With the exception of the good Doctor himself, it seemed to be all young people here. Young people are the worst. And now I’d have to deal with them, trying to find out more about my situation.

  The cafeteria tent was empty; even the two miserable campers dishing out the food were gone. Jeff Harrigan could clear a room, I’ll give him that. I left without eating. The trays of freeze-dried beef were safe from me.

  None of this mattered in the least, because I was already setting up the agenda. The evil plan, if you will. And it comes with phases, like all properly evil plans do:

  Phase one: Assume that leaving here will be met with resistance. Find the weaknesses in this place. If it was a genuine prison, how did one escape?

  Phase two: Leave.

  Phase three: Gloat.

  I already felt better, though my plan had a few holes. For example: I didn’t want to take any of these ding-dongs with me, so I’d be gloating to nobody, and the gloating part was pretty important.

  I found something horrific: a row of vine-covered chemical toilets. So very fragrant. Moving on, I discovered a shower tent, one for boys and one for girls.

  There was a long, low tent for males, full of astonishingly flimsy and cheap cots. A little further and there was the girls’ tent.

  And that was about it for the construction of the place: a few tents and some port-a-potties, all surrounded by jungle and stone ruins. If there were other things, like a storage facility or a place for Dr. Harrigan to cast his spells or do mad science or whatever, I didn’t see them.

  A few observations:

  

  
1. The tents were old. Vines crawled up the struts holding them up. Their white plastic weave was frayed at the lower edges. I saw a few vinyl patch repair jobs. Mud and scratches adorned the tents, as if they’d been through storms or floods.


  

  

  
1. The young people here seemed to be sorting themselves into traditional social groups. The guys in one group of young men were bigger and strutted about, chins in the air, looking down at everyone. That pack of young women were all conventionally attractive, cooly guarding their place in the social hierarchy. Everyone else, the normal people, scurried about, trying to go unnoticed.


  

  

  
1. A few carried what seemed to be weapons: either white PVC pipes or branches taken from the nearby jungle. No firearms or knives. The armed ones seemed observant, watchful, anxious.


  

  One tries not to judge; I’m sure Dr. Harrigan had done his best. But on close inspection his camp was a dump.

  A commotion near the women’s tent. A beefy young man, swaggering and neckless, was demanding entrance. The girls yelled at him to go away. A few brandished their improvised plastic spears. He laughed and taunted. I couldn’t quite hear what he said; does it matter? Not really; nothing new here.

  I took a step towards him, preparing to get severely beaten. The girls didn’t need my help or want it, I’m sure, but I really had no idea how to stop myself.

  The tent flap burst open. A short fireplug of a girl came striding out, full of purpose. Dark hair done up in two short pigtails behind her head. Bangs. Skin like coffee with lots of cream. She was interestingly chubby.

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  The neckless young man saw her coming for him. He laughed, and taunted. He pantomimed being afraid. The shelf of his eyebrow ridge rose in hilarious fear, his grinning mouth gaped with mock terror. A cartoon character.

  I realized what was different about the short girl with the pigtails: she wasn’t afraid. All the women were nervous, anxious. They were angry and embattled, but they were also cautious. Not her. Her eyes were narrowed, and her round face was marred with an irritated snarl.

  He was three times her size. She was in front of him, and he reached, slow and silly, clumsy. Twiddling his short fingers. A quick spin and duck, she had him by an ankle. She twisted and was behind him, lifted with both hands. With a yelp and a bone-rattling thump he was on his belly, his foot in the air where she had him by the ankle.

  The girls jeered and screamed at him. The dust cleared, and I could see the guy’s face: outrage, anger, fear. He was gasping. The fall had knocked the wind out of him.

  His assailant turned and began, with that purposeful stride, hauling him down to the beach. The big, big guy could do nothing. He scraped and scrambled in the dirt of the path. He couldn’t get loose, and she dragged him easily.

  Up the hill a little was a pack of young men, looking stricken. One took a step forward; he looked determined to offer aid. His companions restrained him. Those big, big dudes were clearly terrified. One word kept drifting from their group: Mandy. Mandy.

  I returned to watching the fight, such as it was. The girl’s pleasantly wide rump was disappearing around a curve through the jungle. The pleading face of her victim went with her. He was doing just that now: pleading. Begging. His cries faded.

  Well.

  I followed. Nobody else did. Not the girls in the tent, not the frightened men who might have been the big guy’s rescuers. The men fearfully retreated up the hill. The women swarmed back into their tent. I’m sure they would have slammed the door if they’d had one to slam. Forcefully zipping the tent closed lacked the same oomph.

  I ran down the path. Ran is perhaps the wrong word; I sneaked with haste.

  The two had left tracks; not footprints, but narrow gouges in the hard-packed dirt. His fingers, where he’d been clawing, trying to get away. Stripes of bark had been peeled from tree roots as he’d passed.

  The beach was deserted. It was a nice beach; pale sand, water with amazing clarity. A vacation spot worth millions. The tall jungle-capped islands nearby should have been surrounded by the white pleasure craft of the wealthy. And would have been, back home.

  I followed the desperate tracks in the sand; they led from the trail and in a straight line from the forest to the sea. When they entered the shallows, the water current had smoothed them over so I couldn’t follow any further.

  This wasn’t a shore with high surf; it was more of a snorkeling venue. The water was almost flat. That lovely breeze ruffled my newly-installed hair. This place was good. It was better than that; it was perfect.

  I sat under a tree in the white sand. The shade was nice. Everything was nice. Except for the fearful, nasty abductees who lived here.

  I wanted to see what happened with the people up the hill, but I also found myself alone on the beach. How far away were the other islands? Did anyone live there? Were they part of this? What would keep me from simply swimming off?

  The short girl was out there. I thought about it; she seemed like she was on the right side of things. Good enough.

  I started to kick off my shoes. Time to go.

  But then I remembered the crazy trick, that thing Harrigan could do with that tablet. He’d zapped me, and I’d lost all control of my muscles. What if that happened while I was swimming? Or even wading, as the water was clear and shallow enough for me to easily see the bottom?

  I thought of a favorite story: Edgar Allen Poe, someone had irritated one of his protagonists. That idiot had gotten walled up in a wine cellar by said protagonist. And he hadn’t even been hit with some bargain-basement paralysis beam. Anything could happen to me here, anything at all.

  My plan needed work. Possibly more phases.

  Okay. Time to work on Phase One instead of just jumping to Phase Two. I’d have to skulk about, finding the right way out of here. These guys would slip up; large groups always do.

  I wondered if I’d be able to return home. Did I want to?

  Neither the short girl nor her burly victim came back out of the water.

  What sort of magical being is she?