“I don’t care why I wasn’t killed in a horrific plane crash. I just want to get home,” Liam said, his voice fading back to its smooth, usual timbre.

  “I know,” Chen said. “Me too.”

  Karen and Sarah exchanged a look. Despite their acrimony, they shared the same goal.

  “Then how about we all try to work together?” Emily said, her voice carrying more authority than it ever had back in the office. “If we could stop making accusations, fighting and backbiting, perhaps we could start to use our energy more productively.”

  For once, there was no smart remark from Liam. If he had thought of a witty comeback, he had kept it to himself.

  At InnovaTech, each of them had focussed upon their own objectives, stopping at nothing to realise them. Their inability to work as a team had been their downfall. If they were going to escape and find a way off the island, things had to change – and each of them knew it.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Jackson had ventured deep into the dense underbelly of the island. With each step, the makeshift compass around his wrist served as guidance, while his crude map began to take shape. Trees that whispered with the rustle of exotic birds, moss-covered rocks that were slick to touch, clearings that seemed to breathe in the moist, humid air; all were etched into his guide.

  There was no sign of civilisation, no hint of Azure Haven Retreat. Only the cacophony of unseen creatures, the distant gurgle of water, and the heady scent of greenery, like nature’s very own cologne.

  Everything he saw was more of the same. More trees, more rocks, more overgrown foliage until, as he pushed aside a curtain of hanging vines and stepped into a small clearing, the world seemed to stop.

  Partially obscured by wild vegetation was what seemed like an old campsite. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the surreal scene. It was as if the jungle itself had swallowed the remnants of a once-vibrant camp. A skeletal frame fashioned from branches stood at the centre, weathered by time and neglect. Beside it, a fire pit, its embers long extinguished, sat as a lonely testament to the past.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, eyes darting around, half-expecting to see a face emerge from the shadows. But the eerie hush, broken only by the distant trickle of water and his own heavy breathing, unnerved him even more.

  Jonathan's heart raced as he scanned the area for any signs of life, but there were none. If someone had been here, they were long gone. He had been prepared for the possibility of finding signs of human presence on the island, but this camp seemed to defy explanation. The eerie silence that enveloped the clearing sent shivers down his spine.

  Carefully, almost reverently, Jonathan approached the remnants of the camp. He took a tentative step closer, his curiosity battling his fear. Could there be food amongst the remains of the camp, left there by whoever had found themselves on the island before him and his team?

  He moved his hand through the leaves that had gathered beneath the outline of the shelter, motivated by the hunger that was gnarling in his stomach. Never had he so longed for one of his protein shakes.

  “But who?” he said, as the reality of his find began to hit home. “Who? And how?”

  He sat on a heavy branch that had been placed beside what was once the camp’s fire and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Oh, no…” he said as a terrifying thought blossomed in his mind. “If someone found themselves here on a deserted island and they didn’t make the news…well…they didn’t make it, did they? They never made it home.”

  The grim realisation dawned on him. Had these campers ever made it out, he surely would’ve seen their tale on the news or online. His skin felt clammy, his fear palpable. The colour drained from Jackson’s face, but there was no one to see it, and even if there was, his pallor was hidden beneath a layer of moist grime.

  “They never made it,” he repeated.

  Jackson threw his head back and looked up at the canopy of branches above. He wanted to scream, but remembering the confrontation with the boar, he managed to keep his primal frustration and fear within.

  “Screw this place,” he said, instead, rising to his feet and kicking into the pile of leaves, sending them fluttering confetti-like around the clearing.

  As the leaves moved, his eye caught a glint of something incongruous on the ground beneath them. At first, his weary, stressed mind could not process what he was seeing, so out of place was it. He bent to shift more of the coverage and confirm what he thought he had found.

  “How did you…?”

  Jackson spoke to the object that he had found in awed wonder. It was a small, battered notebook, its pages yellowed and dog-eared. The contents were still legible, despite the length of time that the book had likely lain beneath the foliage.

  Stumbling back to the log to sit, Jackson leafed through the journal, overwhelmed with his desire to find out more about the island’s previous inhabitant – or inhabitants. As his fingers closed around the notebook, Jonathan couldn’t ignore the profound questions that hung in the humid air. What had happened here? Who had left this camp, and why?

  The first few pages were filled with scientific observations, drawings of plants, some of which Jackson recognised. It seemed like this camp once belonged to a researcher or explorer. Then, not even mid-way through the book, the entries abruptly ceased, replaced by haunting emptiness.

  “What happened to you?” Jackson asked. “Where did you go? And who the hell were you?”

  Jackson’s hands shook slightly as he reached the notebook’s end. There, scribbled on the inside of the rear cover, was a map.

  Jackson pulled his own map out and lay it alongside the one in the back of the book. He could make out some places he had passed on his way to the abandoned camp.

  “You are here,” he mused, pressing a finger against the mark on the yellowed page that showed his current location.

  The island, as drawn by the amateur cartographer, was shaped like an uneven egg. The area Jonathan had already covered comprised just over a third of its entirety. Tracing his finger over the pencil-sketched lines, Jackson located the stream that he and Mark had visited earlier in the day, and beyond that there was a neat drawing of a rocky outcrop and an exclamation mark, bold and emphatic.

