Typhoon Island (7 page)

“It beats being blown away by a typhoon,” Frank noted.

They soon passed over the aging bridge that spanned the river. Rainwater had already swollen the waterway to the edges of its banks, and palm trees swayed dramatically by the sides of the road. Huge waves crashed on the nearby beaches, and clouds of sea spray leaped high into the swirling air.

“Surf’s up!” Joe said, smirking.

At Casa Bonita guests were moving their cars behind the hotel, away from the waterfront. The hotel had a good five hundred yards of beach between it and the water at high tide, and a seawall of boulders separated the beach from the hotel. All that sand and rock looked like little protection,
though, as the waves grew higher and higher.

“If the hotel sinks, where do we go for shelter?” Callie asked, only half joking.

They left the narrow highway and wound up the even narrower road that led into the hills. Water rushing downhill made driving difficult, but Callie handled it well enough. Fallen trees lay by the roadside as they drove through the junglelike forest. Fortunately none of the logs had blocked the road.

Despite the difficult driving, they soon reached their tiny bungalows. Sheltered by the forest and the height of the cliffs, the small huts seemed to be weathering the storm fairly well.

“Maybe we’d be safer here,” Iola said as they pulled up. “The huts have their own electricity supply.”

“But the walls are just wood and straw,” Frank noted.

“And there are no phones if anything goes wrong,” Callie said.

“And one of those big palm trees would make a pretty hefty dent in a bungalow roof,” Joe added.

“Okay,” Iola said. “I get the point. We’ll stick to the official emergency plan.”

“You know what they say: When in San Esteban . . . ,” Frank said, smiling at Iola.

They scurried through the rain into their respective huts, trying not to get any wetter than they already were.

“You think it’s worth changing into dry clothes?” Joe asked as he stripped off his shirt and wrung it out in the tub. “We’ll probably just get soaked again.”

“Callie and I each packed some travel ponchos,” Frank said. “We hoped we wouldn’t need them, but now seems like a good time to break them out, huh?”

Joe smiled. “I’m glad my brother and his girlfriend think ahead,” he said. “Iola and I planned only for sun and surf.” He stripped off the rest of his clothes, wrung them out, and put them in a plastic laundry bag. He quickly changed into a new shirt and shorts. Frank found the ponchos and then changed as well. They threw their other clothes in their duffel bags and opened the pouches that contained the bright orange rain ponchos.

As the brothers unfolded the slickers, a huge crack of thunder shook the tiny building. The brothers froze in midaction as the sound died away.

“That was close by,” Frank said.

“Too close,” Joe agreed. A moment later he sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?” he asked.

Frank looked around the small room. An orange light near the rear corner caught his eye. “Fire!”

Joe grabbed the blanket off his bed and ran to the corner. He beat the blanket against the flames but couldn’t smother them. “Lightning must have hit the hut,” he said.

“Maybe,” Frank replied. He quickly retrieved the fire extinguisher from beside the hut’s tiny electric heater. He popped off the safety lock, pointed the nozzle toward the base of the flames, and pulled the trigger.

The extinguisher hissed, a small cloud puffed out of the nozzle, and a tiny stream of bubbly liquid leaked onto the floor. Frank looked at the date stamped on the side of the canister. “Expired!” he said, tossing the useless extinguisher aside.

“Soak one of the sheets with water,” Joe suggested,
still beating at the fire with his blanket.

“In the tub, or outside?” Frank asked wryly as he yanked the covers off his bed and dashed into the bathroom. In just moments he returned with the sheet thoroughly soaked, and joined Joe in trying to extinguish the flames.

Sweat poured down their faces as they battled the blaze. Despite their efforts, the fire climbed up the hut’s grass wall toward the ceiling. “It’s no use,” Joe said.

“Get your stuff and head outside,” Frank said. “If the extinguisher in the girls’ cabin works, we may still have a chance.”

Both brothers dropped their makeshift fire blankets and grabbed their duffel bags and ponchos from beside the door. As they stepped outside Iola ran up to them, holding her orange poncho in one hand.

“Help!” she cried. “Fire!”

The Hardys dropped their gear and ran to the other hut. They found the girls’ bags lying outside and Callie standing beside the hut. She was aiming a sputtering fire extinguisher toward a strip of burning thatch near the door.

