Michael Barrett, with his clothes torn and his body bruised and scraped, had been kept in the airplane's cargo cage, due to his mid-flight attempt to gut Stetson like a fish.

  Atticus, while moving crates and equipment had volunteered to keep an eye on the assailant. In a moment of negligence, Atticus was too close to the cage where Michael pretended to be asleep. Suddenly, Michael held Atticus' in a chokehold when he got too close. Michael let go once Atticus went unconscious, allowing Atticus to slide down the cage and onto the floor. Michael was able to get keys that allowed him to escape. Next, Michael departed from his prison and dragged Atticus into the cage.

  Michael quickly and stealthily left the plane to see about surviving on the mysterious island.

  Though the passengers and the rest of the guards were about ten yards away around a campfire, he was able to creep along the shoreline, heading toward the jungle, unseen. The sounds of the campfire and the group's chatting were just loud enough for him to ensure escape, disappearing into the dense jungle.

  Being a former mercenary and soldier, Michael was a master of stealth and survival techniques. He knew that the others would eventually come looking for him. He knew he couldn't outrun them forever and had to have a plan. Though he left behind footprints, he had a head start.

  In the camp, Ramon inquired, "Has anyone seen Atticus? You're not making him burn the midnight oil, are you, Stet?," he jokingly remarked.

  "Yeah, where has he been? He hasn't come out for chow yet... I'll go check on him...," said Stetson.

  Stetson entered the plane. Upon seeing the caged area, he yelled in alarm, "Where the hell is Michael and why is Atticus in the cage?!"

  Carl and Kade quickly joined him to track down the madman. Joel, Seraphina, and Rick insisted on joining them as well. Reluctantly, Stetson agreed and they made haste. Those staying behind included Ramon and most of the academics to look after a slightly injured, but otherwise healthy, Atticus.

  Stetson was irritated as he started leading the group through the dense jungle, his eyes scanning for any sign of Michael. His heart pounded, the adrenaline fueling his determination to bring the fugitive to justice. He knew that every second counted, and the longer they took, the harder it would be to stop their former captive.

  Joel had grabbed a Shotgun from the plane as he thought, "I'll be a lead farmer."

  As he went deeper into the jungle, the shotgun served as a grim reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. His senses were heightened, every rustle of leaves and snap of twigs sent a shiver down his spine.

  Beside him, Stetson's frustration was palpable, his anger simmering just beneath the surface as he clenched his fists in silent rage. Joel understood Stetson's rage and that the weight of his brother's injury.

  Carl followed closely behind, his eyes darting from the ground to the trees, searching for any clues that might lead them to Michael. Kade kept his wits about him, his eyes alert for any sudden movements in the undergrowth.

  As they moved deeper into the jungle, the foliage grew thicker, and the air became heavy with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The moon, now high in the sky, cast shadows on the jungle floor. Stetson paused, his hand raised in a silent command for the group to stop.

  He listened intently, his ears tuned to the sounds of the jungle. The cacophony of birds, insects, and the rustling of leaves filled the air. Stetson focused on a distant sound, barely audible above the din. It was a faint whimper, almost inaudible, making him wonder if this was a good lead.

  Stetson motioned for the group to follow him, his eyes locked on the source of the sound. As they approached, they saw a small clearing, the ground littered with broken branches and trampled undergrowth. In the center of the clearing, laid what appeared to be a body. 'Is that Michael I see?,' he thought to himself.

  As he inched closer, his hopes were dashed as it soon became clear that this was someone else's body. It was clearly one of graduate students.

  Starting to feel vulnerable at night in the jungle, he silently urged this men to continue to remain quiet and be on the look out for a safe spot to decide on the next part of their plan.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Watson took charge of the situation at hand. He instructed the graduate students to help the injured security guard, Atticus, while Ramon and the remaining security guard checked the cell for any clues that might lead to Michael's whereabouts. The students, familiar with basic first aid, tended to Atticus, checking his pulse and ensuring he was stable.

