Page 13 of Camino Ghosts

“Shut up!” Roy said.

The second one was coiled and ready to strike, but gave the obligatory warning. When Swaney heard the unmistakable sound of the rattling, he stopped and took a step back. In the weeds, less than ten feet away, was a thick diamondback highly agitated.

“Take him, Vince!” Swaney said quickly.

Vince, a legendary marksman, fired four shots from his Glock and blew the snake in half. They watched him flip and jerk, his fangs still snapping as he died.

The gunshots echoed through the woods. When all was quiet and the snake was still, the four men realized how heavily they were breathing. No one spoke for a moment or two.

Marcus said, “This bad boy is over six feet long, very rare.”

Swaney stepped back and looked around. “We came in from the southeast. I’m guessing west is that direction. Seems like the sun is brighter.” He pointed and said, “Let’s head this way. Mark the trees so we don’t go in circles.”

“We’ve been doing circles for the past hour,” Roy mumbled.

“Shut up.”

The third rattler hit Swaney at the top of his right boot and did not break the skin. Swaney jumped as he screamed and lost his footing. Vince fired away but the snake disappeared into a pile of wet leaves. Roy, the medic, examined Swaney’s leg and pronounced him lucky. The vinyl layer of the boot had two deep fang marks.

They took a long break and had some water, but only a sip or two because they were running low. Each man gave his assessment of their situation and there was no consensus about which direction to try next. They had no idea if they were trekking closer to the shore or deeper into the jungle. Distant thunder did not lighten their mood. Marcus again tried the mikes, transmitters, and phones, with no luck. Even the compass on his watch was frozen.

It was a stretch to believe anyone would try to rescue them. The boys in the truck were geeks. Their bosses in Atlanta would not know what to do. They had sent in their best team for the job. Now that team was hopelessly lost. There was no backup.

They agreed that if they could manage to inch along in a straight line, more or less, they would eventually find the beach. Dark Isle was only three miles long and a mile wide. Surely they would find the ocean sooner or later.

They began moving, all eyes on the ground now, all ears waiting for the slightest rattle. Marking the trees as they moved along, Swaney tried to keep them in a straight line but it was difficult. There was no trail. Almost every step had to be cleared. They took a break at 5:00 p.m. and sat in a semicircle. Each took one sip of water from bottles that were almost empty. They had eaten everything in their backpacks.

Swaney said, “Okay, it’ll be dark in a couple of hours.”

“It’s already dark,” Roy blurted, and he was not wrong. The thick canopy above them kept the sunlight away.

Swaney went on, “I say we keep going for another hour and also look for a clear spot to bed down.”

“We haven’t seen a clear spot since this morning,” Vince said. Tensions were smoldering and the men were losing confidence in Swaney’s leadership.

“You wanna take the point?” Swaney shot back.

Vince did not reply. No one else volunteered. They picked up their equipment and began moving. There was more thunder and it seemed closer. When the rain began, dusk enveloped the jungle. They hacked out a small clearing and searched every log and burrow and pile of leaves for snakes. Roy and Vince had packed rain flys, and they strung them between two saplings for shelter. The rain, though, was kept away by the canopy. As it grew heavier it leaked down the trunks of the trees and began soaking the ground.

Swaney checked his watch at 8:00 p.m. Its dial gave the only faint light. The jungle was black, so dark and dense that the men could not see each other. They sat on the damp soil, backs to each other, watching the ground, trying to see signs of anything that might cause trouble. Swaney said he would pull the first hour of sentry duty. Exhausted, the other three finally nodded off. The thunder and rain faded as the storm moved away.

The jungle was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the rustling of tree limbs high above. Swaney fought to stay awake, and had nodded off himself when he heard panthers in the distance.

7.

Their second day on Dark Isle was beginning to look like their first, when they suddenly saw light. The canopy thinned ahead of them and the vegetation was not as dense. As weary as they were, they managed to shift to a faster walk and were soon on the beach. They had survived a nightmare, fought off poisonous snakes and avoided being mauled by panthers, and they were still in one piece. All four had numerous cuts and scratches but nothing serious.

They emerged at the far north end of the island, on the Atlantic side, about a mile from their camp. An hour later they saw their dinghy where they’d left it. Their tents were still pitched. The coolers had not been touched. They opened them and almost celebrated with cold water, ham sandwiches, and fruit. As they ate, they broke camp and tossed everything into the dinghy. A speedy exit from Dark Isle was underway. When they were in open water, their cell phones and GPS monitors suddenly had service.

Swaney avoided the harbor at Santa Rosa and navigated through the inlet to the Atlantic. At the southern tip of Camino Island, they puttered into a small marina. They moored the dinghy at the pier, unloaded it, then jumped into a waiting van. At the Sheraton, they showered, ate some more, and spent an hour on a conference call with headquarters in Atlanta.

By then, all four were complaining of fever and stomach cramps. They disbanded at the hotel, said quick goodbyes, and went separate ways. Vince, though, was too dizzy to drive and stayed in a hotel room. The small cuts on his arm were throbbing and blisters were forming on both wrists. His bowels were in turmoil and he sat on the commode for a long time. When he realized he could not walk without leaning against the walls, he called an ambulance and was taken to the hospital in Santa Rosa.

Swaney drove forty minutes to the airport in Jacksonville. His flight to Atlanta was two hours away, but he never made it. A violent case of diarrhea hit him in the terminal and he collapsed in the men’s room. He had a high fever, severe chills, and blisters were popping up on his forearms. He was taken to a hospital in Jacksonville.

Roy lived in Ponte Vedra, ninety minutes south of Camino Island, and by the time he pulled into the driveway his wife was waiting. He had vomited on himself and was so dizzy he could barely see. He was delirious and kept saying he had no idea what was happening. His arms and legs were swollen and his hands were turning red. His wife was terrified and called 911.

Marcus died first. They found him the following day slumped in the front seat of his car at a rest area off Interstate 10 near Tallahassee. He had called his brother and reported that he was deathly ill, delirious, and suffering from acute diarrhea, among other things. His brother lived in Chicago and could not render aid at the moment. The state trooper who tapped on his window, saw his body, and finally opened the door, was nearly knocked out by the nauseous odor. Blisters and lesions covered his face and arms. First responders quickly realized it was too late and eventually hauled his body to the county morgue.

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