“This thing doesn’t work!” she said angrily.

“Ours is no good either,” Frank said.

“And our hut is on fire too,” Joe added.

Callie looked around, panic in her face. “What?”
she asked, not believing him. “Are you all right?”

“We’re fine,” Frank replied. “Got our gear out too—same as you.”

“I think lightning struck the huts,” Callie said. “We heard a huge bang just before the fire broke out.”

“If only the cabins had phones!” Iola said, moaning.

“And our cell phones don’t work either,” Joe said angrily.

“We’ll have to drive out of the jungle and get help,” Frank said. He pulled his poncho on over his head, even though he was already soaked and sweaty. The others did the same as they headed for the Jeep.

When they reached the battered old vehicle, though, they immediately noticed that it looked lopsided.

“Did it sink into the mud?” Callie asked. The entire road leading downhill looked like a mud slide.

“No,” Frank said, stooping beside the Jeep. “The tires are flat.”

“All of them?” Joe asked.

“Just the two right tires,” Frank said, examining the flats.

“Could the lightning have blown out the tires
and
set the huts on fire?” Iola asked.

“On a one-in-a-million shot, maybe,” Joe said.

“I think there’s a more likely explanation,” Frank said as rain dripped off his orange hood. “Someone did this on purpose.”

“The same person who was following us earlier today?” Callie asked.

“Could be,” Joe said. “Either someone’s out to get us, or someone on this island doesn’t like tourists in general.”

“But why?” Iola asked.

“If we knew the answer to that,” Frank said, “we’d know who was causing this trouble.”

“I don’t see any tracks,” Joe said, looking around the small clearing. “But rain could have washed them away.” He peered into the jungle and down the road but didn’t see anyone.

“There’s nothing we can do about the cabins, then,” Callie said. “There goes our vacation—up in smoke.”

For a moment none of them said anything. They stood beside the Jeep and watched the fires consume their vacation bungalows. The poncho-clad teens looked like four orange ghosts in the twilight.

“Come on,” Frank finally said. “Maybe if we meet someone on the road we can still get the authorities up here to save at least a bit of these bungalows.”

“What about our bags?” Callie asked.

“We’ll leave them in the Jeep,” Joe said. “It’s not going anywhere, and the hike will be easier if we travel light.”

They stashed their gear in the Jeep and dug a flashlight and some flares out of the glove compartment. Frank locked the car and stashed the keys inside the fuel door, which he left ajar. “No sense losing the keys on our trek downhill,” he said. “And it’s not like anyone’s going to steal a car with two flat tires.”

“Do you think the walk to the hotel will be difficult?” Callie asked.

“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t be surprised if we did as much sliding as walking,” Frank said, looking at the muddy road. “Let’s get going before the storm gets any worse.”

They stuck to the edges of the road. The rain had already turned the center of it into a narrow, rapid stream of mud. Sometimes they walked on one side, sometimes the other, always choosing the less hazardous course. They crossed over the muddy road using the few stepping stones that were in the road.

“How far is it to the hotel?” Iola asked.

“At least five miles,” Joe replied.

“Five miles didn’t seem so far in the bright sunshine,” Callie said. Even with their ponchos, all of them were getting very wet.

Rain cascaded through the dense forest canopy. The raindrops sounded like nails falling on the leaves. Wind shook the upper branches, and many of the trees swayed in the strong wind.

“Next time remind me to vacation in the desert,”
Iola said, looking drenched and miserable.

Shadows moved through the trees on either side of the road. The teens couldn’t tell whether the moving shapes were animals or just branches blowing in the wind. In the distance they heard the low wail of Nuevo Esteban’s storm sirens, warning people to take shelter.

“Being caught outside when this typhoon hits is
not
my idea of fun,” Joe said.

“Staying in a burning hut didn’t seem like a better option, but I’m open to suggestions,” Frank replied.

“I suggest we keep moving,” Callie said. “It’s not going to get better if we stand around talking.” She bravely trudged forward through the rain and the darkness.

“We could always go back to the car and wait for help,” Iola said. “I’m sure the Jeep’s engine still works, and we could use the heaters to dry off. They must have a list of guests who are supposed to use the shelter at the hotel. Someone’s bound to come looking for us.”

