Alex woke as a crashing wave kicked black sand and rugged shells into his face. He tried to get up. Wrists still bound, he gathered himself and stood, looking down: clothes tattered, flesh scraped and bruised but overall, no deep cuts or (God help him) bites. He looked around the windswept volcanic sand beach. Far to his left, he could just make out the ship crashed up on the shore. It didn’t look much damaged from this vantage point, but it surely wasn’t a gentle landing. He wondered about the cargo hold. About his father’s fate. About Veronica, and… Just then, around the bow of the ship came roaring three Jeeps, launching into the air and crashing down. Bearing toward him. Four men in each vehicle, each in camo outfits carrying machine guns. Damn it, Alex fumed, standing wearily. Out of the furnace… He tried to raise his hands, but they were still bound with that damn plastic. He winced against the sun and another crashing wave that almost knocked him forward, but as the Jeeps roared to a stop in a semi circle in front of him, he noticed something unusual.