  Dr. Watson began to question Ramon about the security breach. He asked for details of the events leading up to Michael's escape, hoping to find a pattern or any overlooked detail that could help them track the fugitive. Ramon, somewhat new to the job, recounted what little he knew.

  Satisfied with the answer (but not so much the lack of information), Dr. Watson turned his attention to the cell. He noticed a piece of paper. Upon closer inspection, the paper revealed a hastily written list, depicting some loose goals Michael was hoping to accomplish. Some of the words, however, were either smeared or hard to read.

  Dr. Watson read out loud to the others what he understood the words to be, "Let's see...it says '1-Escape cell, 2- Find any allies, 3- k-something the something, 4- Does porlol exist?'"

  He squinted as he struggled with some of the words. He then lifted the piece of paper, subtly offering anyone else the chance to read it if they so desired.

  Auguste looked. He studied the note carefully, his keen eyes taking in every detail. As he read the words, his mind began to piece together the fragments of Michael's plan.

  "Ah," he said, his voice low and thoughtful, "the note is indeed cryptic, but I believe I can decipher its meaning."

  Ramon and Dr. Watson gathered around Auguste, their eyes fixed on the note as he continued to speak.

  "The first part is clear: '1-Escape cell.' This refers to Michael's successful escape from the brig, as we have already discovered."

  "Indeed," said Dr. Watson, his brow furrowed with concern. "But what of the rest? What does 'Find any allies' mean?"

  Auguste paused for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered the implications of Michael's words. "It is possible that Michael is seeking to recruit others to his cause. He may be attempting to gather a group of like-minded individuals who share his hatred for you and our mission."

  Ramon clenched his fists, a look of determination in his eyes. "We cannot allow that to happen. We must find him before he can cause any more harm."

  Auguste nodded, his gaze still fixed on the note. "The next part is more difficult to decipher: '3- k-something the something.' It is possible that this refers to something he wants to do. Kill? OR a specific location or object that Michael is seeking. We must be vigilant and watch for any signs of him returning."

  Dr. Watson's eyes widened as realization dawned on him. "And what of the final part? '4- Does porlol exst?' Could this be some sort of code?"

  Auguste's lips curled into a wry smile. "I believe so, my friends. This is just a guess, but 'Porlol' is an anagram of 'prolol,' which is a reference to a popular website where users share and discuss various topics. It is possible that Michael has left a message or clue on the website, one that only he and his allies would understand."

  The group exchanged worried glances, their hearts heavy with the knowledge that Michael was still at large and plotting against them.

  "We must act quickly," said Dr. Watson , his voice firm with resolve. "We cannot afford to let Michael gain any more ground."

  They were determined and knew that they had an advantage with their numbers.

  Meanwhile, Carl's keen eyes continued to scan the undergrowth, searching for any sign of their quarry amidst the dense foliage. Seraphina, ever the wanderer, had moved with a grace that belied her strength, her instincts sharp and unwavering.

  The jungle seemed to close in around them, the oppressive heat and humidity weighing heavy on their weary bodies. The group was haunted by the grisly sight of the dead body, its lifeless eyes staring blankly into the abyss.

  Joel used a pragmatic and focused approach to their predicament. He wanted to find reasonable explanations to unravel the mysteries of their surroundings. Joel's could provide valuable insights and strategies in capturing Michael. Joel had determination and resourcefulness in pursuing their common goal.

  Joel's jaw tightened as he surveyed the scene, his mind racing with possibilities. Did Michael Barrett do it? Or was there something more sinister at play on this forsaken island?

  With a grim resolve, Joel knelt beside the fallen figure, searching for any clues that might shed light on their grim discovery. The group gathered around him, their expressions grim as they grappled with the harsh reality of their situation.

  "Does anyone recognize him?" Joel's voice was low, his words tinged with a sense of urgency. They needed answers, and they needed them fast if they were to stand any chance of stopping Michael and eventually leaving the island alive.

