Island Of The Cryptids

2

The small shack was the withered remains of some building that was probably much greater in size. The red painted iron door was rusted, plastered shut with caked mud, but it still budged open. The hinges screamed and creaked as the heavy door swung open, then stopped with a crash. The fermented smell of the earth breathed out, clogging Tucker's nose with the raw alkaline stench.

Inside, the concrete floor was cold and damp, splotched with mud and cracked, and small tufts of grass peaked out of them. The walls were crumbling, creating piles of shaved drywall on the floor. The support beams protruded out of the wall, and the pink insulation was laden with mold and decay, spilling out like a ruptured pillow. The lights in the ceiling were absent of their bulbs, the frayed wires dangling down from the holes in the roof like strands of hair.

The room also harbored a desk and a swivel chair, which was bent and crooked and was torn along the seat, revealing a very pungent smelling yellow foam that hosted a nest of maggots. The desk was covered in dust and dirt, wads of yellowing paper, and a blue pen. To the right side of the room were large, rectangular windows that were tarnished with years of weathering. Tucker could faintly see through them and spot the plane parked about one-hundred yards away on the runway as he made his way over to the desk.

With cautious fingers, he pinched the pen off the desk

and blew the dust off of it, then leaned in for a closer look. It read "USMS: United States Military Sciences." Tucker put the pen down as Captain Philip entered the room, wheezing as he breathed in the rank air.

"Are you really scared, Tucker?" he asked.

"Maybe a little," Tucker admitted. "I've been here before. I've heard things about this place. It's not the ideal space to land, and I have no wish to venture out into the jungle to save a bunch of tourists."

Philip paced over to the window, squinting through the layers of grime up to the clouds, which now obstructed everything else in the sky. Wind rattled the windowsill, making a clattering noise.

"Save them from what?" the captain asked after a moment of silence. Tucker quickly bit his tongue. He then shook his head.

"It's just legends, Phil, I have no intention for falling for them. Plus, even if I told you, you wouldn't believe me anyways." Philip smirked.

"Son, I've heard some crazy stories about islands, being from Bermuda and all. I'd believe practically anything that wasn't as far-fetched as some of those stories."

"I could imagine." Tucker's normal upbeat disposition had faded, replaced by a nervous curiosity. He walked around the desk, which was propped up against a small support pillar. On the other side of the room, light seemed to vanish, becoming pitch dark. Shattered ceiling panels rested on the floor along with piles of dry dirt. In the corner by a small window was a pipe, about arm thick, running from the wall to the ground. A red valve sat rusted in place.

"I'd like to hear your story now," Philip pressured. Tucker sighed.

"Listen, we have nothing to worry about. We'll just wait out the storm-"

"You really are a scaredy cat, aren't you Tucker?" Philip said, arms crossed. "Spit it out, now."

"I'm just a little skeptical, alright? It doesn't even matter. How many of those stories that you've been told actually came true?" Philip raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.

"Fair point. Let's check around out back now."

As the two men emerged from the shoddy shack, thunder boomed above like the heavy resignation of a bass drum. Neither of them flinched. They rounded out back, further away from the plane, towards the jungle. It was getting dark quickly, and Tucker hoped the others realized that, too. The jungle was like an endless maze; if you got lost in it, it was hard to find your way out. The dark treeline seemed to beckon them, almost, calling out with a faint whisper, telling them to come explore. Tucker shook off the feeling and followed Philip.

"Look what we have here," Philip said. They had found a medium sized fuel tank, fit for planes. Tucker bit his lip.

"You think it's got any good fuel left in it?" Tucker pondered. "We could refuel and get back up in the air. No more island."

"Even if it is good fuel," Philip explained, "There's no way we could get away from the storm. We just have to wait this thing out, then the second the skies are clear we'll round everyone up and take off."

"That's our only option?" Tucker asked concerned as thunder clapped above. It was going to rain soon.

"Final answer, yes. We might as well see if this has anything good in it. It's worth a shot."

Tucker scraped some rust off of the capsule, then wiped his finger on his pants. He then rapped on the side of the tanker with his knuckles, listening to the echo. It seemed full enough.

He turned to the jungle. To the silent, calling whispers of the dusk. He tried to make out some of the shapes, but he couldn't. It was too hazy. A frisky wind blew over the runway, making Tucker's hair stand on edge. He gulped. He really didn't want to be here.