Survivor: South Pacific

Certain he was hallucinating, Meade jumped to his feet for a better look. A square-rigger she was, a military ship or a whaler, probably seeking a source of fresh water on the island. Her captain would be disappointed, but Meade could live with that. His prayers had been answered.

Rejuvenated with hope, Meade shuffled off into the heights to find Ogle, shouting the man’s name in his excitement. But the exertions of the climb soon stole the breath from him. He gasped for air and pressed on, hoping to locate Ogle from the island’s zenith.

Meade hadn’t been this high on the island for weeks. He picked his way through sharp brown rocks, the ancient remnants of the island’s volcanic past, and came upon a shallow defile near the summit.

He noticed the corpses first. Peasbury, his carcass crawling with maggots, empty eye sockets staring toward heaven in unanswered supplication. A skeleton that must have been Stallings lay sprawled upon the rocks.

And Ogle, a fresh kill being slaughtered on a slab of lava rock. Meade didn’t know what to think of his butcher, a man wearing only a loincloth, tanned like a native yet overburdened with an untended bush of sun-bleached blond hair and beard.

“ ’ello, Mr. Meade,” the man said in an Australian accent. “Nice to finally make your acquaintance.”

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)