Oliver hunched forward and gazed out of the side window of the twin-prop commuter plane. In the distance, dark clouds approached at an alarming rate, the occasional flash of lightning visible through a dark curtain of rain. Below, white splotches danced across the gray ocean as the wind whipped the waves at an ever-increasing pace. A storm was building, and the plane was flying straight towards it.

A quick glance at his wrist told him that relief was at least another half an hour out. Was that enough time for the approach and the landing? Unconsciously, his right hand reached for the pocket in front of him and fingered the thick paper bag hidden behind a magazine. He had never spilled his guts on a plane before and if he could help it, this flight would not be his first. Just in case, he told himself and positioned the bag in front of the emergency exit leaflet.

“Don’t like flyin’, huh?” a deep voice to his right said and chuckled. Oliver glanced over at the man in the aisle seat and smiled weakly. Ron. That’s how he had introduced himself before embarking on one of the wildest hunting stories Oliver had ever heard. That is, until Oliver had pretended to nod off during take-off. There was only so much bragging about killing out the undead he could take. They had vanished years ago.

“I—”

“It’s all right, son.” Ron slapped Oliver’s leg, a grin across his face. “Everyone’s got’s the jitters now and then. Did I tell you about that time when—”

“How long until we land?” Oliver said. He had no interest in listening to another wild story.

Ron looked at his watched and opened his mouth to respond when the double-dings of the fasten seatbelt light interrupted him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We’re approaching our destination and will be landing within thirty minutes. Unfortunately, we can expect a bumpy ride the rest of the way. Please fasten your seatbelts and stow any unnecessary items. Thank you.”

A stewardess walked the length of the plane moments later to enforce the Captain’s command and then strapped herself in. As if on command, the plane dropped into an air pocket. Oliver gasped and squeezed the armrests of his seat with an iron grip. The streaks of rain that appeared on the window tried to attract his attention before he closed his eyes. Instead, he tried to picture a sunny beach, but the only thing he saw was the barf bag in the seat pocket in front of him.

The drone of the engines increased and decreased as the pilot adjusted power to the engines and started a shallow bank to the left. Oliver both felt and heard the whir of the flaps extending just outside his window. The landing gear extended with a dull thud and filled the cabin with wind noise. Through the window, Oliver could see his destination as a shadow against the horizon, partially hidden behind the rain. Just as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared from view as the plane leveled out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for landing,” came the voice over the speakers. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged twice as a reminder to stay put. As if needed.

Outside the window, the whitecaps of the dark gray ocean approached faster than Oliver liked. The wind buffeted the plane left and right the closer it came to the surface. When the rocky shoreline passed underneath the plane, Oliver closed his eyes and tensed his body as the plane did one final dance with the crosswinds. The tires hit the runway at a slight angle, tossing Oliver and the other passengers left and right as the rubber gripped the wet tarmac and settled down on its wheels. They were thrown against their seatbelts as the pilot applied the brakes. The hum of the engines rose to a roar as the reverse thrust was engaged. It wasn’t until the plane had slowed to taxing speeds that Oliver opened his eyes and exhaled forcefully, thankful that he had survived.

“See, that wasn’t so bad, huh?” Ron said with a laugh and slapped Oliver’s arm. “Landing in this kind of weather is always fun, I’m tellin’ ya.”

Oliver took a few deep breaths and let go of the armrests. While the plane taxied towards the terminal, he picked up his backpack stowed under the seat in front of him and retrieved his cell phone from one of its pockets.

“Nah man, no service out here, bud,” Ron said and nodded towards the booting phone in Oliver’s hand. “They keep it pretty locked up around here.”

“Locked up?”

“Yeah, you know, not outside companies, that kind of stuff. Local subs only. Buy a sim card in the terminal.”

Oliver shoved the phone into his pocket with a shrug and looked out the window. The plan bounced across a short taxiway on its way to the single-story terminal building, passing two other planes preparing for departure. Passengers ran across the tarmac in the rain towards the plane closest to the terminal while the ground crew refuled the second one.

As they approached the terminal, the Captain cut power and coasted the last few yards up to their assigned parking spot. The passengers around Oliver shifted in their seats as the plane came to a complete stop in front of gate 4. The engines powered down, one after the other, and moments later the roar of the engines was replaced by the patter of the rain on the fuselage.

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“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to St. Leo’s Island. Please take a moment to collect your belongings and prepare for deplaning. As you exit the plane, have your identification papers ready and follow the security officials at the bottom of the stairs. Thank you again for flying Oceanic Air.”

The cabin door just behind the cockpit swung open as the passengers around the plane stood and reached for their carry-on bags, patiently waiting for the line to move. The cool, humid air greeted Oliver as he stepped out of the plane and the rain soaked him to the bone before his feet even touched the tarmac.

He followed the other passengers in single file towards the terminal where they gathered in a small holding area. Multiple checkpoints lined the far side of the hall, staffed by uniformed officers. Heavily armed guards patrolled the room, their fingers never far from the trigger. A large signed above the stations warned arriving travelers that only those authorized would be granted entry to the island. All others would be put on the next flight off the island. Those exhibiting signs of sickness would be removed and quarantined.

