ISLA | Chapter Twenty-Two
Island, Alone
Welcome to Tiny Worlds!
We’re shifting our focus to explore Mexico's eastern coast with twelve-year-old George Perez in the serialized novel: ISLA.
For longer fiction visit Stories, and for flash fiction go to Sketchbook.
George’s stomach lurched. A big, twisted knot balled up—immediate and hot—in his middle as he listened to the voices scatter off in the distance.
While he was having a laugh, the boys had run away. Somewhere in the overgrowth their giggles were fading.
He threw himself forward—over the side of the boat and into the jungle. Branches snapped, things skittered out of his path. He pulled the straps on the backpack tight as his feet moved with purpose in fast, long strides. Over roots. Under low hanging branches.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not being left behind. Not to fend for himself on an empty shoreline and face… whatever might be out there, alone. He wanted Swallows and Amazons, not Lord of the Flies. Whatever might happen next, he could only hope he wasn’t Piggy in this version.
The cool breeze at the shore was yanked away as a hot stillness leaned against his skin. But that wasn’t what made his jaw clench. The real burn was inside—an acidic, primal taste on his tongue: anger.
Jerks. They effing ditched you.
When his legs finally gave out he noticed a pain in his side from the satchel banging against his ribs. George stopped. He was not a runner. Monkey bars were more his style. Or balancing to reach a top shelf in the library on one of those rickety stools. But not running.
Panting, he looked up—unsure how he’d gotten here. Ahead, where he thought the boys had gone, was now just a barcode of towering green stalks. Corn. Thick, breathless, radiating heat. The jungle was behind him somewhere, pushed away by the field that stretched in every direction.
Some places were so tight he had to squeeze his shoulders through. He shifted the backpack to his chest, stepped sideways, swatting at the occasional odd spider web. No sign of the boys. No real way back—whatever “back” even meant now. So he pressed forward, glancing up, hoping to catch sight of the mountain over the stalks.
Who told all the corn to grow the same height?
All he knew was he seemed to be in a valley—flat at first—until it angled downward and turned rocky. The corn grew less dense on the slope until, finally, he reached a stream.
He knelt immediately, cupping water to his mouth in messy slurps. An oasis. He splashed it on his face and head, imagining it sizzling on his skin. The water wasn’t cold but it was refreshing in a way he wasn’t sure he knew water could be, clearing the haze from his eyes. He breathed out, letting the dribble that fell on his face splatter as he saw the trough of water snake away and out of sight. The mountain would be upstream from here–as good a path as any to follow.
On the bank George saw a boulder—water chasing its edges—and climbed up. There, next to the corn and still in their heat, he found a shady spot. Watching the water rush by he slipped the journal from the backpack.
“Okay, dad… where now?”
He hadn’t talked to his father, at him, out loud like that before. But it felt right. George was holding his journal, and it was his guide to the island, wasn’t it?
George flipped through the pages following the text he could read: the shape of the island, Hermano, and the story of the cave. There’s no mention of a field full of corn. Maybe this grew sometime after he was here?
Following the looping script of his father’s hand, it moved from flowy and reflective to choppy and written in haste. A’s looked like e’s, f’s looked like t’s. The whole thing felt like a code he wasn’t meant to understand. And now, on the island, it got worse—like that place in the book about the tollbooth, where directions melted into nonsense and everyone forgot what they were looking for.
“This isn’t ’X marks the spot’…” he heard his father say.
His head fell low, tired, exhausted by the heat, the day and how far he likely had to go before he could sleep. He’d never considered chucking the book into the brush but now felt like the right time. He lifted it over his head, holding it like a bird flying upside down. Angry and sweaty, he was about to throw it when he caught sight of a shape on one of the pages.
Back in his lap he looked closer.
Between the lines he could read about the cave his eyes stumbled on something he had never paid attention to–the shape of a star and two characters: SE. Or that’s what it looked like. George flipped back and forth looking for more. Every few pages was another. He had no idea what it meant, if anything.
But he knew what it wasn’t: a guide to finding the cave. It wasn’t a way out of this corn field or a forgotten reservation at the island motel.