  The air was heavy with the scent of untamed earth. The group stood in a somber circle. The lifeless body of the young graduate student lay before them, a silent testament to the dangers that prowled these wilds. Seraphina had recalled the student and with her well-traveled instincts, examined the scene. Her eyes, sharpened by years of witnessing the world's harsh realities, searched for clues that might reveal the story of the fallen explorer.

  Joel, the enigmatic warrior with a past shrouded in mystery, posed the question that hung in the air, to know if anyone recognized him. The group remained silent, the answer unspoken yet clear—this young man was mostly unknown to them, yet his fate was all too familiar.

  Seraphina felt a kinship with Joel, his practicality and combat skills mirroring her own survival instincts. She respected his straightforward approach, although his gruff exterior sometimes clashed with the subtleties of their encounters. His dedication to unraveling the impossible was a trait she valued deeply.

  Determined to prevent Michael, the crazed maniac and former mercenary, from claiming more lives, Seraphina rallied the group. "We must move quickly," she declared, her voice a beacon of resolve. "Michael's desperation makes him dangerous, but also predictable. We'll use that to our advantage."

  As they ventured deeper into the jungle, Seraphina reached into her backpack, pulling out a compact satellite phone. With this device, she could pinpoint their location and potentially track Michael's movements. It was a piece of technology that bridged the gap between the wild chaos of nature and the structured world of human innovation.

  The group pressed on, following the trail that Michael had left behind. Seraphina led the way, her instincts guiding them through the labyrinth of green. Her determination was unwavering. She would not allow the jungle to claim any more victims. Not while she was there to prevent it.

  As the shadows lengthened and the sounds of the jungle grew more pronounced, Seraphina's grip on the satellite phone tightened. It was more than a tool; it was a lifeline, a connection to a world beyond immediate danger. And she would use it to ensure their survival.

  A sleepy Rick had thought a long while, trying to recall if he had seen the now dead grad student.

  "Ah yes! I think I remember this guy but I never caught his name. I had seen him in the university hallways but he always seemed to keep to himself. I don't remember him being on the flight here...was he another stowaway? Another crew wouldn't have arrived before us, right?," he said to the others within earshot.

  In response, no one offered any meaningful responses but their facial expressions, amid the moonlit sky, suggested that such inquiries required a bit more time to fully think over.

  As the group took a brief break and thought about what steps to take next, Rick decided to get to know the non-students.

  He started with Joel and Wanderlust. He regarded Joel as if he were a guru: with a bit of awe and deep respect. With Wanderlust, he was behaving a bit more mundane. He asked questions, such as: 'What brought you on this adventure?,' 'How did you hear about this trip?' and 'Did you know anyone else on this expedition, previously?'

  Meanwhile, the other group was a few miles away and on high alert, watching out for Michael, anyone else or any thing that might be a threat.

  Suddenly, Dr. Watson had the idea to thumb through some notes and writings about the island and those who once inhabited it. After ten minutes of browsing, he was tired. Just then, Auguste spotted a note as he looked over Watson's shoulder. The note said something about a mythical portal. Auguste was intrigued by this.

  Auguste asked to borrow the notes to dive in further. He called it the Tome of Esoteric Lore. He began reading, his eyes scanning the pages with curiosity. As he flipped through the pages, he came across a passage: "In the heart of the island, there lies a portal, a gateway to the realms beyond. It is said that those who dare to cross its threshold will be forever changed, their destinies intertwined with the forces of the universe."

  Just then, Atticus began to regain his strength, so Auguste approached him, offering a smile and a handshake.

  "How are you feeling, buddy?" he asked, his voice gentle and reassuring. "We are here to help you, to ensure that Michael does not succeed in his twisted plans."

  Atticus, groggy, looked up at Auguste. "Thank you, just call me Groggy Grogerson," he said with a smile, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Auguste placed a comforting hand on Atticus' shoulder, his expression one of determination. "You are stronger than you know. We'll get through this."

