"Please no snakes, please no snakes, please?—"
Camera 5 picks up her voice as she climbs over a moss-covered boulder. Her bare pussy flashes in the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Freshly shaved. Glistening with sweat already.
She lands hard on the other side, stumbles, catches herself against a tree trunk.
Then freezes.
Her eyes lock on something in the underbrush.
A gecko. Six inches long, bright green, completely harmless.
It blinks at her.
She screams and runs.
I laugh. Actually laugh. First genuine amusement I've felt in weeks.
She makes it another fifty feet before slowing down, chest heaving, looking back over her shoulder to confirm the lizard didn't chase her.
The jungle's not that dangerous. Not on Story Island.
I've cultivated this place carefully. Every hundred yards along the marked trails, there's a bug zapper—solar-powered units mounted in trees, designed to look like birdhouses from a distance. They hum quietly, drawing mosquitoes and gnats away from the paths.
Citronella torches at each station. Natural repellent plants—lemongrass, marigolds, basil—cultivated in strategic clusters near the pavilion and rest areas.
The staging pavilion where the attendants prepared her has a fine mesh screening it from fifty yards out. Looks like open air from inside, but it's basically like a pool lanai, only much bigger. There is one open end—the path that leads to Station 1. So some bugs do get in, but not many.
Luxury wilderness.
That's the aesthetic I maintain.
Clients pay for psychological intensity, not tropical diseases.
Scarletta stops walking. Bends forward, hands on her knees, breathing hard. She's only covered maybe two hundred feet total. Has another mile to go.
The tracker watch on her wrist beeps.
1:54:12.
She looks at it. Realizes how much time she's already wasted. Straightens up, wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, and keeps moving.
Slower now. More careful. Watching where she steps.
Smart girl.
Camera 6 shows her approaching the first creek crossing. Fifteen feet wide, knee-deep, crystal clear water running over smooth stones. I had this entire stream bed cleared and sanitized. No sharp rocks, no leeches, no parasites.
She stands at the edge, staring down at the water like it might be acid.
"It's just water," she whispers to herself. "Just fucking water."
But she's thinking about what's in it. What might be in it. Bacteria, parasites, things that could crawl up inside her while she's wading across.
She's not wrong to worry.
On Chaff Island, the water's filthy. Stagnant pools breeding grounds for dengue and malaria. Volk will have to drink it eventually, or die of dehydration. Either choice kills him, just at different speeds.
The water here on Story Island is filtered through volcanic rock, tested weekly by my staff, and treated with UV purification systems hidden upstream.