His legs suddenly ached from running in boots. His throat felt raw with the swelter of the field—like it might turn to dust if he spit. He put the journal back in the backpack and adjusted the satchel, letting skin breathe beneath the straps. His clothes were filthy, layers of thick winter wear that felt as out of place as he did.
“You don’t belong here, George,” he said aloud, standing to look over the tops of the stalks. And he half-meant it.
But was there any place he did belong? Has there ever been one that wasn’t just a weigh station, a stopover from one place to the next? Were they all just half-hearted attempts at making things normal?
Ugh. Normal. There was that word again.
No, George thought, tipping forward, landing back in the stream and angling his body toward the mountain—normal can kick the can. It can take a high dive off the Empire State Building and land on a bicycle with no seat.
Forget normal.
He splashed water over his head and arms again. It felt cool—just long enough to clear his head. He needed it.
This was an adventure. His adventure.
His chance at something nobody could take away.
The only problem was, he had no idea what came next.
A cave, sure. But then what?
Was there something buried? Some kind of message?
Was he supposed to wait for a voice?
Did the gods still do that kind of thing?
He let out a dry laugh—too tired to mean it.
And then he remembered something. Not a memory, exactly. Just a line that floated up from his dad’s voice, from a book they used to read at night.
When the gods are silent, they are listening.
George frowned. He kicked at the stream, sending rooster tails into the air, then watched them fall. He wasn’t sure he believed any of it. Still, it felt like it should mean something.
But he was tired. Hot. Alone. And if the gods were listening, he wished they would say something back. Anything.
From behind, somewhere in the corn, he heard rustling. Turning, he saw a pair of birds flap away.
The creek narrowed, corn growing close to the edges. Ahead, a footpath cut across the stream–well traveled but not much wider than his shoulders.
One trail led through the corn to the west, the other east.
He looked up one side: corn.
Then the other: more corn.
Both directions looked the same—a narrow path stretching beyond sight.
“Left or right?” George said aloud.
He took another look toward the mountain. Sliding his shoulders back and forth, adjusting the satchel and backpack. He was dead center. Closer, but no closer.
To the right: the path was wide and well-lit by the sun, making its slow descent toward the horizon. It looked like it might curve toward the mountain.
To the left: the path sloped uphill and away from the mountain.
Either way he’d reach the beach and camp for the night.
He sighed and turned to the right, his untied laces dangling, leaving wet squiggles in the dirt.
Talking to himself, George said, “How’re you going to get there?”
Then, in a low Indiana Jones mumble: “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.”
As he stepped further along the path, he heard a tinkling sound in the distance—somewhere ahead. Imagined laughter, he thought—the creaking of stalks, the weight of corn pulling down the stems. It sounded like children laughing, but the sparkle of it got lost in the wind fluttering across the stalks–first in front, then behind him.
He looked back. His feet stopped moving. Behind him, the other trail was now gone.
The footpath—such as it was—no longer led between the corn and back the way he came. In its place stood a solid wall of green. No sign of the creek. Just dense and unmoving.
He stared a moment longer trying to remember if he’d made a turn. But no.
And far off, a dark sky was forming on the horizon in that direction. The faint smell of rain and wet dirt blew between the rows, mixing with the sweet humidity of the corn. He turned forward again. The sun, still low, lit up his face and the path ahead.
“Right is right,” he said to himself, and kept moving
His footfalls were steady, if tired. Thud. Thud. Thud. A forced march. The kind where falling behind might mean a bullet to the head. Keep going or die, Garraty.
George wiped his brow—for what felt like the thousandth time—and wondered if the heat would ever—
A gust hit his back. Cold. Sudden.
He spun. Something streaked past—he hardly got a look before it was gone.
Blinking sweat from his eyes, heart ticking faster now, George crouched and leaned a hand on the ground to steady himself. Looking, he saw nothing as he searched between the stalks.
Just a few feet behind the thick green plants on either side of the dirt track leaned in—the wind seeming to blow them toward the center, covering his path.
Not covering. Erasing.
