San Salvador Island was, astronomically speaking, a speck. It was roughly 25 kilometers long and 10k wide. At 250 people, it had a permanent population that was less than most large offices. Its primary industry was tourism, and on San Salvador that was mostly through the local Club Med. They didn't own the island, not outright, but you wouldn't be mistaken to think they acted like they did.

The island's main highway, The Queen's Road, circled the island in a scenic route that led nowhere. It had an international airport, but any airport that accepts planes from another country is considered international. It didn't speak much on the size of that airport. Most of the flights arrived to visit Club Med or some vacationer package with a cabin on the beach.

It was probably a lovely vacation destination. It was far from anything that would be intrusive to a person's attempts at relaxation. Yet, those same qualities made it less ideal for non-vacation purposes. Again, it was far from anything. Worse, being a vacation destination meant that its primary resources were imported. The supplies came with the people. It had little in the way of resources that could support random outsiders.

Greg probably would've been better off floating for a little longer, but the ocean currents hadn't really offered much of a choice. The Antilles Current was fickle and could've sent him to the United States or into the Gulf of Mexico. But, it had split the difference and sent him drifting right in the middle.

So, he had some traveling to do. He really hoped he could at least contact someone. Barring that, he hoped he could catch the next flight to one of the bigger islands. Hell, he would be satisfied if there were any flights at all. It wouldn't have surprised him if they were all canceled with the ash falling from the sky.

Greg followed Zhivargo from the bar after picking up Gull. The bird seemed slightly more alert, but still didn't seem wary enough to fly or otherwise escape. He'd left it a few small fish from a live bait tank across the street, and the minnows were gone. That seemed promising.

"Why do you have that bird?" Zhivargo seemed more perplexed each time he looked at the seagull. He shook his head and led them away from the bar toward a trail in the forest. "Is it your pet?"

"Uh, not really. I just, don't want it to die." Greg followed, stepping carefully, because he was still using his temporary footwear. He hated asking for replacements as the police officer had already given so much. The food had been overwhelmingly good.

"But, it is a wild animal. Many have been dying through this whole storm. Through this whole eruption." Zhivargo glanced over his shoulder. "Many, animals and people, will continue to die."

Greg sighed. "Yeah, you're not wrong there." He reached up, absently, and stroked a knuckle along Gull's side. The bird startled a bit, but at least it didn't jump away.

"I will never understand rescuing a creature when human lives are at stake. But, I have to say, I am curious what will happen with this bird. I've never seen one on a person's shoulder that was not trying to steal food."

Greg jogged behind Zhivargo up a short flight of metal stairs. "Yeah, well, this is not my regular sort of activity. I've never rescued an animal before. Don't usually think much about seagulls. They're just, those noisy birds on the beach. I even feel kinda stupid for carrying this thing around."

The police chief stopped at a windowless metal door. He chuckled and nodded toward Greg. "You do look pretty stupid. And with that jumpsuit? Like some space pirate. A NASA space pirate, except you have a seagull instead of a parrot."

Greg laughed at that image. "Well, now that's an image I'll have stuck in my brain forever. Thanks?"

Shrugging, Zhivargo turned back to the door. He pushed it open and waved at a woman and two men sitting inside. "Hello! Did you get Salamishah's report?"

The young woman stood and gave a hand-wiggling wave toward Greg. "Indeed we did! Gregory Baker! I am sorry to meet you in this way."

Greg smirked and shook her hand. "Yeah, feeling about the same right now. Were you following the jump?"

One of the two other men jumped up. "That's the man you found!?" He waved both arms toward Greg. "That is the Flying Ghost! You told Salamishah it was some random white man crashed at sea!"

"Well, he is some random white man. And he did crash at sea. I suppose he just happens to be one that you happen to know," agreed Zhivargo. He waved his hand dismissively. "Please, give him space, Christina. Chigozie. We need to use the radio."

Greg waved sheepishly. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. Just trying to get in touch with someone at NASA, or someone who can talk to them."

"I'm sure they're worried sick! We all lost contact with your chopper after it passed the space station."

"Christina! Please. You can talk with him after we are done. I would like to get out a message before nightfall. We don't know who will be listening after dark other than emergency personnel."

"Aren't we all emergency personnel now?" The third man, who hadn't gotten to his feet, and was actually in a full uniform, sighed. "Go on, children, psh. Stars in your eyes for no reason."

"Sure, Marlon. Don't try and play it too cool. You were listening to the broadcast with us."

"Would you all just go?" grumbled Zhivargo. "Go check on the airport, and the docks. Make sure the moorings are tight, and that the hangars are secure."

"Oh, uh, yes. Right away, sir." The three managed some gradual uniformity in their response before hurrying out the door.

Except for Marlon. He paused on the stairway landing and spun around. "Uh, I am curious about one thing. Why do you have a seagull on your shoulder?"

Zhivargo and Greg exchanged a glance. Greg shrugged and ran his knuckle along Gull's wing. "I'm a space pirate."