Lost Paradise (The Savages of the Blue Lagoon)

31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

As we step into the small clearing, the building seems to materialize like an oasis before us. Eve and Byron flank either side me, and we gaze at the looming structure, half-concealed by vines and shadows. Yet, unmistakably, it's one of those pop-up metal containers spanning two floors, weathered and rusted, giving the impression of a makeshift facility carved out of the jungle.

“It’s incredible,” Byron breathes, his voice barely above a whisper as we take in the sight before us. “So people were here on this island before us.”

“It explains the watermelons and some of the other more western fruit here. Most likely, they brought them and cultivated them here.”

“And the lack of animals,” Eve adds. “They probably killed them off.”

“It’s easier to exterminate mammals than reptiles and birds,” Byron concludes, his gaze lingering on the scene ahead.

“The bigger question is what and why they were here. What did this island have?” I say, staring at the abandoned building that has stood forgotten by time itself. Vines snake their way up the walls, weaving a tangled tapestry of greenery around the rusted metal. Broken shards of glass litter the ground, remnants of windows long since shattered.

“It looks as if it’s been here for ages,” Eve remarks, her voice tinging with apprehension. “Who knows what secrets are inside.”

As we approach cautiously, we notice long panels attached to the structure.

“Solar panels,” Byron says, pointing at them.

Their surfaces cracked and faded from years of neglect.

“So this place isn’t so old?” Eve asks curiously.

Byron shrugs, “Don’t know luv. Solar panels have existed since the sixties. I imagine whatever they needed them for was because of the energy they required to create power. But now they’re just relics from a bygone era. Completely unusable by the looks of it.”

With each step we take forward, there’s a sense of unease settling over me, as if the very walls of this building hold whispered secrets and hidden dangers. But then there’s that need-to-know drive in me to uncover the truth of the mysteries of this island.

“I think this place once held all the answers of whatever the fuck is going on the island,” Eve declares, echoing my thoughts.

“Stay here,” I instruct both of them. “I’ll go in first,” I firmly say, my voice echoing around us.

I cautiously approach the door, its rusted chain clinging weakly. With a firm wrench, the chain snaps and falls, and I pull the creaking door open. Standing at the entrance, a wave of musty air greets me, tinged with the faint scent of chemicals and decay.

With careful steps, I venture further into the room, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of danger. But as I look around, a sense of awe washes over me. The lab is remarkably well-preserved, frozen in time like a relic from another era. Everything is in place—exhaust cabinets, test tubes, flasks—all the attributes of a fully functional laboratory.

I gape at the rows of reagents, the gleaming glassware, and the neatly organized shelves of equipment. It was as if the scientists who once worked here had simply stepped out for a moment, leaving behind a perfect snapshot of their research.

Byron is going to be amazed.

"Guys, you've got to see this," I call out, unable to contain my excitement any longer.

They join me, eagerly stepping into the lab with cautious curiosity. Together, we explore the room, marveling at the relics of a bygone era.

“Holy fucking shit,” Eve blurts out as her eyes dart around. “This isn’t just abandoned, it’s freaking ancient.”

“Maybe decades old,” I say in agreement, yet it remains eerily untouched by time, unlike outside.

Byron picks up a bottle from a nearby shelf, his brow furrowing in confusion as he examines the old, faded label. “This is Russian,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, and he picks up another bottle .

The discovery sends a shiver down my spine, a sense of unease creeping over me.

“What were they doing here? And what became of them?” I ask.

This place holds so many answers yet remains an even bigger mystery, drawing us further into the heart of the unknown.

A shiver runs down my spine, a sense of unease creeping over me. What secrets lay hidden within the walls of this forgotten laboratory? And what had become of the scientists who had once used this place? With each passing moment, the mystery deepens, drawing us further into the heart of the unknown.

I pick up an old yellow newspaper and gently brush off the dirt. It’s Russian as well, but my breath catches in my throat as I scan the date printed on the front page.

“1989,” I say, holding it up to them. “This is Soviet era.”

“Which means they abandoned it when the Cold War ended,” Eve explains.

“The USSR fell in 1991,” I say, remembering one of the few history classes I paid attention to in high school. “That’s a three-year difference,” I murmur, “Why would they have a paper that’s three years old?”

My question hangs in the air, unanswered and unsettling, as we exchange uneasy glances.

"It’s just a theory, but work with me on this,” Byron remarks, his tone thoughtful. “1989 was the year the Berlin Wall fell. It was one of the series of events that started the unraveling of communism in Eastern Europe."