Then came a growl—low, out of sight—just under the sound of wind rustling through the corn. It came from wherever that thing had run off to: behind him, but deep in the corn, hidden.
Standing, he began to shuffle backward—slow at first, trying to keep an eye on where the shape had gone.
Sliding, trying to make his winter shoes move faster. And—ugh—he really wished he’d tied them instead of letting the laces dangle.
He flashed to every horror movie he’d ever seen—someone running through the woods and falling. Almost always a girl. But he couldn’t help thinking: they must’ve had untied laces too. He kept pedaling backward, then remembered other scenes—the soon-to-be victim always backed into something worse.
So George spun and pumped his legs faster.
Was the path getting narrower?
The corn scraped his arms. Then his hips. Then both.
Another whoosh. George’s head snapped toward the sound—the thing was behind, on his right side now.
Ouch. He hadn’t considered the leaves might be sharp. Keep moving, George.
The thing crossed behind again. This time, he caught a better look—broad-shouldered, low to the ground, and dark. Almost black.
Did he see a tail?
The corn pulled at his sleeves. Then vines. Then thorns. He twisted, hunched, dragged himself sideways through the tangle. George looked around. He must be reaching the edge of the field.
Abruptly, he stopped.
Listening.
Whatever it was—it had stopped too.
Something was stalking him.
His heart was pounding in his ears. George breathed deep, as silent as he could. Blood rushed through his body and the adrenaline started to make him shake. He tried to listen for any movement—he knew it was there. If he was quiet enough he might hear something just below the swaying of leaves.
There: Just a few paces ahead. On his left. A crackle of dried leaves.
Was it getting closer?
He turned his head slowly, trying to find a path away but he couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction.
The only guide he had was the brightest light—the sun and…
There was a shape—not a tree, not corn. Hard angles. A building?
Yes!
Just a glimpse of a roof, half-covered in vines.
He moved toward it, stepping lightly between the plants and into the thicket. Sweat poured onto his face.
With a clear run he’d be at it in a few seconds but through the tangle this would take some time. He’d creep toward that building as silently as possible and, maybe, use it to hide.
He leaned, taking another step but something pulled him back. Looking down, it was the satchel wrapped on a tangle of leaves and stray vines. George pulled at it slowly. If he shook it free he’d alert whatever was to his location.
Slowly, George began slipping the bag off over his head. He’d have to leave it behind.
Good riddance, he thought. One last thing to drag around.
As George lifted the strap he remembered the boy’s voice, “Cuídalo bien.”… Keep it safe.
But what about his safety?
He took another look at the roofline of the building.
Quietly, panting, George narrowed his eyes at the bag. He dug his hand inside. Maybe there was a weapon?
Feeling around. A stone, a glass bottle maybe?
Then—he found it.
He pulled out a single egg.
George stared at it, remembering the sharks—their massive bodies leaping for the eggs he and the boys had thrown from the boat.
Could the distraction work again?
Almost unconsciously, he bit his bottom lip and shrugged. He had no idea why it worked before. It just had.
This egg was larger. The longer he held it, the heavier it felt.
He pushed at the nearest plants to give his arm room to throw. He had one shot to make the distance.
Twisting his body slightly, George listened for movement in the thicket, trying to find the angle.
There. He heard the brush shift—just enough to give him a lane.
He lifted the egg, elbow drawn back—then paused.
Something felt off. Wrong. He rolled the egg loosely in his fingers. Deciding.
A woomph echoed from the far side of the brush. A breeze—sharp and unnatural—cut through the stalks.
Then something blocked out the sun. George barely turned before a shape blurred his view.
Wings, arcing low. It was a shadow trailing talons.
The egg vanished from his hand. Snatched by a massive owl.
Underneath, George saw the egg clutched tightly to its belly. George had seen owls before—city owls, park owls—but not like this. Not this massive, this silent.
And just as quickly, it turned away toward the mountain. George just watched the movement of the bird, wings outstretched. It moved like a memory.
His eyes followed as it silently grabbed at the air and pulled itself higher and higher.
Then came the growl.
Low. Controlled.
From behind the thicket of stalks and vines, further away than George had thought.
