Island of the Dead

Jeremy Sloan

It had started Sunday afternoon.

Anna and I were making dinner, and the kids came bursting through the back door, screaming that a crazy man had bitten Claire. She was sobbing inconsolably, but we managed to piece from Dani and Tommy that a "Frankenstein" man had staggered out of the woods near the playground, moaning, and attacked them. And sure enough, there on Claire's shoulder was a ring of jagged teeth marks, with a bruise beginning to darken around it.

I drove her to the clinic, gave her a shot of penicillin and a tetanus shot, and dressed the wound. If I had known then what I do now, I would have given her a lethal dose of morphine instead. I called John. He sent two deputies to search the area and found tracks leading up from the beach, but nothing else.


Monday, 7 am

Claire slept fitfully last night, awakening several times from nightmares. By about 3 am, she'd developed a fever that peaked at 105F. We were able to bring it back down with ice packs and acetaminophen. I gave Claire more penicillin, and started a regimen of dicloxacillin. We put the older kids on the bus, kissed Anna goodbye and drove to catch the ferry to the mainland. That was the last time I saw my family. Alive.


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