“So they got pulled from the project when problems started?” I voice my opinion.

“If this research lab had indeed been abandoned in 1989, it meant that its occupants had been pulled from their work—likely in connection to the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

The pieces of the puzzle fall into place with chilling clarity.

"But why leave everything behind?" Eve wonders aloud, and my mind races with possibilities. "And why keep it hidden for so long?"

Byron’s expression reflects the gravity of her question and this situation. "It was probably KGB-related," he suggests. "Or even more secretive than that. The Americans had the Manhattan Project wrapped up in secrets during the second world war. Who knows what the Russians were up to behind the Iron Curtain and what they were planning here. "

The thought sends another shiver down my spine as we stand in this abandoned laboratory, surrounded by the remnant of a forgotten era. I can’t help but feel a sense of unease, a realization that we are treading on ground shrouded in mystery and danger.

I open a couple of drawers, but there’s nothing of interest here other than some tools I know we can find useful. I follow the others through the door into another area that seems like the kitchen with tables and chairs. Eve flops into one, regardless of how dirty it is.

“Damn, it feels like I haven’t sat on a chair for months.” She says, and I relax on a chair beside her.

“It would feel even nicer if it were my lap you are sitting on,” I say, grabbing her to sit on me. She smiles at me, and I swear it’s the first positive banter we’ve had all morning.

We watch Byron open the cupboards and pull out old plastic plates and cutlery, which I know we’ll be taking back to camp.

“You know, we could just set up camp here,” I suggest, pressing a kiss to Eve’s bare shoulder, savoring the warmth of her skin and the faint scent of sweat and adventure that clings to her. Her skin seems to have freckled slightly over the last days or so. I could get lost just counting each one; it’s hypnotic and relaxing.

“We don’t know which side of the border this sits on. The camp is safer.”

“Don’t you think the savages would have utilized this place if it were on their turf?”

“Zane’s right,” Eve chimes in.

“But we don’t know what this place was used for. There are chemicals in those jars that tell me this was a chemical lab. The last thing I want to be around is finding out we’ve been sleeping in some toxic shite,” Byron suggests, and I can see his point.

“I think we can find some use in some of these things. Maybe find a bag where we can load them up and take them with us. I want to continue looking around to try and decipher what this place was used for.”

Eve nods her head and gets off my lap, much to my disappointment.

Byron quickly shuffles himself out of the room, eager to check out the rest of this facility.

“Are you okay doing this?” I ask Eve, eager to see what else there is in this place.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Maybe we can find their sleeping quarters and scrounge up some decent linens, even if they are thirty years old," she replies with a determined smile.

I smile back at her, but inside, guilt gnaws at me. Eve shouldn't have to root through garbage to find a semblance of human comfort. I would give her the world if I could. Instead of voicing my thoughts, I hurriedly scramble out, head down, avoiding eye contact.

This is Eve Winters we're talking about—digging through trash. Before Byron filled me in on her background, maybe I didn't fully understand who she was. But now that I do, all I want is the best for her.

She’s my woman, for fuck’s sake. Even if she hadn’t come from America’s royalty, I still would have wanted only the best for her and done everything in my power to make sure she got it.

But instead of letting my anger get the best of me, I storm off down the hallway, not entirely sure what I’m searching for. Right now, I’m just overwhelmed by frustration, unsure of my next move, and feeling lost in this situation.

Be helpful, for fuck’s sake!

I need to use my fucking brain, not my ego!

Looking around the hallway, I will myself to focus on the current mission.

I shut off my inner voice. It does me no good.

The hallway here is lined with faded posters with simple pictures dedicated to the topic of fire safety in Russian. Opening a door that leads me to another hallway and an office room that instantly takes me thirty or forty years back in time. A red-colored Lenin poster hangs on the wall, and I imagine that the sparsely designed furnishings are typical of the Soviet-era style.

On one of the tables, there’s a severely dusty pewter drinking cup. I pick it up and examine it, realizing it had been awarded for winning a chess tournament. It probably used to belong to one of the people who worked here. I put it down exactly where I found it as if the person might return looking for it.

Reaching up to the top of a cabinet, I pull down two dusty brown filing boxes. Inside are large folders with dozens of survey sheet samples and copies made by hand, with masses of notes in colored pencils and markers. I wonder if any of these are maps of our island.

My eyes move towards the long table, where it seems someone has filled a few boxes with stuff, preparing to move out, except they are still here. Left as it were thirty-odd years ago. On a table, there are abandoned certificates and, more surprisingly, individual medical records.

