Oliver hunched forward and gazed out of the side window of the twin-prop commuter plane as he took a shaky breath. Dark clouds approached at an alarming speed beyond the wing that extended out from the fuselage immediately to his left. Below, the whitecaps rising with the motions of the waves told him the winds had picked up. A storm was brewing, and they were heading straight for it.

A quick glance at his watch told him that relief was approaching. Not quickly enough. Unconsciously, his right hand reached for the pocket in front of him and fingered the thick paper bag hidden behind a magazine. Just in case, he told himself and positioned the bag in front of the emergency exit leaflet.

"Don't like flyin', huh?" a deep voice to his right said and chuckled. Oliver glanced over at the man in the aisle seat, smiled weakly and shrugged. Ron. That's how he had introduced himself before embarking on one of the wildest hunting stories Oliver had ever heard.

"I—"

"It's all right, son." Ron slapped Oliver's leg, a grin across his face. "Everyone's got's the jitters now and then. Did I tell you about that time when—"

"How long until we land?" Oliver interrupted, not interested in another wild story.

Ron paused, looked at his watched and opened his mouth to respond when the double-dings of the fasten seatbelt light interrupted him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. We're approaching our destination and will land momentarily. Unfortunately, we can expect a bumpy ride the rest of the way. Please fasten your seatbelts and stow any unnecessary items. Thank you."

As if on command, the plane dropped into an air pocket. Oliver gasped and squeezed the armrests of his seat while he closed his eyes and tried to picture a sunny beach. The only thing he saw was the barf bag in the seat pocket in front of him.

The drone of the engines rose and fell as the pilot adjusted engine power and initiated a gentle bank to the left. Oliver felt and heard the whir of the flaps extending mere feet from his feet. Moments later, the landing gear extended with a dull thud and filled the cabin with wind noise while the pilot fought against the gusts to keep the plane straight.

Outside the window, the whitecaps of the dark gray ocean approached faster than Oliver liked, the plane buffeted left and right by wind shear. When the rocky shoreline passed underneath the plane, Oliver closed his eyes and tensed his body while they did one final dance with the crosswinds. The plane hit the runway at a slight angle, tossing Oliver and the other passengers left and right as the rubber struggled to grip the wet tarmac. The pilot applied the brakes as soon as the nose wheel hit the ground and engaged the reverse thrust of the prop engines. It wasn't until the plane had slowed to taxing speeds that Oliver opened his eyes and exhaled forcefully, unaware he had been holding his breath.

"See, that wasn't so bad, huh?" Ron said with a laugh and slapped Oliver's shoulder. "Landing in this kind of weather is always fun, I'm tellin' ya."

As they approached the terminal, the Captain cut power to the engines and coasted the last few yards to their assigned parking spot. The roar of the engines faded, replaced by the patter of the rain on the fuselage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to St. Leo's Island. Please take a moment to collect your belongings and prepare for deplaning. As you exit the plane, have your identification papers ready and follow the security officials at the bottom of the stairs. Thank you again for flying Oceanic Air."

The cabin door just behind the cockpit swung open as the passengers around the plane stood and reached for their carry-on bags. The cool, humid air greeted Oliver as he stepped out of the plane and the scent of the ocean filled his nostrils.

He followed the other passengers in single file through the heavy rain towards the terminal where they gathered in a reception area. Within minutes, it was filled with wet and shivering passengers. Oliver felt butterflies in his stomach and clutched his ID as he moved closer to the nearest checkpoint.

"What's your business on the island, sir?" the admissions officer said once it was Oliver's turn. He glanced up at Oliver while flipping through his passport.

"It's right there, in the letter," Oliver said and pointed towards an envelope between two pages in his passport. The officer stopped, raised his eyebrows and locked eyes with Oliver.

"I see," he said as his eyes scanned the enclosed letter, then picked up the phone and dialed a number. "It'll be just one moment, sir." Moments later, a heavy-set man approached.

"I'm Sanchez, the supervisor. Business or pleasure, sir?" Sanchez slowly flipped through the papers on the desk, his eyes still on Oliver.