“If they’re able,” Frank said. “I doubt people will be moving around much when the storm gets worse—no matter who’s missing.”

“They’ll probably have so many folks in that shelter, and they’ll be so busy, they won’t even notice we’re gone,” Joe said.

“Besides,” Frank continued, “the typhoon will
toss that car around like a toy. You’ve seen pictures of ships stranded miles inland by hurricanes. We wouldn’t be any safer there than we are here.”

“Maybe not,” Iola said, shivering, “but we’d be warmer and drier.” She let out a long, exasperated sigh, then followed Callie’s lead.

The wind and rain and the condition of the road all grew worse as the four teens made their way downhill. The noise surrounding them became almost deafening; it was a mixture of howling wind, driving rain, rustling leaves, and creaking tree trunks. The deteriorating path forced them to move through the jungle along the side of the road.

“Did you see that?” Callie called, stopping and peering into the brush.

“See what?” Frank asked. They had to yell over the din.

“There’s something moving in the jungle to the right,” she replied.

“It’s probably just some animal trying to get out of the storm,” Joe suggested.

“Ha! I hope it has better luck than we’re having,” Iola quipped.

Something whizzed across the path ahead of them, moving so quickly that they could hardly see it. They heard the brush move as the thing zipped through to the road. A corner of one leaf fluttered toward the ground before being whipped away by the wind.

“What was
that
?” Iola asked.

“A bird or bat, maybe?” Joe suggested.

“It was moving awfully fast,” Callie said.

“Hurricane winds can drive a piece of straw through an oak tree,” Frank noted.

“And that’s supposed to make us feel better?” Iola asked.

“Ouch!” yelped Callie.

“What’s wrong?” Frank, Joe, and Iola asked simultaneously.

“Something pricked me in the leg,” Callie replied. “I think I’ve got a thorn caught in my poncho or something. Hang on while I try to get it out.” She stopped, and started pulling on the folds of the bright orange poncho.

She crinkled her nose. “That’s funny,” she said.

“What?” Frank asked.

“It’s a long thorn attached to a berry or something. But the berry kind of looks like a bright green bead.”

They all looked to where she was pointing.

In the hem of Callie’s poncho they saw a slender, needlelike object. A bright plastic bead about the size of a marble was stuck to one end.

Frank’s eyes narrowed. “That’s no thorn. It’s a blowgun dart!”

“Get down!” Frank said. “Use the trees for cover.”

The teens crowded as close to a nearby large palm tree trunk as they could and crouched down. The Hardys scanned the woods but saw only trees and wind-tossed foliage.

“Where do you think the dart came from?” Callie asked fearfully.

“Are you sure it’s a dart?” Iola asked, fighting to remain calm. “The bead thing looks like it could be a berry. I thought blowgun darts had feathers on them.”

“Not modern blowgun darts,” Joe replied. “The bead is attached to a long needle that’s fitted into the blowgun’s barrel. The sphere gives extra oomph
to the missile when it’s fired. The tube works almost like a rifle barrel—”

“We can explain how it works later,” Frank said, cutting his brother off. His gaze flitted back and forth across the flooded road. “Right now we need to find out who shot at us, locate where he is, and deal with him before he can hurt anyone.”

“D-Do you think the dart is
poisoned?”
Callie asked, looking at a scratch on her calf.

“There’s no way to tell,” Frank replied. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled the dart from the hem of her poncho. “Do you feel okay?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t worry about it, then.” He stuck a small piece of bark onto the point of the needle and put the dart into his breast pocket. “Let us know if you start feeling funny.”

“Easy for you to say, Frank Hardy,” Callie replied. Under her bright orange poncho she was as white as a sheet.

Just then something whipped by them. A green-tailed dart appeared in the tree trunk above their heads.

“Move now—while he reloads!” Joe said. He headed into the brush behind the tree. Frank and the rest followed.

“I thought you wanted to find him,” Iola said.

“That’d be nice,” Joe replied, “but I’d rather he didn’t find us.”

They ran through the rain forest, pushing the dense overgrowth out of the way. The darkness and rain made seeing and hearing difficult. Several times something whizzed through the leaves on either side of them or over their heads. The teens couldn’t be sure if the faint noise came from the passage of some flying creature, falling debris, or a blowgun dart—but they assumed the worst. Fortunately no one was hit.