The brush shivered as something large stepped out.
Still taken by the sight of the owl, George barely had time to register what he was seeing: deep black shoulders, the liquid motion of a body built to stalk: a jaguar.
It stood still. Head raised. Watching the owl disappear into the sky.
And for a moment, that was all it did.
George didn’t breathe. The satchel strap burned across his chest. Maybe it hadn’t seen him?
Then the jaguar’s head turned. Eyes locked on George.
It didn’t snarl. It didn’t crouch.
It just shifted. Deliberate.
George yanked the satchel free and ran.
He had ten yards, maybe more. Enough. Too much.
The jaguar hadn’t moved. Not yet.
Step-by-step he was making up the distance to the building. His heart leapt, his mouth dry from heat. Every step brought the building closer.
Safety, George thought, if I can get inside. He ran harder.
The sun was now in his face, directly ahead, a brilliant, blinding light.
Without looking George heard the cat shift, the thicket crunch, as its footfalls fell heavy, monstrous somewhere behind.
Now only a few feet from the building, George’s eyes scanned for—a door.
Rusted. Stained. Covered in vines.
His mind raced. Could he get it open?
George didn’t care what was inside—just a barrier between him and the animal.
Behind, the great cat stretched out, its body low, quickly covering the distance.
Sliding up to the side of the structure George pulled at the tangle of vines around the handle. Feverishly he worked—grabbing, tearing.
Wild, unrestrained fear drove his arms.
He threw his shoulder against the metal door.
It opened—just an inch.
Not enough.
He pushed again—BANG. Creak.
The jaguar's footfalls were almost at his back. He could hear the low growl of the beast turning into a rasping breath, hot and sharp, as if it were already tasting the space where he’d been.
He shoved the backpack through the crack, then squeezed himself in.
Legs first. Then his hips.
Stomp. Huff. Stomp.
His head was last to pull through. Just as he did, he locked eyes with the owl high in a nearby tree—its amber eyes reflected the building, and his own face… and the jaguar as it leapt at him.
George pushed at the door with everything his legs, arms and shoulders could muster.
It creaked closed a bit more—
Then: BOOM.
The full weight of the jaguar slammed into the other side, sending it into George’s face and body. He blinked at the white flash of pain and staggered back, dazed. A loud ting echoed in his head as stars swam in his vision.
His ribs ached where the satchel and its leftover contents had slammed against his body. His shirt clung wet against his stomach—sweat, blood? He couldn’t tell.
Then George leaned forward again, pushing with all of his weight. The door didn’t close all the way, but enough. Just enough.
Outside, he heard a huff before the jaguar’s mighty paws raked down the door. George could feel them tearing at the rusted metal just a few inches away. A second loud huff came from outside.
After a moment: silence.
Frozen, George listened. His eyes wide, blinking in the sudden darkness of the room.
George put his back against the door, digging his heels into the dirt and bracing with his legs as he slid down. His palms pressed into the earth and vines, a thick jungle of shag carpet beneath him. He knew it wouldn’t help, but still—he twisted his fingers through the vines, filling his hands.
The acidic taste in his mouth was gone. In its place, a metallic one, as a trickle of blood ran down his face and onto his lips. Catching his breath he licked them, pulling his wet shirt up to catch what he couldn’t see in the dark.
His nose hurt. He knew that feeling.
But the room… it felt like something he knew, too.
Safe. Like it had been waiting for him.
Like a bedroom.
If you like what you’ve read, please share it.
Have something to say? Just drop a comment below. I’m happy to answer questions
Music
Snake Dance - The March Violets
Nocturnal Me - Echo & The Bunnymen
You didn’t warn us this was turning into a horror story! I’m with Sharon… I might have gotten out of the boat, but as soon as I came across the spider web, I would’ve beat sheets back to the boat. I never would’ve made it through the cornfield.
Exciting stuff,J. I zipped through this chapter wanting to know what was next for poor George. You come up with some dandy imagery, for example, "It can take a high dive off the Empire State Building and land on a bicycle with no seat." Well written action that is full of suspense. Looking forward to the next chapter.