  Jonathan turned back to the page before hoping to find a note or a legend that would explain the meaning of the symbol, but there was none. Perhaps if he read through the many pages of information, the answer would be concealed within.

  What was most patently clear from the map in the book, though, was the truth that Jonathan had been dreading to reveal. The place they had landed was not the Azure Haven Retreat. They were not going to stumble into the luxury resort in the same way that he had stumbled into the derelict camp. If they were going to escape from the island, they were going to have to work out how to do that by themselves.

  With renewed purpose, Jonathan quickly scribbled down the location of the campsite on his own map.

  He sat for a moment in thought, deciding on his next move. The team back at the camp would need water. He had to fill the bottles and return. But, he contemplated, the exclamation mark was close to the stream. A visit to the rocks that the previous inhabitant had drawn wouldn’t take him far out of the way. He had been gone less than two hours. If he used the map in the book to find his way back to the cave, perhaps his return journey could be even shorter.

  Perhaps there was something there that could be useful. Perhaps from high ground, he could survey the island.

  Carefully, Jonathan stowed the notebook in the carryall, along with the bottles that were waiting to be filled. Taking one last look around the camp, he stood, shook his head, and made his way onwards.

  He had set out from camp with two objectives: map the island and fetch water. The first had been made easier for him, and now the second was going to have to wait. There were more questions than answers, and Jackson had to redress the balance.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The playground looked just as Mark remembered it: worn-out swings with rusty chains that squeaked eerily in the wind, the old metal slide heated by the sun, and the large sandpit, which had been the stage for countless imaginary adventures. But the most unsettling feature wasn’t the equipment — it was the lone boy, engrossed in his notebook, who sat cross-legged on a wooden bench beneath the gnarled oak tree.

  As Mark stepped closer, his heart raced with a chilling recognition. The boy’s dark, unruly hair, the familiar way he bit his lower lip in concentration, the scribbled doodles on the cover of his notebook — this was no ordinary child. This was most definitely, without question, the nine-year-old Mark Thompson.

  The sounds of the playground magnified in Mark’s ears. Children’s laughter echoed, distorted and distant, but there were no other kids around. The old merry-go-round creaked slowly, turning on its axis even though no one was pushing it. Every detail, every sound was hyper-real, too crisp and defined to be anything but a hallucination.

  Mark shook his head.

  He scrunched his eyes so tightly shut that when he opened them again, jagged light danced around in front of them.

  The scene before him was unchanged.

  “How…?” Mark mumbled, quietly. Letting the boy, the younger version of himself, hear his doubt, felt somehow disrespectful. Perhaps that wasn’t the correct way to describe it. Rude was the word that came to mind, but that was a word for youth, for playgrounds.

  With all the mental strength that he could muster, the thirty-year-old, six-foot-tall version of Mark Thompson stepped onto the playground and walked across to the child.

  As Mark stepped closer to the playground, the rusted chains of the swings groaned in a gentle rhythm, as if caressed by an invisible hand. He saw the boy with unruly brown hair, sun-kissed skin, and familiar brown eyes that seemed lost in thought. He wore a worn-out T-shirt that Mark remembered owning, one with a faded image of a rocket ship.

  The boy scribbled fervently into his small notebook. Mark remembered that notebook. It was where he penned down his dreams, fears, and secrets. Those writings were the purest reflection of his soul back then.

  “Hey,” Mark said hesitantly, when he reached the boy, his voice cracking with anxiety. “What are you writing?”

  The boy didn’t look up. The only sign he heard was a slight stiffening of his posture. But then, without raising his head, he responded, “Things that mustn’t be forgotten.”

  Every word echoed in Mark’s ears, a resonance that seemed both alien and deeply personal. The weight of the boy’s statement pushed down on him, and the surrounding playground grew more vivid, more tactile.

  Mark looked towards the merry-go-round, the one he and his friends had spent countless hours on, pushing each other faster and faster until the world blurred. But now, it stood still, its paint chipped, revealing the silver bones beneath. There was an eerie stillness to it, a stark contrast to the lively memories Mark held of it.

  The slide, once shiny and red, now had a veneer of rust. The sandbox, where he’d built castles and dug moats, seemed untouched by time, but a quick glance told him the toys he once played with were nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly, a distant laughter echoed, pulling Mark’s attention. Shadowy figures of children ran past him, their features blurred, their laughter both joyous and haunting. Among them, he spotted a younger version of his childhood friend, Lucy, her golden locks flowing behind her as she chased after another silhouette.

  “Lucy?”

  But she couldn’t be here. She had moved away when they were teenagers, their paths diverging like the branches of the giant oaks surrounding the playground. Yet, here she was, a ghost from his past.

  A chilling wind blew, and Mark felt a hand tug at his arm. Turning, he stared into the eyes of his younger self, those innocent brown eyes now clouded with a mix of fear and urgency.

  “You have to remember,” the boy whispered, his grip tightening. “You have to end it.”