I pick a bunch up.

They look like vaccination cards.

Why would they need these and then leave them behind?

These are personal things.

The last room in here seems to be some sort of records room with a huge cabinet stuffed with old documents that is about to fall down. In a corner, I see what I assume is a Soviet radio gramophone.

What I would give for a bit of music in my life right now.

I don’t linger longer than necessary in here. Maybe Byron can make something of these items, and it’s better that he comes here and takes a look. The guy is a whizz-kid with extraordinary knowledge about everything.

As I turn to leave, my eye catches on a latch on the wall

Except it's not a wall; it’s a secret door or entrance. Finding myself in front of this closed entry, I check to see if I either pull or push it open. Instead, it slides, disappearing inside the wall.

What I walk into doesn’t even prepare me for what I come across.

It’s a stark, clinical-looking room, but there’s a large glass window that divides it. I push the entire door into the wall to allow whatever light there is to filter through this windowless room.

I go over to the glass partition and observe the area around me.

Behind the glass in the center of the second room stands a solitary chair, its frame worn and weathered as if it had borne witness to countless trials and tribulations.

There’s an old wooden desk in the corner facing a wall. A kind of Soviet telephone apparatus sitting on it. Faded polaroid photographs are strewn across the table with files of what I assume are the natives of this island strapped in the chair inside the glass room. Everywhere are various flasks and pippets. An old Russian typewriter sits amid the chaos on the desk.

I move closer to the glass. Leather restraints hang limply from its arms, a silent reminder of its sinister purpose. My stomach churns with dread as I realize the implications of what I have stumbled upon.

A two-way mirror looms ominously against the far wall, its surface clouded with age and neglect. Behind its murky reflection, unseen eyes seemed to watch my every move, sending a shiver down my spine .

"What do you think this was used for?"

Eve's voice startles me, and I nearly jump out of my skin as she and Byron join me in the dimly lit room.

"I'm not sure," I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. But the answer is all too clear—the room and those photographs reek of interrogation, of pain and suffering inflicted in the name of science long buried.

As we stand in silence, the weight of our discovery presses down upon us like a leaden weight. I can't help but feel a sense of foreboding. What other horrors lay hidden within the walls of this forsaken place? And what dark secrets are waiting to be unearthed in the depths of the jungle?

Eve steps closer to one of the dusty tables, examining a set of rusted instruments scattered around the desk. "These look like they could have been used for medical procedures, but they also seem... off. Not like typical medical tools."

"Guys, over here," I call softly, spotting a peculiar seam in the wall. It looks out of place, like it might be hiding something. Eve and Byron join me, our eyes scanning the wall with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

I point to the seam. "There's something behind this wall. It looks like a hidden door."

Eve runs her fingers along the edge, feeling for any signs of a mechanism. "It's definitely a door. But it's locked. We need something to pry it open."

Byron's face lights up with a sudden idea. "I'll be right back," he says, disappearing back into the office.

The silence stretches on as Eve, and I wait. My mind races with possibilities of what might be hidden behind the door.

After a few minutes, Byron returns, a triumphant grin on his face. In his hands is a long metal bar, almost like a crowbar. "This should do the trick."

He wedges it into the gap and, with a grunt, puts all his weight into it. The lock resists for a moment, then gives way with a loud snap. The door creaks open, revealing a dark room filled with shelves. Dust motes swirl in the air from the dim light that sweeps through as we step inside.

Our eyes sweep over rows of metal canisters of old-fashioned camera reels and VCR tapes, each meticulously labeled in Russian with dates ranging from the 1960s to the late 1980s. Eve picks up a reel, blowing off the dust and squinting at the label. "These are records. They were documenting their experiments."

Byron examines a tape, his brow furrowing. A sense of dread fills the room as we contemplate what to do next.

A chill runs down my spine as I realize the significance.

We walk back into the glass room.

Byron picks up a file, its edges yellowed with age. "Everything’s in Russian. We can’t read it, but look at the pictures and diagrams. It’s clear they were conducting experiments."

Eve gasps, her eyes wide with realization. "Experiments? Like what? Medical tests, viruses?"

Byron's expression darkens as he flips through the faded pages. "There are images of brain scans, chemical compounds, and diagrams that look like they’re mapping out sensory responses. This isn’t just medical experimentation.”

“What then?” I ask.

“I think they were trying to manipulate minds," Byron says.