  As the two men talked, Ramon and Dr. Watson approached, their eyes fixed on the tome that Auguste held.

  "What have you found?" asked Dr. Watson, his curiosity piqued.

  Auguste looked up, his eyes shining with excitement. "I believe I have discovered something of great importance," he said, his voice barely containing his enthusiasm. "There is a passage that speaks more about the portal, a gateway to other realms, hidden somewhere on this island."

  The group exchanged glances, concerned that Michael may be aware of the portal's existence.

  "We must find this portal before he does," said Dr. Watson, his voice firm with resolve. "If Michael gains control of it, the consequences could be catastrophic."

  Determined to uncover the truth behind the mysterious portal, their hearts were filled with a mixture of hope and fear.

  Auguste then chose to divert his attention back to Atticus: "Anyhoo...do you now recall anything else about what happened, Atticus?"

  Atticus considered Auguste's question carefully, about how Michael managed to overtake him and escape.

  "Let's see...I remember moving some things around the plane. When I saw Michael in the caged area, I suppose I underestimated the situation, thinking he was asleep or something. I was wrong; he apparently was faking it and grabbed me when I was vulnerable. He demanded to be let out, to give him the keys, but I resisted. He squeezed tighter around my neck. Next thing I knew, I went unconscious."

  'That was a waste...he told me nothing of value,' Auguste thought. 'Well, life goes on. Hopefully I helped him to recover and maybe he will help us more than he would have otherwise.'

  Meanwhile, During their brief respite, Seraphina was shook up about the college student's fate. She found comfort in replying to Rick's questions about their past.

  She responded: "Ah, the threads that weave us into our tales. My journey began with whispers—the kind that drift across old maps and ancient manuscripts. The island called to me... As for companions, I knew none before this voyage. We are a motley crew—each with our secrets, our reasons. And how did I hear about this trip? Well, let's say the universe has its ways of revealing hidden paths. Sometimes, you simply follow the stars and trust that they lead you where you're meant to be. The star, or hidden path, in this case, was Branton."

  Joel's responses to the questions were concise and to the point, where he wanted to focus on the task at hand: "What brought me to this adventure? Curiosity and a thirst for understanding. Mysteries need unraveling, and I want answers. Did I know anyone else on this expedition? No, I didn't. But bonds are forged quickly in times like these. We're all in this together now. In terms of hearing about the trip, word gets around. When you're attuned to the unusual, you tend to stumble upon opportunities like this. Enough talk. I'm getting this guy. Better him than me," Joel said, laser focused as he grabbed the shotgun and stormed off.

  The others ran behind him.

  Joel's heart was calm as he cautiously navigated through the undergrowth, his grip tight on the shotgun. The jungle continued to give the feeling of closing in, the foliage obscuring his vision as he moved with silently and assertively.

  Suddenly, he saw a flicker of movement amidst the shadows ahead. Joel froze, his senses on high alert as he peered through the dense vegetation, searching for any sign of their elusive quarry.

  With a silent prayer to whatever higher power might be listening, Joel braced himself for the inevitable clash that would decide their fates once and for all.

  And then, there he was—Michael Barrett, the crazed maniac who had eluded them, lurking in the shadows like a predator stalking its prey. Joel's jaw tightened, his finger hovering over the trigger as he locked eyes with the dangerous maniac.

  "Michael," Joel's voice was low, a warning laced with steel and some dark humor. "It's over. You'd better check yourself before you wreck yourself. 'cause shotgun bullets are bad for your health."

  Michael's eyes gleamed with intensity as he raised his weapon, an evil grin spreading across his face. Joel tensed, wanting to end this deadly game once and for all.

  With a swift motion, Joel raised the shotgun, his aim steady as he stared down the barrel at his adversary. There was no room for hesitation, no time for second thoughts. In this moment, it was just Joel and Michael, locked in a deadly dance amidst the unforgiving wilderness.