  “End what?” Mark asked, panic clear in his voice.

  The weight of forgotten memories and buried guilt pressed down on Mark. He remembered the notebook. It was where he had written his dreams, aspirations, and fears. He recalled nights spent under the stars, scribbling away, dreaming of a future full of promise.

  But what had he forgotten? What did he have to end?

  The surrounding scene began to shift. The once bright sky turned overcast. The rusted playground equipment decayed further, morphing into grotesque shapes, their outlines shimmering and distorting. Shadows lengthened and retreated, and the whispers grew louder, more urgent.

  Images flashed before Mark’s eyes: birthdays, first days of school, family gatherings. But amid these memories, there were darker moments. Arguments with parents, betrayals by friends, moments of intense fear, and a paralysing sense of loneliness.

  He saw himself as a teenager, standing at the edge of the playground, looking at the construction vehicles ready to tear it down.

  Suddenly, the boy was in front of him, gripping Mark’s arms with a desperate intensity. “End it!” he shouted, just as the world around Mark dissolved, the colours bleeding into one another.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The group around the campsite had reverted to a still silence, but the tension in the air had lessened. Michael and Liam pressed on with their task of bringing comfort to the cave without sharing a word. Emily and Karen occupied a log close to the fire, whilst Sarah kept her distance from them, whether planned or unplanned, sitting on a low, flat rock.

  With no written agenda, no key performance indicators to meet and no InnovaTech business to carry out, it seemed the group had little to say to each other. The jungle around them and the need to escape the dire situation they were in seemed to be all they had in common, and for the moment, no one wanted to talk about it.

  Finally breaking the silence, Sarah abruptly stood.

  “I need to use the restroom,” she said. “Or, well, find a secluded spot.”

  She gestured vaguely towards the dense undergrowth on the outskirts of their camp.

  Karen, showing an unexpected side of concern, looked at the HR manager and said, “It’s not safe out there alone. One of us should go with you.” She stopped short of volunteering her own company.

  Sarah rolled her eyes, her usual assertive demeanour shining through. “I think I’m old enough to handle a trip to the toilet. Thank you.”

  Overhearing the conversation, Liam, pausing from his task, pointed out a simple fact.

  “You can’t very well fend off a wild boar when you’re… occupied.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Sarah huffed, ready to argue, but Emily interjected, standing and brushing dirt off her pants.

  “I’ll go with you, Sarah,” she said. “Better safe than sorry.”

  The HR manager hesitated, searching Emily’s face, then gave a reluctant nod.

  “Fine. But if you tell anyone about my jungle bathroom habits, I’ll have you written up for privacy violations,” she joked weakly, attempting to lighten the mood.

  Emily jumped at the opportunity to gain favour with Sarah.

  “We’re all on the clock here, I know,” she said with a smile.

  “Just…be careful,” Chen said, his voice trembling slightly.

  “Don’t go out of earshot. If anything happens, shout and we’ll be with you in no time. And Emily, take one of the sticks,” Liam said in an uncharacteristically sensible moment.

  Nodding, Emily picked up the nearest weapon. Fighting boar hadn’t been listed in her appointments calendar for the day, and she hoped that no wild animals could find an open slot in their agenda to give either of them any trouble.

  “Strength in numbers,” Emily said, trying to maintain her smile.

  “Anything at all,” Liam reiterated sternly.

  Sarah shook her head.

  “This is a little ridiculous,” she said, irritation clear in her voice.

  She strode away from the camp, out into the bush, and Emily picked up her pace to follow.

  The two women ventured into the dense foliage. As they walked side by side, the chirping of cicadas grew louder, and the scent of damp earth filled the air. The canopy of trees engulfed Sarah and Emily in a cocoon of subdued light and stifling silence. Every step further into the jungle seemed to separate them more from the world they knew and intensify the gulf that had recently formed between them.

  “You’d think,” Sarah began, her voice cool and detached, “with all your clever little survival skills and oh-so-clever ideas, you’d have a way of making yourself stand out at the office.”

  Emily’s thoughts swirled back to that humiliating meeting with Sarah. The cold dismissal of her inquiry, Sarah’s demeaning undertone—every word was etched in her memory.

  Emily’s face tightened, but she took a steadying breath before replying. “I came to you in good faith, Sarah. Looking for guidance. Not everyone gets handed their position on a silver platter.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow, amusement clear in her gaze. “Oh, trust me, I’ve earned every bit of where I am. Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming and more time working, you wouldn’t need to trail behind Jackson and Thompson.”

  “I just thought that you would—” Emily started, but Sarah cut her off.

  “That I would what? Hand you a job because you asked nicely?”

  Emily bit her lip, holding back a retort. The weight of their isolation, the inherent danger around them, seemed to amplify their differences rather than bridge them.

  “I just wanted a fair chance,” Emily whispered, more to herself than to Sarah.

  Sarah’s pace slowed, and she took a deep breath. “Look, Emily, survival here is the priority. And sometimes, survival in a corporate jungle isn’t much different. You have to stand out, make your mark. Right now, we need to focus. Personal grievances have to wait.”