Eve's eyes widen in horror. "The natives. They must have been using the island's inhabitants as test subjects."

My stomach churns as I piece together the implications. "So, they were using the natives as test subjects for these experiments. But why stop at medical tests? What else were they hoping to achieve?"

Eve moves to a set of old Polaroid photographs pinned to the wall. "These images... look at their eyes. They seem vacant, almost... lost. Like they've been hollowed out."

Byron nods, examining a series of charts. "Mind control. If they could control minds, they could create perfect soldiers, or spies, or... who knows what else."

I feel a shiver run down my spine. "But what if it worked? What if they succeeded? Could there still be... remnants of their experiments out there?"

Our eyes widen as we all make the connection.

"Wait, the border where the natives don't cross. It's a result of the mind control experiments!" I confirm exactly what’s on our minds.

Byron's face pales. "But how? The Russians left over thirty years ago. How could this control still be in place, especially through generations? The original natives that were controlled must be old by now, and what about those born afterward?"

We stand in stunned silence, grappling with the implications. I try to wrap my mind around it. "Could it be some kind of lasting psychological conditioning passed down from parents to children? Or maybe there's something in the environment—some residual effect of the experiments?"

Eve looks thoughtful. "There must be a mechanism we're not seeing. Something that perpetuates the control even after all this time. It could be in the water, the food, or some signal or trigger that's still active."

Byron shakes his head. "We weren’t affected, and we eat the same seafood from the same ocean. But how do we figure out what it is? And more importantly, how do we stop it?"

“Why the fuck would we want to stop it?”

“Because it’s their island.”

“And they want to have us for dinner. And I mean us on that dinner menu.”

Byron takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of our discovery. "We need to find the source. There must be something here, some clue that will tell us how the Russians maintained control. If we can understand that, maybe we can figure out how to maintain our safety from the natives."

Eve nods, her expression intense. "Maybe the elders were manipulated first. Given their limited worldview and superstitions, they could have used whatever they were told to manipulate the younger generation. It’s like a twisted version of the Matrix—the younger generations are oblivious to the truth and believe what they are told without question."

Byron's eyes widen in realization. "So, the cycle continues. The elders pass on these beliefs, and the younger generation grows up accepting them as truth, never questioning the invisible barriers."

“Yeah, but are you actually suggesting that since the late 80s, not one native strolled past it? Like their little girl did?” I ask skeptically.

Byron looks thoughtful, his brow furrowing. "It's hard to believe, but maybe the conditioning is that strong. If the elders were manipulated and then passed down these beliefs with such intensity, it could create an unbreakable mental barrier."

Eve nods, agreeing with him. "Think about it. If you grow up being told that crossing the border means certain death or something equally terrifying, would you risk it? Especially if everyone around you reinforces that belief?"

I run a nervous hand through my hair, frustration evident. "So, you're saying that the fear is so deeply ingrained that even the newer generations, who never directly experienced the original experiments, still adhere to it without question?"

"Exactly," Eve responds. "It's like a self-perpetuating cycle. The elders, who were directly influenced, passed down the fear and the stories. The younger ones accept it as absolute truth because it's all they've ever known."

“Jesus, this goes against the grain of humanity,” I blow out frustrated breath as my eyes graze over those chilling wall photos.

“You would be amazed what America does behind closed doors,” Byron says.

“How would you even know what the US does?” I glare at him as he looks all smug at me.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eve interrupts. “What we believe is that the natives have been deterred from crossing the border for thirty-plus years, which means they aren’t going to start crossing back over soon. So I suggest we use the opportunity to look for anything that can help us get off the island fast, like a radio controller or something. I mean, they had freaking phones. How did they have phones without phone lines?”

“Satellite,” Byron says, his eyes lighting up with sudden realization. He turns on his heel and leaves the room fast.

Eve and I exchange quick glances before sprinting after him, the urgency of the moment propelling us forward. Byron's strides are long and purposeful, driven by the spark of an idea that might be our salvation.

"Where are we going?" I call out as we rush to keep up.

"To find a generator," he shouts back over his shoulder. "If we can power it up, we can use the satellite dish I saw on the roof earlier to phone for rescue."

Eve's face brightens with hope. "Do you think it’ll still work after all these years?"

Byron doesn’t slow down as he answers. "It's a long shot, but it’s the best chance we've got.”

We follow him deeper into the abandoned structure, the corridors dark and filled with the musty scent of decay. Byron moves with determination, his eyes scanning the walls and doorways for any sign of a generator room.

