This is a sequel to a short story called The Most Dangerous Game. On a deserted island, a rich man built a house and turned the island into a hunting preserve. But it wasn't for animals. It was for a prey that could think and reason. It was a hunting reserve for humans. The man who made the preserve was a Cassock named Zarroff. The one man who outsmarted Zarroff was named Rainsford. This is where my sequel picks up. During a storm, a young man washed up on the island and found Zarroff's house. H
The roaring surf laps hungrily at my ankles. Just a few more feet until I’ll be out of the water’s reach. Finally I can’t feel the water, but I can hear it angrily pounding the sand behind me, roaring in protest of my escape. I don’t know where I am, and I just barely remember the exhausted boy who flops onto the sand beside me. James. That’s his name. And I’m DG, which is short for Donia Genevieve. I lie down and let the warm sand cushion my body. I slowly stretch out my right hand and feel something cool, hard, and smooth. I look up in surprise at a white sign that appears to be made of bones. Dried red letters drip eerily down the smooth surface in a bone-chilling way that reminds me of blood. The sign’s message is enough to turn my blood into ice. I ask James to reread it.
“Welcome to Tartarus, where natural law is the only law and your best chance to stay alive is to run.”
A scream that would have made even the braves man run in terror cuts like a knife through the humid air.
“It did say to run,” I say, my voice trembling with newly found strength.
Adrenaline lends speed and strength to our exhausted bodies as we race off into the dark jungle.