Within minutes, the reception area filled up with wet and shivering passengers that dutifully lined up for inspection. Oliver felt butterflies in his stomach and clutched his identification tighter. His line moved closer to the nearest checkpoint at what felt like a snail’s pace. It would be another fifteen minutes before it was his turn.

“What’s your business here on St. Leo’s Island, sir?” the customs officer said once it was Oliver’s turn. He glanced up at Oliver while flipping through his passport.

“I’m visiting a friend. It’s right there, in the letter,” Oliver said and pointed towards an envelope between two pages in his passport. The officer stopped, raised his eyebrows, and locked eyes with Oliver for a few seconds before he reached for the envelope.

“I see.” The officer scanned the enclosed letter, then picked up the phone and dialed a number while his eyes remained on Oliver. “It’ll be just one moment, sir.”

A few minutes later, a supervisor approached and consulted in hushed whispers with the customs officer.

“Business or pleasure, sir?” The supervisor, whose nametag revealed his name to be Sanchez, slowly flipped through the papers on the desk, his eyes on Oliver.

“Pleasure. A friend has invited me to come visit. His letter is right there, in the pile.”

“Yes, yes. Ah, here it is.” Sanchez held it up and scanned the letter Oliver had received just a week earlier.

“How do you know this Paul Armstrong?”

It had been two decades since Oliver had last spoken to Paul Armstrong at a zombie antidote research conference in Denver. Oliver had learned that they had been in the same graduating class of the same university, just different disciplines. It was a miracle they had never crossed paths.

“We went to school together,” Oliver said, avoiding the lapse in time since their last encounter.

“I see.” Sanchez glanced at Oliver above the rim of his glasses. “What subjects?”

“Oh, field of study? He studied biology. My field is immunology.”

The supervisor looked up. “Immuno-what?”

“The study of infectious diseases.”

Sanchez looked up from the letter, his eyebrows raised. “Infectious diseases?”

“Yes, that’s correct. My work involves identifying new diseases, their cause and how to best stop them.”

Sanchez’s eyes narrowed and waved the letter in his hand. “Does this mean there is a new disease on the island? Is that why he wrote you?”

“No, no, of course not,” Oliver said with his hands raised in the air. “As you can see, the letter doesn’t mention anything like that. I see no cause for alarm.”

To a casual observer, Oliver hoped this would appear true. The letter contained Paul’s musings about local cuisine and descriptions of the relaxing beaches on the island. There was nothing in the letter that would raise a red flag. It was merely a letter from one friend to another.

Except the whole letter was a lie. Not only was Paul Armstrong not a close friend, but he had never written to Oliver in the past. To Oliver, the letter itself and casual tone especially was a red flag that he couldn’t ignore. He had purchased a ticket to the island the same day he received the letter.

“Where will you be staying?” Sanchez continued as he looked through Oliver’s passport.

“At the Gold Bay Plaza hotel.”

“Ah, the Plaza. A good choice. Of course, I will need to verify your arrangements with both the professor and the hotel.”

“Be my guest,” Oliver said with a shrug.

Sanchez directed Oliver to a chair while he made the relevant phone calls. Fifteen minutes later, Oliver was cleared. He collected his belongings and ran through the pouring rain to the nearest cab.

The intensity of the rain increased as they approached the main city of Tansitee. Oliver was astounded the driver even saw the road through the downpour as the wipers worked overtime in a futile effort to clear the windshield. Thirty nerve-wracking minutes later, they pulled up in front of the hotel.

Another twenty minutes later, Oliver closed the door to his room, settled down on the edge of the bed and turned on the TV. Soon, the local news illuminated his room while gusts of wind and rain hammered the hotel window. It was the worst storm in years, the local weather forecaster stated with conviction. Oliver needed no convincing.

He had just settled into a chair by the window with a bottle from the in-room bar when the room phone rang. Oliver raised his eyebrows and glanced at his watch. Who could that be?

“Hello?” he said tentatively.

“Mr. Hunt, I apologize for the interruption. There is a phone call for you.”

“A phone call?”

“Yes. A Paul Armstrong. He said you’d be expecting his call?”

Paul Armstrong?

“Yes, yes, of course, connect him.”

“Right away, sir. Have a wonderful evening.”

Hold music replaced the concierge for a few moments.

“Mr. Armstrong,” Olive said when the music disappeared. No response.

“Hello? Are you there?”

The line was silent, except for the occasional static hiss.

“This is Oliver Hunt. Is anyone there?”

When there was no response, Oliver hung up and redialed the front desk.

“Yes, Mr. Hunt?”

“You just connected a call from a Paul Armstrong?”

“Yes, sir?”

“There was no-one on the line?”

There was a brief pause. “No-one on the line?”

“Right, it was dead air.”

“I’m not sure what to say, sir? Maybe Mr. Armstrong changed his mind? Maybe the winds blew down the lines?”

Oliver hesitated. It was unlikely that Paul would change his mind. Something has happened. Oliver’s hand felt clammy around the handset and his mouth was dry. Whatever Paul wanted with Oliver, there was no doubt it was important. He glanced at the news forecast and his watch. There was only one thing he could do.

“How long before you can get me a car?” he finally said.