After what feels like an eternity of winding through the facility, Byron stops in front of a heavy metal door marked with faded letters. "This has to be it. "

He pushes the door open with a creak, and we step inside. The room is cramped and filled with old machinery, wires hanging like cobwebs from the ceiling. In the corner, partially obscured by debris, stands a large, rusted generator.

Rolling up his sleeves, he approaches it, wiping away layers of dust and grime. "Help me clear this off," he says, and we all pitch in, moving junk and clearing a path.

Once we have the generator exposed, Byron inspects it closely. "It looks like it’s in decent shape.”

“We just need to see if there’s any fuel left and if we can get it running."

“Diesel isn’t diesel after thirty years. All you’ll end up doing is clogging up the engine.”

“So we have a generator but no fuel. That really sucks.”

“Maybe not,” Byron stands there in a daze, lost in thought. “This is another long shot, but you can convert vegetable oil into diesel.”

“The kitchen!” Eve exclaims and races out with me behind her.

We open every cupboard, and while we discover some interesting inedible products probably way past their sell-by dates, we only find a half-empty bottle of what we might think could have been oil.

“This island is in the middle of nowhere, which means it was always well stocked with long-lasting food items,” Eve says thoughtfully. “They must have kept a food pantry to store months of food until the next delivery.”

I remember seeing a door under the stairs, and I’m sure there’s a basement in this containment facility. Heading out, I run into Byron, who must have climbed the roof as his clothes are torn and smeared with dirt and sweat from his climb up the jungle-covered roof. He’s cradling a battered and broken satellite in his arms, its once gleaming surface now dull and marred with rust and grime. Vines and moss cling to its sides, evidence of its long abandonment in the unforgiving elements.

The satellite’s dish is bent and warped, with several large dents marring its concave surface. A jagged crack runs across it, splitting it almost in two. The delicate mesh that once covered the dish is torn in multiple places, hanging in tattered strips that flutter with every movement.

Byron's face is a mask of exhaustion and frustration, streaked with sweat and dirt. His hair is disheveled, and there are scratches on his arms from his struggle through the thick undergrowth and sharp branches. He sets the satellite down with a sigh, shaking his head as he surveys the damage.

"It’s completely beyond repair," he mutters, his voice tinged with defeat. "The elements have taken their toll, and it looks like it's been out of commission for years."

He gestures to the twisted, rusted metal and the tangled mess of wires hanging out from the satellite’s base. The cables are frayed and broken, a testament to the hopeless state of the once sophisticated piece of technology.

Hearing his voice, Eve joins us as we gather around, our expressions mirroring Byron’s disappointment.

“Well,” says Eve, cutting into the void, “look at the bright side.”

There’s a bright side to our entire dilemma?

“We have a generator, and we just need oil to get it to work, and if that doesn’t succeed, we have a bunch of home comforts, like blankets and cutlery and other stuff that’ll make our life a touch easier.”

Byron and I stare at her because she’s looking as if this satellite wasn’t just the calling card to get us off this damn island.

“And tools, lots of tools, and in one of the storage rooms, I found one of those plastic life rafts. Like the ones ships have that hold twenty to thirty people, and you unfold, and it blows up. I don’t know if it works, but if we can make enough fuel and convert the generator into some kind of motor….”

Her voice trails off because my mind landed on the life raft.

There’s a way off this island.

“Firecracker,” I can hardly contain my enthusiasm, “Where did you see the life raft?”

She grins at me and takes off down the hallway. I leave the oil for now, eager to find this item, which might just be our only hope to get home.

Eve turns back to make sure Byron and I follow her. Her eyes spark with a mixture of excitement and hope as she leads us through the dimly lit corridors of the abandoned facility. The air is thick with dust and the scent of mildew, but she moves with purpose, her footsteps echoing off the metal walls.

“I found something earlier,” Eve says, her voice a whisper of anticipation. “If it’s still functional, it could be our ticket off this island.”

We arrive at a heavy, rusted door marked with red faded Russian letters. Eve pushes it open, revealing a room cluttered with forgotten equipment and crates. The air inside is stale, undisturbed for decades. She navigates through the maze of debris, leading us to the shelf where a large, weathered case sits.

“There,” she says, pointing to the case. It’s coated in a thick layer of dust, but the outline of a faded manufacturer’s label is still visible on the top. Eve brushes away the dust, revealing the words we don’t understand, which are stenciled on the side, but the printed picture is enough of an indication of what it is.

