Ten strangers. One isolated island. A countdown to death that no one can escape.
The Atlantic churns grey and violent against the hull. Ahead, Soldier Island rises like a jagged tooth from the sea. Ten strangers step onto the dock, clutching invitations from a host who isn't there to greet them. The wind carries a whisper of warning.
Dinner is served under the glassy stare of ten china soldier figurines. Suddenly, the gramophone crackles to life. A mechanical voice strips away their polish, listing crimes buried deep in their pasts. Knuckles whiten around crystal stems; the wine looks too much like blood.
Anthony Marston laughs off the accusation, raising his glass. He chokes. The crystal shatters on the parquet floor. His face turns a grotesque purple, then still. On the wall, the nursery rhyme mocks them: "One choked his little self." On the table, a hand unseen has removed one soldier.
Morning brings no relief, only a horizon empty of the supply boat. General MacArthur sits stone-still on the terrace, gazing into the abyss. "We're never leaving," he murmurs to the wind. The island has become a cage without bars.
Death comes in waves. Mrs. Rogers sleeps into eternity; MacArthur is bludgeoned by the sea. The survivors clutch pokers and revolvers, eyes darting at shadows. On the damask tablecloth, only seven figurines remain. The world tilts on its axis.
The generator fails, plunging the mansion into darkness. Candlelight throws long, distorted shadows against the walls. Ties are loosened, hair wild, the mask of civility dissolving. "There is no one else here," Wargrave whispers. The killer is in this room.
Rogers lies by the woodpile, split by an axe. Emily Brent sits rigid in the parlor, a syringe mark on her neck, a bumblebee battering the windowpane. Vera’s laughter pierces the silence, shrill and jagged. "Don't you see? We're the zoo! We're the animals!"
Thunder shakes the foundation. In the chaos, Justice Wargrave is found robed in scarlet curtains, a wig of grey wool on his head—a judge executed. The survivors retreat, jamming chairs under door handles, praying for a dawn that feels impossible.
Blore steps onto the terrace and is crushed by a marble bear falling from above. Now, only two remain. Vera and Lombard stand over the carnage, the salt spray stinging their eyes. Lombard’s hand drifts slowly toward his pocket.
At the water’s edge, a body rolls in the surf. It is Dr. Armstrong, drowned days ago. Vera stares, the math horrific and simple. If Armstrong was the red herring, the killer is standing right beside her.
Survival instinct overrides humanity. Vera lunges, snatching Lombard’s revolver. The muzzle flash tears through the grey gloom. Lombard crumples. Vera stands alone, the wind whipping her hair like a conqueror's banner.
She re-enters the silent mansion, clutching the final figurine. The silence is deafening. As she climbs the stairs, the smell of the sea follows her—the scent of the boy she let drown years ago. Hugo is waiting in the shadows.
The door creaks open. A noose waits, swinging gently from a ceiling hook, a chair positioned beneath. It is an invitation. She drops the last china soldier; it explodes into porcelain dust. The guilt is heavier than gravity.
She steps up. The rope is scratchy and cold against her throat. A kick sends the chair tumbling. The shadow of swinging feet plays against the wall. The house settles into silence. The countdown is complete.
Miles away, a bottle bobs in the vast, indifferent ocean. Inside lies the confession of Justice Wargrave, the artist of this massacre. Justice has been absolute. The island fades into the mist, holding its secrets forever.
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