"A bit of both. A researcher friend who lives on the island invited me. His letter is right there, in the pile."

"Yes, yes. Ah, here it is." Sanchez held it up and scanned the letter Oliver had received just a week earlier.

"How do you know this Paul Armstrong?"

It had been two decades since he last had spoken to Paul Armstrong at a research conference in Denver. Oliver had learned then that they had been in the same graduating class of the same university, just different disciplines. It was a miracle they had never crossed paths.

"We went to school together," Oliver said, avoiding the lapse in time since their last encounter.

"I see," Sanchez said and flipped through the passport. "What subjects?"

"Oh, field of study? He studied biology, my field is immunology."

"Immuno-what?"

"The study of infectious diseases."

Sanchez looked up from the passport and raised his eyebrows. "Infectious diseases?"

"Yes, that's correct. My work involves identifying new diseases, their cause and how to best stop them."

Sanchez's eyes narrowed, and he held up the letter. "Does this mean there is a new disease on the island? Is that why he wrote you?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. As you can see, the letter is very casual. I see no cause for alarm."

To a casual observer, Oliver hoped it would appear that way. The letter contained Paul's musings about local cuisine and descriptions of the relaxing beaches on the island. There was nothing in the letter that would raise a red flag. It was merely a letter from one friend to another.

Oliver knew this was a lie. Not only was Paul Armstrong not a close friend, but he had never written to Oliver in the past. To Oliver, the casual tone was the red flag that couldn't be ignored. It had to be investigated. He had purchased a ticket to the island that same day.

"Where will you be staying?" Sanchez continued as he looked through Oliver's passport.

"At the Gold Bay Plaza hotel."

"Ah, the Plaza. A good choice," Sanchez said with a nod.

Fifteen minutes later, Oliver was cleared. He collected his belongings and ran through the pouring rain to the nearest cab.

The intensity of the rain increased as they approached the main city of Tansitee. Visibility dropped to almopst zero. Thirty nerve-wracking minutes later, they pulled up in front of the hotel.

Another half hour later, Oliver closed the door to his room behind him and settled down on the edge of the bed. The light of the local news illuminated his room while gusts of wind and rain hammered the hotel window. It was the worst storm in years, the local weather forecaster stated with conviction. Oliver needed no convincing.

He had just settled into a chair by the window when the phone rang. Oliver looked at the phone with raised eyebrows and glanced at his watch. Who could that be?

"Hello?" he said tentatively.

"Mr. Hunt, I apologize for the interruption. There is a phone call for you."

"A phone call?"

"Yes. A Paul Armstrong. He said you'd be expecting his call?"

Paul Armstrong?

"Yes, yes, of course, connect him."

"Right away, sir. Have a wonderful evening."

Hold music replaced the concierge for a few moments. Then there was a click on the line.

"Mr. Armstrong," Olive said when the hold music disappeared. No response.

"Hello? Are you there?"

The line was silent, except for the occasional static hiss.

"This is Oliver Hunt. Is anyone there?"

Oliver hung up and redialed the front desk.

"Yes, Mr. Hunt."

"You just connected a call from a Paul Armstrong?"

"Yes, sir?"

"There was no-one on the line."

There was a brief pause. "No-one on the line?"

"Right, it was dead air."

"I'm not sure what to say, sir? Maybe Mr. Armstrong changed his mind?"

Oliver hesitated. It was unlikely that Paul would change his mind. Something has happened. Oliver's hand felt clammy around the handset and his mouth was dry. Whatever Paul wanted with Oliver, there was no doubt it was important. He glanced at the news forecast and his watch. There was only one thing he could do.

"Can you get my car ready?"

Ten minutes later, against the recommendations of the hotel staff, Oliver sat behind the wheel of a Jeep outside of the hotel. The palm trees swayed in the gusts, occasionally rocking the Jeep while blankets of rain washed over the windshield. Oliver sighed, put the Jeep in gear and left the hotel behind.

An hour later, after a nerve-wrecking drive through the night on partly flooded dirt roads to a village on the other side of the island, he pulled up in front of the offices of Paul Armstrong.

