The sunlight blinded Rainsford, a well-renowned big game hunter, as he emerged from the crashing sea waves like a thrashing fish desperate for air. Fear overcame his thoughts as Rainsford frantically swam for what seemed like hours to the farthest shore away from Ship-Trap island, never looking back. Because of his exhaustion, uneasiness, and lethargy, Rainsford decided to collapse on the rocky ground upon immediate arrival as the world turned dark.
    “Rainsford. Is that you?” A familiar voice struck across his mind as his weak body slowly began to regain his senses.
    “Where am I?” Rainsford muttered as he opened his eyes, “Is that Whitney, my hunting companion?”
    Rainsford jolted up, only to find himself in Whitney’s tent. “It’s been a while, my friend. How did you end up here? How did you discover me?” The day went by quickly, as the reunited partners had exchanged stories of Rainsford’s scarring adventures and Whitney’s yacht malfunction, which caused him to be left on the island.
   Meanwhile, beyond a tall spiked iron gate, General Zaroff, a cosmopolite of the Cossacks involved with the hunt of stranded sailors and salvagers, had finished enjoying his extravagant lunch. Having felt unsatisfied with allowing his prey, Rainsford, to escape for the first time, General Zaroff frowned apparently. A realization had hit him. “Where was Rainsford now?” he thought,        “Surely, the famous big game hunter couldn’t have died, having the strength of a bull and the sharpness of a fox. A special fellow he is.”
    Within seconds of sharing their experiences with eachother, Rainsford and Whitney confidently discussed their plan to surmount General Zaroff for good. Both started to ready themselves; having sharpened their knives, repaired their yacht, packed their food supply, and reviewed a hand-drawn map of where no man dared to travel. Ship-Trap Island.
    At sunrise, Rainsford and Whitney set off on their journey to prevent further murder by General Zaroff. No clouds surrounded the brightly illuminated sun. No sounds of distant pistol fires were heard.
    Once the accustomed jungle scenery and the tangle of trees appeared into Rainsford’s view, a rush of fatigue and uncertainty conquered him. His head felt heavy, pounding with flashbacks of panic. The yacht abruptly halted on the jagged rock oceanline, refusing to budge from its place. Peering above, the jungle expanse seemed larger than before. More intimidating and daunting. Whitney stepped along the close weeds and damp moss, relinquishing all signs of hesitation. Rainsford cautiously followed behind, his precise memory mapping the specific routes to take to General Zaroff’s settlement. The pair avoided Death Swamp, eluded threatening vines and underbrush, and successfully navigated themselves to General Zaroff’s spacious building. The large iron bars were pulled open. No sounds of the general’s bloodhounds were audible. All was unusually silent.
    “This is the place, Rainsford? Seems awfully strange, as if-” Whitney stuttered slightly, stopping as he realized there was something quite off by the look in his friend’s eyes.
    Without a word, Rainsford crept quietly up the marble stairs, through the unlocked doorway, across the corridor, up another flight of stairs, and into the bedroom of General Zaroff. As Rainsford suspected, the general was too clever to stay on the island, knowing that Rainsford would seek redemption. A note, which laid on the silk bed of General Zaroff read, “Till we meet again, Mr. Rainsford. It has been a pleasure, thank you for the most amusing experience yet. Till we meet again.”