  Tension mounted. Joel's senses sharpened.

  "BLAM!"

  Joel fired before Michael could pull the trigger.

  Michael flew back a few feet from the shotgun blast, brushing past shrubbery and landing in long grass and thick mud.

  Immediately after Joel hit his target, Kade yelled, "Dang! No hesitation! Good shot, brother!"

  Wanting to be certain that the foe was truly taken care of, Joel, accompanied by the others, walked over to Michael. For a few seconds, which felt like an eternity, Michael maintained a sly smile before uttering his last words, in a low but audible tone, "You guys are screwed!"

  With that, his eyes went blank and the group found comfort in knowing that Michael was no longer a threat.

  Stetson, and some of the others, thought, 'What did he mean by "You guys are screwed!"? Was he just messing with us, or did he in fact have something sinister planned for us?'

  "Well, let's pack our stuff up and head back to the camp to rejoin the others for the night," Stetson said to the others, decisively.

  Stetson and the others returned to meet up with their fellow adventurers at the campsite near the beach.

  The following morning, the archeology students, Dr. Watson, and the mercenaries moved cautiously through the dense jungle. The foliage was thick and the ground was uneven, making their progress slow and arduous. Up ahead, they saw what appeared to be a bridge of some kind. As they approached the valley, they could see the tattered rope bridge swaying ominously in the wind. The bridge was the only known way for miles to cross the vast body of water that separated the cliffs.

  The mercenaries, hired for their experience in dealing with hostile conditions, took the lead, with Kade in back. They were about to cross the bridge when suddenly, a blood-curdling scream pierced the air, causing everyone to freeze. The source of the sound was a group of island natives, who had emerged from the dense jungle, on the other side of the bridge. They were heavily armed with primitive weapons - spears, bows, and machetes. The natives' faces were painted with intricate patterns and they wore little clothing, their muscular bodies glistening with sweat.

  The mercenaries quickly assessed the situation and sprang into action. They formed a defensive perimeter around the students and their professor, their guns aimed at the natives. The students, terrified, huddled together, clutched their research equipment and notes.

  The professor, a seasoned archeologist, shouted out to the natives in their native tongue. He had learned quite a bit of the language (though not fluently) during his years of studying the lost civilization of Garath. He explained their purpose - to study the ruins, not to harm or disturb them. The natives, however, were not convinced. They were fiercely territorial of their island and the ruins, which they believed held great spiritual significance.

  A tense standoff ensued, with both sides unwilling to back down. The mercenaries, weapons ready, watched the natives warily, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. The students, their hearts pounding, prayed for a peaceful resolution.

  Dr. Watson's attempt at diplomacy sputtered to a halt, his textbook phrases a poor match for the scowls from the natives. The air crackled with tension, punctuated by the rhythmic drumming.

  However, Auguste was thrilled. Here was another puzzle, a new civilization!

  He rolled up his sleeves and eased forward, the mercenaries eyeing him wearily. With a theatrical flourish, Auguste whipped out a handkerchief. It was a symbol - a white flag with questionable cleanliness.

  "Greetings, esteemed warriors!" he boomed, voice echoing. "We come in peace, as bearers of... well, slightly damp scarves and an insatiable curiosity!"

  The leader, with a headdress of vibrantly colored feathers, grunted something in his guttural tongue. A chorus of grunts followed, not exactly a symphony of welcome. Auguste, unfazed, continued.

  "Perhaps," his voice dropping to a whisper, "we could share stories? Tales of faraway lands and... uh... the weather patterns of invisible clouds?" He gestured vaguely at the sky, hoping it wouldn't rain arrows.

  A flicker of something akin to amusement crossed the leader's face. Maybe it was the sheer ridiculousness of Auguste's offering, or the way his scarf kept snagging on his backpack strap. Whatever it was, the tension eased a notch.

