Death is Not an Out

He's back on the Storyteller, which was currently adrift. The isle of Loire was currently to his port side. He sets a course to it again. If he had been more observant, he would have noticed that the seaplane had since disappeared, and the strange wooden ship was closer in now. However, his focus was solely on the island.

His memory of the most recent events seem to be rather lacking in detail, until he approaches his custom-built home. He sees the unnatural blackness within and the window broken from the inside.

It all comes rushing back to him in a flash, just then. He was trying to find his way around the house when he had been attacked by - something. He had died! And yet, he was back here? Wasn't even death enough to escape from this twisted simulacrum of the reality he knew?

Uncertain about what to do next, he turns back to his motorboat. He notices the wooden ship as if for the first time. There are flashes of light from on the deck. Aimed at him! He was being signalled in Morse. He caught it part the way through, but it seemed to be repeated until he gave an acknowledgement.

R-E-Q-U-E-S-T A R-E-N-D-E-Z-V-O-U-S E-X-P-E-C-T A-R-R-I-V-A-L S-O-O-N-E-S- T

It was strange to be signalled in what was considered a outmoded, if not completely gone, means of communication. He had nothing to reply with, except his flashlight. Its light was dim in comparision and would probably be hard to see it what was still full sunlight. In fact, the sun had appeared not to have moved at all. He tried anyway. The flashing stopped. It appeared to have been seen.

He untied the Storyteller, started the engine, and set off towards the wooden ship.

1. Who knew what he would encounter when he got there?

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