Typhoon Island

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “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!”

  9 Into the Typhoon

  * * *

  “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.

  “With this wind, and the rain coming down, whoever is shooting can’t be very accurate,” Frank said.

  “The foliage works to our advantage too,” Joe added. “We should keep moving—not give him any easy targets.” He pushed ahead through the thick green undergrowth.

  They kept moving as fast as they could, darting around the brush and fallen trees as the thunder echoed in their ears. Within a few minutes they came to a dense patch of undergrowth and had to slow down a bit and work their way through. Joe took the lead, bulldozing ahead like a first-string running back breaking through the line. Frank and the girls followed close behind.

  “How’s your leg?” Frank asked Callie.

  “Fine, I think,” she said. “It’s not stinging or anything.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Joe called back. “Maybe whoever’s doing this is only trying to scare us.”

  “Well, he’s doing a good job,” Iola commented.

  “I’ll take a closer look at the dart once we shake this guy,” Frank said. “I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

  Callie nodded bravely, but her lower lip trembled.

  Something whizzed over their heads as Joe finally got through the tangled undergrowth. Up ahead the jungle thinned out. They all broke into a sprint once again.

  “These orange ponchos are making us easy targets,” Iola said, glancing over her shoulder as she ran.

  “But we’re hard to hit,” Joe noted. “The sniper can’t pick out our bodies under the billowing plastic.”

  A peal of thunder shook the ground. A huge tree split in half and fell toward the teens.

  “Look out!” Frank called, pushing Callie out of the way. Joe and Iola dived aside as the tree crashed down next to them. Frank grunted in pain.

  “Are you all right?” Callie asked.

  “I’m not hurt bad,” the elder Hardy said, “but I’m trapped. I can’t move.”

  Joe knelt down and examined his brother. “His feet are pinned under the log,” he said to the girls. “Help me lift it? Frank, when we lift, try to crawl out.”

  Frank gritted his teeth and nodded. Joe, Iola, and Callie wrapped their arms around the palm tree’s soggy bark and heaved with all their might. The fallen tree inched up slightly, and Frank crawled out from underneath.

  “Can you walk?” Joe asked.

  “I think so,” Frank said, gingerly testing his weight on his feet.

  Joe looped an arm under his older brother’s armpit; Callie did the same on the other side. “Lean on us for a while,” she said.

  Frank nodded and winced slightly.

  Iola took the lead, and they forged ahead again.

  They moved more slowly as Frank tried to regain his footing. Iola glanced back frequently, checking on her companions and looking for the blowgun sniper.

  The storm showed no signs of stopping. The wind continued to howl, and the rain pelted through the dense leaves overhead. Their footing grew progressively less solid as the soil under their feet turned entirely to slippery mud.

  A few scared animals crossed their path as the friends trudged onward. A wild boar ran past, heading toward the islands interior. Shortly after that a large, iguana-like lizard fell out of a splintered tree, nearly landing on the girls’ heads. It, too, scrambled off into the brush.

  A fallen log in the road soon blocked their progress. Callie and Iola stooped to move it out of their way while Joe supported Frank. As they lifted the log, three giant centipedes scuttled out from beneath. The girls jumped, but the insects seemed more intent on escaping than causing trouble. The bugs quickly disappeared into the undergrowth, and the girls sighed in relief.

  The teens kept moving as quickly as they could. Frank soon shook off the effects of being pinned under the tree. His ankles ached, but he managed to keep up with the rest. Helping Frank walk had tired out Joe and Callie, and now they moved more slowly than any of them would have liked.

  Occasionally the leaves around them would ripple with some unseen force—perhaps another blowgun dart zipping past, though it could just as easily have been the driving rain, or debris whipped up by the wind. The harrowing journey began to take its toll on the teens’ nerves as well as their bodies.

  “We have to stop soon,” Iola said, gasping.

  “Just a little farther,” Joe said.

  “How are we going to find our way back to the hotel?” Callie asked.

  “We’ll figure that out once we’re sure we’ve lost this sniper,” Frank replied. “Keep moving. I think I see some light up ahead. It may be a clearing.”

  “Maybe we can use it to get our bearings,” Joe suggested.

  He and the others ran as quickly as they could in the direction Frank indicated. The wind tugged at their ponchos, and the rain stung their exposed skin. Water seeped up their sleeves and down their necks, further soaking their clothing. Their feet felt like blocks of lead.

  Spattered with mud and drenched to the bone, the four finally emerged from the jungle. What Frank had seen was not actually a clearing within the forest, but a bare spot on top of a seaside bluff. A hundred feet below on either side stretched the Caribbean, its waters whipped into a white-capped frenzy by the approaching hurricane.

  Joe bent o
ver and put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He scanned the forest behind them. “I think,” he said, panting, “that we may have lost. . . the sniper.”

  “I sure . . . hope so,” Iola replied, also gasping for air. “It looks like . . . we’re out of room to run.” She cast a wary eye over the bluff to the raging sea far below.

  “Which is the way . . . back to Nuevo Esteban?” Callie asked.

  Frank looked north and south along the coast. The land curved away in either direction, and he saw no sign of the city through the storm. “It has to be to the left,” he said.

  Joe nodded his agreement. “Let’s rest a minute,” he suggested.

  “Just for a minute,” Callie said, shivering. “We need to get out of this storm.”

  Exhausted, they all flopped down into the mud on top of the bluff. While Joe and Iola kept a careful watch on the forest, Frank pulled the bark-capped blowgun dart out of his pocket. He held it up, hoping to catch any last rays of sunlight that managed to leak from beneath the black storm clouds.

  “I don’t see any discoloration on the needle,” he said, squinting and examining the dart carefully. He ran his fingers over the slender metal shaft and then held his fingertips to his nose.

  Callie looked at him apprehensively. Her pale hand shook as she brushed her drenched blond hair back out of her eyes.

  “I don’t smell anything either,” Frank concluded.

  “What’s that mean?” Iola asked. Dark circles ringed her gray eyes, and her skin looked as ashen as Callie’s.

  “It means the dart’s probably not poisoned,” Joe said.

  Callie heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she said.

  “Nonpoisonous darts can give you a nasty sting,” Frank said, “or even kill if they hit you in the right spot.”

  “My brother the optimist,” Joe said.

  Frank laughed and gave Callie a quick hug. “You’re not poisoned, but we’re still in a bind here,” he said. He and Joe looked and felt as beat as the girls. They needed a safe place to rest and recover—and they needed to find it soon. Sitting in the wind and rain wasn’t doing them any good.