Lost Voyage by Chris Tucker

be?”
    Mendoza continued, “It’s the cartel in the area that won’t allow any investigating to go on. Local authorities have tried to uncover the source of the contamination, but have been unsuccessful. They are shut down before they can even get close to finding out what the problem is. While others, I dare say, are murdered for getting too close.”
    “Murdered?” Mercer asked, baffled.
    “Yes. The cartel is the only form of law that many know. We live in constant fear of them,” he said in a subdued tone.
    Mercer could see the fear in the old man’s eyes. “I believe we ran into a few of them earlier. We came upon a gruesome discovery while out in the forest and witnessed firsthand what they’re capable of. If Pat or myself can be of any assistance to you or your people, please do not hesitate to call on us.”
    The three men looked over at the children playing and sat in silence for about a minute before Mendoza broke the silence. “I was just about to head back to my place before you fine gentlemen sat down. Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?”
    Mercer and Vigil graciously accepted and followed the man back to his home.
    It was a small wooden structure with three tattered steps that led up to a tiny porch area to the right of the front door. The building was only about eighteen feet long and went eleven feet to the back of the hut, and Mercer and Vigil were both astounded by the modest living accommodations.
    There was a small bedroom to the left of the house. On the right, there was a small kitchen area and in the corner of the room was a cast iron stove that looked like a chiminea. To Mercer, the strange looking fireplace appeared to be from a different era. The bowl-shaped firebox had an opening on one side and a long, narrow chimney on top that extended to the roof. On top of the makeshift stove was where Mendoza heated up the water for the coffee. Vigil, curious about the fireplace, asked about the device.
    As Mendoza put wood into the stove, he explained to the two men how the bowl shape provided the means for good air circulation within the firebox. The long chimney extended to the top of the room, where he had constructed a makeshift opening in the roof of the house to allow the smoke to vent out. The design of the fireplace resulted in heat being radiated out of the opening in one direction only, which made it ideal for warming up during cold nights.
    As the water warmed up, Mercer browsed over a small collection of books on a shelf hanging from the wall. There were only seven books on the mantle, but he was intrigued by one in particular. Its binding was old and slightly decayed. He could discern the very faded lettering forming the words Port Log , and asked the gracious host if he could take it down to look at it.
    Bringing over a cup of coffee, Mendoza responded, “Yes, but please be very careful. That book is over one hundred and fifty years old. It’s one of the last known remaining relics of what was once the original town of Tamarindo.”
    “Original?” Mercer asked curiously. “What happened to the old town?”
    The old man sat down in a beat up old rocking chair and took a sip of his coffee. As he started to tell his tale of the book and how he came into possession of it, Mercer and Vigil listened with much interest.
    He began with the destruction of the town. “Tamarindo was an old gold mining town. It was a very busy port of destination for local ships carrying gold and other resources to the surrounding areas. The river was fed from Lake Managua and ran all the way to the Pacific Ocean. In eighteen fifty-seven, there was a large volcanic eruption and the town was destroyed. It was completely covered with rock and ash.”
    “You mean Mount Momotombo?” Vigil asked.
    “That is correct,” Mendoza replied. “It was her largest eruption in thousands of years. When she blew, the blast destroyed the entire surrounding region. The town of Tamarindo was directly in the