Byron and I exchange hopeful glances. “Is it…?” I begin.

“Unused,” Eve confirms. “It’s been sitting here for years, but it’s still sealed in its original case.”

The case itself is made of durable, heavy-duty plastic, showing no signs of cracks or significant damage. Eve kneels beside it and runs her fingers along the edges, finding the latches and flipping them open with a satisfying click. She hesitates for a moment, then lifts the lid.

Inside it, the life raft is neatly folded and wrapped in layers of protective material. The bright orange color of the raft is still vivid, a stark contrast to the dull, grey surroundings. Attached to the inside of the lid is an instruction manual, yellowed with age but intact. It’s in Russian, but there are photos beside the words.

“It looks like it’s in good condition,” Byron says, kneeling down to inspect it closer. He checks the seams and the material, nodding approvingly. “If it holds air and all the components are still functional, we might just have a chance.”

Eve stands up, a determined look on her face. “We’ll need to test it, see if it inflates properly and if the survival gear inside is still usable. But if it works, we can use it to get to a shipping lane or another island.”

I nod, my expression one of cautious optimism. “We’ll need to bring it back to camp and give it a try. We need to know if this thing is seaworthy before we pin all our hopes on it.”

“Now the oil,” Eve says, standing up, and I can’t resist anymore.

I slide my arm around her waist and drag her to me. “You are amazing.”

“I’ll be more amazing when I can use that soap I found in the kitchen and have a proper wash!” she says, giving me a peck on the lips before pulling away and going on a mission to find that pantry .

I rub my hand over my heavy stubble. If we could find a razor, I’m sure the guys would appreciate it too.

Byron closes the case, “I don’t think we’ll be able to take everything on one trip. It’s a long trek back to camp.”

“I still think we should move in here.”

“There is no fresh running water,” Byron points out. “They were collecting it in tanks, and those have rusted. We have the lagoon near us, and it runs constantly fresh, and this place is nowhere near the ocean, where our main source of food is.”

He’s right. It’s just here we have some semblance of civilization, and I can see how Eve is excited about finding home comforts even if they are decades old.

“I’ll go help Eve find the pantry. Even if we find oil, do you know how to convert it?”

“I believe so,” Byron says confidently. “It’s actually what they call bio-diesel. We need sodium hydroxide, but I saw some cleaning products. If there’s a drain cleaner, then we can use that. We also need an unopened bottle of methanol, among some other things I’m sure I will find. The tricky part will be the heating. You need to maintain seventy degrees, so hopefully, I can find a cooking thermometer.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask, amazed at Byron’s skills.

He stares at me for a long, pregnant pause.

“Books,” he shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “When you’re alone in the world, they become your silent family.” He says this while dragging the case up and walking out of the room without further words.

I watch him leave, his words echoing in my mind. Byron’s knowledge and resourcefulness continually surprise me. It’s one thing to survive, but another entirely to be so well-prepared and informed. As I follow him out, I can't help but feel a mix of admiration and curiosity.

Byron's past remains a mystery, but his skills and quiet determination are becoming our lifeline.

My thoughts drift to the possibilities of what lies ahead. If Byron can really pull this off and create bio-diesel, we might have a fighting chance to power up the generator and convert it into a boat motor and get us off this island.

We’ve each packed several bags we found around the area. Byron also filled a bag with the documents we discovered in the office, including the maps and some writing supplies. Now it’s about getting everything back to camp, which took us hours just getting here.

We also grabbed a bunch of blankets, towels, plates, cutlery, cups, blocks of soap, and unused disposable razors we were lucky to find. I also picked up a bunch of tools and knives. Considering we’ve only had one since we’ve been here, we now have half a dozen of them.

“I wonder if Astro can speak and read Greek. If he does, then maybe he can translate some of that Russian,” Eve suggests.

“He speaks it,” I retort. “I heard him talking on the phone back at the airport. Whether he reads it poses another thing.”

“Greeks don’t use the Cyrillic alphabet,” Byron adds, “So I doubt it.” He exchanges one of the heavier bags Eve is carrying with a lighter one of his.

We’re packed like mules trekking through this godforsaken jungle that’s quickly losing light.

“I think we might consider calling it a day,” I suggest, looking beyond the stretch of dense jungle ahead of us with the humidity on at full force as if we’re in an exotic steam room. “I can’t see us getting back to camp today. The last thing we want is to suddenly find ourselves in pitch black and on the cannibals' side.”

“You’re right. We should find a decent rest area for the night and try again in the morning.”