew. The cardboard cover wilted as she opened it up. There, on the first page, Sara’s fears were confirmed. Handwritten on the first blank line was:

SS MINNOW, CAPTAIN JOSEPH RANDHURST

Joe. Martin’s brother.

Sara had always liked her brother-in-law. Joe was sort of like a more playful, less serious version of her husband. Rather than dedicating his life to making a difference, Joe preferred the life of leisure, day trading and blowing his money on travel and toys. Sara could remember the day Joe talked about buying a boat. He’d come over for Thanksgiving dinner before she and Martin had gotten married, extolling the many virtues of living on the open water. The three of them killed four bottles of wine, and afterward Martin and Sara disregarded Joe’s plans. Joe always talked about doing silly things like that, but never did.

For Christmas that year, Sara had bought Joe the captain’s log book as a gag gift, a goofy nod to that memorable night.

That spring, Joe disappeared.

Martin had taken some time off to search for him. He still continued to take occasional weekends to follow down some old lead or ancient hearsay, refusing to believe his brother was dead.

It seemed Joe had bought that boat after all. He’d apparently named it the SS Minnow, and taken it here.

Which meant Martin knew Joe had come here. After all these years, he’d followed his brother’s trail to Plincer’s island.

Sara shook her head, not wanting to believe it. How could her husband bring the children here? How could he risk all of their lives?

“I didn’t know there was anyone here, Sara. Jesus, I would never do anything to hurt you or the kids. You know that.”

But was that the truth? Was he so anxious to find his brother that he had jeopardized all of them?

No, not Martin. Martin couldn’t have brought them here if he thought it could do them harm. Especially Jack. Martin wouldn’t ever willingly put their child in danger.

Yet Sara couldn’t help but wonder. If Martin had kept this secret from her, what other secrets had he kept?

Sara was dwelling on that when she heard someone scream.

Martin followed the cries, hurrying through the woods as fast as he could, one hand protectively covering his sleeping child.

Meticulous a planner as Martin was, he couldn’t have predicted all of the misfortunes that occurred on this trip. It was all his fault, he knew. Hopefully the consequences wouldn’t be as dire as they were shaping up to be.

He hurdled a cluster of Hawthorn shrubs and stopped dead, his flashlight focusing on Tom.

Tom wasn’t alone. A large man with sharp teeth was munching on his finger.