Page 144 of Lost Paradise

As we prepare to destroy everything gathered, I can’t help but feel a pang of unease.

“These documents hold the secrets of the past, the terrible things done in the name of science. Destroying them is the right thing to do, but it also feels like erasing a part of history,” Byron says, and I’m on the same wavelength as him.

“But there’s no other choice. The risk of these falling into the wrong hands is too great,” Foster says, and we can’t deny the truth about that.

We ignite the pile, watching as the flames consume the papers, turning them to ash. The heat is intense, and the fire is a purging force that brings a strange sense of relief.

We maintain the fire to make sure it doesn’t get out of control. I might hate this motherfucking island and what those cannibals did and almost did to me, but I’m leaving on my own terms. They can have their own stinking island back.

“Let’s get out of here. We only have a couple of hours left,” Foster says, his voice tight with urgency as the fire dies down. He pokes through the ashes with a bamboo shoot, the embers glowing dimly against the encroaching natural shaded darkness created by the tall trees in the jungle.

“Wait,” Byron pulls out two old, tattered envelopes from his bag, his hands trembling slightly. “I’m going to leave these inside.” He dashes toward the structure, and I glance at Foster. He raises an eyebrow, a mix of curiosity and concern in his eyes, and we both follow inside.

The air is thick and oppressive as we step back into the derelict building. Byron’s footsteps echo off the walls as he makes his way to the room with the leather torture chair, its straps and bindings a haunting reminder of past horrors. He carefully places the letters on the chair, his face a mask of determination mixed with a hint of sorrow.

“Why two?” I ask curiously.

“One is just for amusement. The other is in case someone ventures here in the next thirty years. Letting them know what they need to know and leaving out everything else,” Byron says, his voice barely above a whisper, heavy with unspoken emotions.

“You think anyone’s going to stumble upon this island?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, but my voice falters.

“We did,” Byron replies, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “It’s like a flippin’ black hole.”

“Rightly so,” Foster mutters, his impatience clear as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, eager to leave this place behind.

We turn and leave, the facility fading into the shadows behind us. The journey back to camp is silent; the only sounds are the crunch ofleaves underfoot and the distant crash of waves. Each of us is lost in our thoughts.

When we return, the sun has already set, and the camp is bathed in the soft glow of the fire. We've done what needed to be done, but the weight of our actions lingers. Foster’s gaze meets mine and Byron’s, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens we share. The crackling fire casts flickering shadows, and for a moment, the world feels both vast and confined, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

As we settle in for the night, I can’t shake the feeling that this is only the beginning. Tomorrow is when we set sail, venturing into the unknown with hearts heavy and minds uneasy. The rhythmic sound of the waves against the shore is a constant reminder of the journey ahead, a melody of uncertainty that lulls us into a restless sleep.

In the dim light, we huddle close and take turns cuddling with Eve throughout the night. Her soft breaths are a small beacon of calm amidst the brewing storm. I watch Foster wrap an arm around her, his rugged face softening as he murmurs reassurances.

She’s the pillar of our group.

Of my life.

Eve is the backbone that holds me together. I’m not sure when or how it happened, and I don’t care—just that she is.

The nights ahead will be harsh, a relentless battle for survival on the unforgiving sea in our little dinghy boat. But tonight, in this fleeting moment of solace, we won’t talk about it; instead, we rest and wait until the sun begins to rise above the horizon.

Chapter 44

We huddle around theRussian maps, spread out on the narrow deck of our small improvised boat. The sea is a vast, unyielding expanse of blue, and we rely on Byron’s interpretation of the maps to guide us. His finger traces the lines and symbols, and his furrowed brow indicates his intense concentration as he cross-checks his notes.

“We should be heading west,” Byron says, his voice steady despite the uncertainty in the air.

Eve takes the helm, adjusting our course while Foster keeps a watchful eye on the horizon. He stands beside Byron, scanning the distance with hawk-like intensity, searching for any sign of land or danger.

The sun blazes relentlessly overhead, casting harsh shadows and making the deck feel like a furnace, but a cool breeze offers some relief. We’re using the sails for now and conserving the diesel for the motor until we need it.

I secure the supplies with Jack, making sure everything is stowed correctly to withstand the rough waves rocking the boat.

Eve takes a break and sits quietly beside me, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her hands fidget nervously with the frayed edge of her sleeve, betraying the anxious thoughts that must be racing through her mind.

“Do you think we’ll find anything out here?” she asks, her voice barely audible over the sound of the waves lapping against the hull.

I turn to her, offering a reassuring smile that feels.

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