James Rodriguez

Thara didn't appear again in the darkness beside me.

Whatever connection the island had forged couldn't reach this far.

Or perhaps, having spoken my truth aloud, I'd finally broken its hold completely.

The Cessna engine hummed steadily as we left Yasser Island behind.

Five colleagues remained there forever.

Five people who couldn't escape their past.

I watched the instrument panel soft glow and planned what I would tell Spencer Wilson about his failed expedition, about what his money had bought on an island that fed on human pain.

Dawn broke over the Pacific in gradual increments of visibility.

First, just a faint lightning along the eastern horizon, then spedding fingers of pale orange across cloud banks.

The systems control panel show fuel at 17%, enough for another hour of fight if pushed.

We wouldn't need it.

Fiji's main island materialised through morning haze, coastline defining itself against the water.

Emily had lost consciousness for hours earlier, slumped against the passenger window.

Exhaustion, dehydration and shock had finally claimed her after 30 minutes of fitful sleep attempts.

Her ankle had swollen to twice its normal size, straining against her boot laces.

Her breathing remained shallow but steady.

I radioed the approach to Knott's private aviation sector, requesting medical assistance upon landing.

The controller's voice crackled back with confirmation.

Morning light linted off the runway as I lined up the Cessna floats with a water landing channel adjacent to the main airstrip.

The Zeppelin settled onto the water with a series of gentle bumps.