Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
The solution was elegant. Natural. Self-sustaining.
Guinea fowl.
I released thirty birds three years ago. Semi-domesticated flock imported from a breeding facility in Jamaica. They adapted immediately, roosting in the trees near the resort compound, patrolling the jungle paths like they'd been doing it their entire lives.
Now there are a hundred and fifty of them.
Maybe more—they breed faster than I track.
Loud as hell. Their calls echo through the jungle at dawn and dusk, sharp and grating. But effective.
They eat everything. Ticks, mosquitoes, centipedes, scorpions. And snakes—Christ, they're vicious with snakes. I've watched them mob a fer-de-lance, pecking and clawing until it's shredded meat.
The trails Scarletta's walking right now are relatively safe. The guinea fowl clear them daily, hunting for insects and small reptiles. She might see one or two snakes if she's unlucky, but they'll be small, non-venomous, already fleeing from the birds' territories.
Still doesn't stop her from muttering about them.
"Please no snakes, please no snakes, please—"
Camera 5 picks up her voice as she climbs over a moss-covered boulder. Her bare pussy flashes in the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Freshly shaved. Glistening with sweat already.
She lands hard on the other side, stumbles, catches herself against a tree trunk.
Then freezes.
Her eyes lock on something in the underbrush.
A gecko. Six inches long, bright green, completely harmless.
It blinks at her.
She screams and runs.
I laugh. Actually laugh. First genuine amusement I've felt in weeks.
She makes it another fifty feet before slowing down, chest heaving, looking back over her shoulder to confirm the lizard didn't chase her.
The jungle's not that dangerous. Not on Story Island.
I've cultivated this place carefully. Every hundred yards along the marked trails, there's a bug zapper—solar-powered units mounted in trees, designed to look like birdhouses from a distance. They hum quietly, drawing mosquitoes and gnats away from the paths.
Citronella torches at each station. Natural repellent plants—lemongrass, marigolds, basil—cultivated in strategic clusters near the pavilion and rest areas.
The staging pavilion where the attendants prepared her has a fine mesh screening it from fifty yards out. Looks like open air from inside, but it's basically like a pool lanai, only much bigger. There is one open end—the path that leads to Station 1. So some bugs do get in, but not many.
Luxury wilderness.
That's the aesthetic I maintain.
Clients pay for psychological intensity, not tropical diseases.
Scarletta stops walking. Bends forward, hands on her knees, breathing hard. She's only covered maybe two hundred feet total. Has another mile to go.
The tracker watch on her wrist beeps.
1:54:12.
She looks at it. Realizes how much time she's already wasted. Straightens up, wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and keeps moving.
Slower now. More careful. Watching where she steps.
Smart girl.
Camera 6 shows her approaching the first creek crossing. Fifteen feet wide, knee-deep, crystal clear water running over smooth stones. I had this entire stream bed cleared and sanitized. No sharp rocks, no leeches, no parasites.
She stands at the edge, staring down at the water like it might be acid.
"It's just water," she whispers to herself. "Just fucking water."
But she's thinking about what's in it. What might be in it. Bacteria, parasites, things that could crawl up inside her while she's wading across.
She's not wrong to worry.
On Chaff Island, the water's filthy. Stagnant pools breeding grounds for dengue and malaria. Volk will have to drink it eventually, or die of dehydration. Either choice kills him, just at different speeds.
The water here on Story Island is filtered through volcanic rock, tested weekly by my staff, and treated with UV purification systems hidden upstream.
Scarletta could drink straight from this creek and be fine.
But she doesn't know that.
She steps in slowly. Gasps at the temperature—it's cold, fed by underground springs—and picks her way across with exaggerated care.
Halfway through, something brushes her ankle.
She shrieks, flails, almost falls.
Just a leaf. Carried by the current.
She makes it to the far bank and collapses on the moss, breathing like she just sprinted a marathon.
1:51:33.
"Get up," I say out loud, even though she can't hear me. "You're wasting time."
But she doesn't get up. She lies there on her back, naked and panting, staring up at the canopy.
A guinea fowl crashes through the underbrush twenty feet from her position.
She bolts upright, eyes wide.
The bird emerges onto the path. Speckled grey and white, about the size of a small chicken, with a distinctive helmet-like crest on its head.
It looks at her.
She looks at it.
"Nice bird," she whispers. "Good bird. Don't… peck me."
The guinea fowl clucks—low, rattling sound—and waddles past her into the jungle on the other side of the creek.
Scarletta watches it disappear, then looks down at the tracker.
1:50:18.
"Shit."
She gets to her feet. Brushes moss off her ass. Picks up her crumpled card from where she dropped it, checks the map. Checks her watch. Looks around orienting herself.
Ah, she's figured out there's a compass on there.
She starts walking. Faster now. Finally understanding that time is the real enemy here, not the jungle.