  "Dr. Watson!" Auguste hissed, his enthusiasm barely contained. "See? A shared interest in meteorology can bridge any cultural divide!"

  Dr. Watson, who was currently using his judgment (which involved hiding behind a particularly burly mercenary), cast Auguste a look that could curdle milk. But the damage, or perhaps the entertainment, was done. The leader barked another order, and instead of arrows, a young warrior approached the bridge, holding aloft... a single, ripe mango.

  Auguste, ever the diplomat, beamed. "A parley of fruits! A most civilized gesture!" He reached out with his non-scarf hand and the native threw it. He caught it and accepted the offer. The taste, as sweet and unexpected as this encounter, brought tears to his eyes.

  "See?" he proclaimed, brandishing the half-eaten mango like a peace treaty. "Common ground! We all appreciate the finer things in life – sunshine, good company, and delicious tropical fruit!"

  Whether this would be enough to get on the right track toward de-escalating the situation toward getting them across the bridge remained to be seen. Auguste, ever the optimist, took it as a sign.

  While others considered what to do, Auguste quickly thumbed through the Tome of Esoteric Lore to see if anything else may help.

  "Peace," Auguste declared, his French accent thick. "We share this island. We share the sun, the rain, and now... the mango."

  The chief stepped forward, his headdress woven from feathers and vines. His gaze bore into Seraphina, who stood slightly apart, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She had secrets—the kind that whispered in forgotten dialects and rustled in ancient scrolls. Her fingers brushed the worn leather of her journal, its pages filled with cryptic symbols and half-forgotten spells.

  "What do you know?" the chief seemed to ask, his eyes like polished stones.

  Seraphina's heart raced. She had glimpsed it—the beast that prowled these jungles. Not a creature of flesh and bone, but something older, hungrier. It moved with the wind, its form shifting between shadow and leaf. She had seen its tracks—the claw marks on tree trunks, the crushed ferns. And she knew its name—the one whispered by the island's spirits when the moon was high.

  "Avoid conflict," she thought, her mind racing. "Survive the wild."

  From her backpack, she withdrew a small vial—a concoction of herbs and moon-dew. She held it out, her eyes locking the chief's. The mercenaries shifted again.

  "Peace," Seraphina murmured, her voice a breeze through ancient boughs. "We seek no harm. Only passage."

  She threw the vial and the chief accepted it, its contents swirling like forgotten memories. He raised it to the sun. His smile was a crack in the tension—a fragile bridge of its own. The chief's acceptance hung in the balance; the outcome as uncertain as the hidden paths of the jungle.

  He nodded, and the rope bridge trembled, as if the island itself held its breath. The chief's acceptance hung in the balance.

  As the tension thickened like the heavy jungle air, Joel's instincts kicked into overdrive. His grip tightened on the shotgun, every muscle coiled and ready for action. Despite the uncertain outcome with the natives, he remained steadfast, his determination unwavering in the face of adversity. Joel couldn't help but marvel at the power of such a simple gesture as offering a mango, the bridge between their worlds hanging in the balance.

  As the standoff persisted, Joel stood tall, his strength a bulwark against the swirling currents of doubt and fear. He knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but he was determined to face things head-on, his resolve unshakeable amidst the unknown. With a silent prayer, Joel braced himself, ready to confront obstacles with the unwavering strength of a warrior facing his destiny.

  As the sun dipped lower, casting an amber glow over the scene, Joel, with a grunt and a scowl that belied his true intent, picked up lengths of rope. His hands, calloused from countless adventures, worked deftly, weaving and knotting the frayed ends with the skill of a seasoned sailor.

  Seraphina, meanwhile, rummaged through her backpack again with the urgency of a magician reaching for her final trick. Her fingers found what they sought—a roll of sturdy twine, interwoven with strands of metallic thread, strong and supple. It was a relic from her travels, a gift from a nomadic weaver who claimed it could bind the stars themselves.