Oliver parked as close to the front door as possible, shut down the engine, zipped his jacket and pulled his hood over his head. The wind and rain hit him with full force as he exited the car, instantly soaking him to the bone. Shivering, he ran to the front door and slammed it shut behind him.

As he walked to the elevator, he was struck by how quiet the building was, except for the muted roar of the wind. A light was lit above the front desk but there was no-one there. A small coffee shop looked as if it had been abandoned just moments earlier, a steaming cup of coffee still waiting at the pickup counter.

Why would someone just get up and walk out without getting their coffee? Oliver was tempted to salvage the coffee but decided against it. Instead, he approached the elevators and clicked the call button. The button lit up but there was no movement from the elevator. Oliver tapped the button again. Nothing. With a sigh, he headed for the stairs.

The landing on the second floor was dimly lit. One of the light bulbs in the hallway was out, another flashed intermittently. Oliver felt a chill run down his spine as he walked the few steps to Armstrong's office door.

He knocked deliberately, waited and listened. When there was no response, he knocked again and jiggled the door handle. It was open. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open just a crack and almost gagged as a stench that almost took his breath away overwhelmed him. Instinctively he reached for his nose and dropped the suitcase and swung the door wide open.

A small reception desk greeted him. Papers were strewn across the surface of the desk and on the floor around it. A computer monitor had been knocked to the floor, its screen cracked. The computer mouse dangled from the desktop like a mouse in the mouth of a bird of prey. To his right was a closed door with a STORAGE sign on it. To the left, a door to the office slightly ajar.

All of Oliver's senses told him to get out of there. With his heart hammering the inside of his chest and sweat forming on his forehead despite being cold and shivering, Oliver took a couple of tentative steps towards the office door. With a gentle nudge, he pushed the door open with his foot and stepped into the dark office.

The blue light of a cracked laptop screen was the only source of light in the room, illuminating a few papers across its keyboard. Oliver fumbled for the light switch and flipped it when his fingers found it.

His eyes grew large, and he gasped loudly before he turned and emptied his stomach contents on the floor behind him. He remained on his knees, his eyes closed, as he took deep breaths and tried to ignore the sour taste in his mouth and forget what his eyes had just seen.

Oliver took another deep breath and forced his shaky legs to pick his body up from the floor as he held on to the doorframe and glanced into the room.

Armstrong's chair lay on the floor on its side. A pool of blood surrounded the chair and blood splatters covered the wall behind the chair and the desk. Bloody drag marks stretched from the chair around to the area in front of the desk where another pool of blood had seeped into a rug. Dozens of bloody footprints surrounded the now stained carpet and a severed hand rested in the center, the shredded remnants of a plaid shirt still attached to it. A gold ring remained on the ring finger.

Oliver turned and stumbled out of the office, collapsing on the floor lightheaded. His whole body was shaking. I have to get out of here.

Oliver scrambled to his feet and made his way to the hallway outside the office and greedily inhaled the relative fresh air of the second-floor corridor. He stumbled towards the stairs and just as he opened the door to head downstairs he heard the unmistakable sound of steps slowly making their way up the stairs. He carefully closed the door and frantically looked up and down the corridor.

Was it the police? Or someone else? Something else?

There had to be another way out. He repeatedly jammed the call button on the elevator without success. On pure instinct, he ran back towards Armstrong's office, his eyes dancing across the foyer, landing on the Storage room door.

Maybe he could hide? Lock the door? The door to the stairs slammed shut in the hallway behind him. He was out of time. With three long steps, he stepped into the storage room and locked the door. He collapsed on the floor, his back against the door and took control of his breathing as he listened.

The sound of shuffling feet increased as whoever had come up the stairs entered the office foyer. A set of grunts followed before the room went quiet. Oliver listened intently, his ear against the door. He didn't see the door handle quietly turn right above his head until it was too late. 

~~~

Written for the January 2020 Wattzombie Contest. 

2511 words.

What do you think? Are you interested in finding out who's on the other side of the door?