  Together, they worked, their movements a dance of necessity. Joel's rough knots and Seraphina's star-bound twine merged, mending the tattered bridge. The natives watched, their expressions a mix of curiosity and caution. The mercenaries, too, held their breath, their earlier bravado replaced by a silent hope.

  The bridge began to take shape, its once-gaping wounds slowly healing. The ropes and twine whispered promises of strength, of crossings yet to come. And as the last knot was tied, a collective sigh rose from both sides of the chasm.

  The bridge was going through a rebirth, a testament to the unlikely alliance between strangers. The natives offered nods of respect, their spears now resting against their shoulders. The mercenaries relaxed as well, their hands finally slipping away from their weapons.

  Seraphina stepped back, her backpack now lighter, her heart full. The island had tested them, and they had answered—not with conflict, but with cooperation. The bridge, once a symbol of division, could be a beacon of unity.

  With the tension still palpable in the air, Joel's gaze flickered toward the bridge again, a plan continued to form in his mind. Continuing to use the rope, his movements were deliberate and focused. With each knot and twist, he reinforced the structure, his muscles strained as he worked.

  As the bridge repairs took shape, a sense of purpose settled over Joel, his determination driving him forward despite the odds. With each passing moment, the bridge grew stronger beneath his hands, working against adversity.

  Finally, Joel stepped back, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he surveyed his handiwork. The bridge stood stronger, a link between their worlds, a symbol of hope amidst the chaos of the jungle.

  Facing the natives on the other side, Joel offered a nod of respect, his eyes meeting theirs with a silent understanding. In that moment, he knew that despite their differences, they shared a common goal—to bridge the divide between their worlds and forge a path towards peace.

  Joel couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell within him. They had come together, united by a common purpose and a shared determination to work things out together.

  "I've done what I can. It's up to you, Stetson and Dr. Watson," he said, turning to them.

  Stetson had always secretly thought of himself as an excellent soldier, in the various ways that a soldier could represent himself. His people skills were okay in most situations, but diplomacy was a weak point for him. These are the things he briefly thought as he was resisting the urge to fight these natives that still seemed to be a threat.

  Stetson thought to himself, almost as if sending a telepathic message to group of natives.

  Ultimately, he opted for peace but reasoned that if THEY

  He watched for any developments. He asked Atticus and Ramon to help some of the others in securing the bridge, to get the group and their equipment across it.

  Up to this point, his knuckles where white from the exertion and tension, but then he began to relax.

  In a flash of inspiration, Dr. Watson referred to his notebook to verify a piece of information.

  'My speaking to the natives was not quite as effective as I had hoped but maybe there's a symbol or sign I can use to further cement a questionable relationship to a more trusting one...' he thought.

  Sure enough, he found just what he was looking for.

  He quickly studied the scholarly notes and visualized the necessary hand gestures and any words that accompanied these signs. He had learned, at least on a deeper level, some of the meanings of the set of gestures he was about to use.

  'So I simply hold one hand up, extending all fingers and thumb while the other hand extends three of the fingers with the pointer finger's tip touching the thumb's tip? It seems simple enough. I'll give a go!'

  His mind went on a quick tangent, 'eight fingers extended...it must have something to do with the eighth full moon of the spring equinox...'

  The professor set his notebook down and confidently made the appropriate gestures of his hands as he shouted to the natives on the other side of the bridge and said, "We are friends. We come in peace and humbly ask assistance in fixing this bridge, so that we may all get across. Will you help us?"

  The natives, upon seeing Watson's hand gestures, began to relax more. Many of the mouths of the natives opened in surprise, as if a code was cracked. However, there were one or two members of the tribe that insisted to their leader that they should keep a close eye on the visitors, just in case this turned out to be a trick.

  The leader of the natives offered help immediately.

  He shouted, to Watson in his native tongue, "A few of my men will go get some twine that is strong. We will then attach it to spears and launch them over to you!"

  In summary,