Outcasts

by Nick Wisseman

  “Fuck off. That journal is our last link to civilization, and you ignited it just so you could spout off another lame-ass literary reference? You’re as sad as you are stupid.”

  The conch shell was distinguishable now, although each groove still needed to be redefined. Wet sand would be easier…But there was a certain charm to the constant renewal, the ongoing negotiation with his medium…He stayed where he was.

  “The fire’s lit, Miss Priss. Get over it.”

  “You fucker—”

  “Randy, I’m through with your lip. No more. Not to me, not to Linda, not to anyone. Just shut up and leave us alone, all right?”

  He’d heard the derisive laughter too many times to wonder about its source.

  “Aye-aye, cap’n. Enjoy the fire.”

  More of the laughter, but it was receding…Detailing the shell would be difficult. Unless he made it bigger, much bigger, so large that a few stray grains of sand sliding back into the lines wouldn’t matter.

  “Let him go. He’s a dick, but at least he brings in more than his share of food.”

  “I can’t believe he did that…Fucking idiot.”

  “He’ll come around eventually. And even if he doesn’t, who says we ever have to see him again once we get out of here?…Have you seen Brad and George lately?”

  “No…Keep losing track of them…Can’t believe he fucking burned them.”

  Feeling a yawn welling up, he called it quits and reformed his pillow.

  “Don’t let him get to you. We’ll need him less when Keith gets healthy.”

  Lying back, he closed his eyes and hummed with the rhythm of the surf.

  “If he ever does.”

  “Don’t say that…C’mon: let’s go for a swim.”

  “All right.”

  The island’s sheer wealth of inspiration was exhausting.

  * * *

  Log: Day 23 (?)—Brad

  Our prospects for rescue grow dimmer by the day, and I for one have stopped holding my breath. Life on an island paradise suits me better than academia ever did, and compared to a draftee’s lot in the military? Well, there really is no comparison. I have trouble envisioning a return to “civilization” now that I’ve stopped praying to be saved. I think we already have been. If only the rest of the group felt the same. With Randy in the mix, however, I doubt we will ever enjoy real harmony.

  But I have learned to deal with acerbic characters before; Keith is the companion who really troubles me. As indeed he worries all of us after our own fashions. He grows more self-absorbed by the day, more introverted the longer he goes without speaking. It seems clear he should be physically capable of conversation now; he is withholding, although it is anyone’s guess whether his reticence is a conscious decision.

  Even Randy seems to be concerned, despite his all-too-prickly manner of exhibiting it.

  Terrance at least has found a common spirit in Linda, as I have found solace with George, but Randy has no clear-cut partner. Although he seems to have chosen Keith; without Randy’s constant direction, our former captain would never eat, wash, or do anything to maintain himself in the slightest way. If we could all remember that, I think relations would be a little less strained.

  Even so, when Terrance is not letting Randy push his buttons, he has shown a remarkable capacity for leadership. He no longer looks to Keith to resume command, and he sounds a little more confident and authoritative with each insightful order or explanation. It is a pity he stopped penning his reflections after Randy’s ugliness, but I am glad he was kind enough to relinquish this journal when I felt the need. I will have to convince George to partake; it is a soothing exercise, even if it is as worthless as Randy claims.

  A final comment before I exceed my self-imposed space limit: food has become a remarkably minor issue of late. The island is unbelievably bountiful, and the recent anthropological studies suggesting that a hunter-gatherer lifestyle requires only a few hours a day of foraging seem to be true. Randy in particular has proven adept at bringing in a steady stream of sustenance. We do not lack for meals; the question is what to do with our free time.

  Not a bad problem to have.

  * * *

  He whistled in anticipation as he punched the last hole, pressing the boar’s femur with his improvised awl until the bone gave way. After satisfying himself the final aperture was uniform enough, he set the awl down and brought the creation to his lips. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth as his fingers began a busy dance.

  “What the hell is that eerie noise?”

  “Now that is something…Keith was manufacturing a toy from the bones of that pig Randy butchered. He probably made himself a wind instrument. Our former captain is growing more resourceful by the day.”

  Leaning back and closing his eyes, he breathed faster and danced harder.

  “If it brings his mind back, I’m all for it. It would be nice if he started pulling his weight around here…”

  “We’re managing without him, Terrance. It’s not like he eats much; I’d say we were spoon-feeding him if we actually had spoons.”

  He paused for a few moments, listening to the call of the tide. The rhythm of the surf was different today. Wilder…more erratic. After several minutes, he nodded and resumed dancing.

  “I would say he is more than doing his part if he keeps producing music of that quality. A beautiful melody, if a bit haunting.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that he’s gone off the deep end while we do all the work?”

  “Terrance…”

  “Not if the results are this transcendent. In fact, George should hear this. Did he say when he would be back, Linda?”

  “Afternoon, I think. He and Randy were going to check the traps and set some new ones.”

  His speed accelerated almost beyond his ability to maintain it.

  “Ah well, hopefully he can hear it from where he is. Will you let me know when they reappear? I think I will rest a bit if nothing more is needed, Terrance.”

  “Go ahead, Brad. And we’ll let you know.”

  Stopping once more, he cocked his ear, waited until he was sure, and then started dancing again, slower than before, his eyes still shut.

  * * *

  Log: Day 38 (maybe)—Lisa

  I wish there was a way to bring the two camps back together. We’re so polarized now, and it’s not like there’s any reason for it, more just that we’ve drifted in different directions the last two weeks. Mutually grown tired of each other, I guess. Once Randy so eloquently convinced us we might as well give up on the signal fire, we basically went our separate ways. Which was probably what we were all secretly waiting for, because how else do you explain giving up hope after only a few weeks?

  Brad seems more than happy with this life, as long as he’s not far from George. And Terrance has been a lot more laidback now that he can set his responsibilities aside. But Keith…If anything could bring us back together, it would probably be him reviving. I think that’s another lost hope, though.

  Actually, I guess it’s three camps now. It’s funny how much it slips our minds, but Randy’s been really good about looking after Keith. And he seems so proud of him. He was the one who called us over to look at Keith’s amazing carving in the gnarled old tree. It’s crazy how fatherly he can be when he wants to. Such a contrast.

  I’m glad this journal still ties us together (or at least the first two camps); making the trade every few days is the only time we really see Brad and George anymore. I think I’m right in saying it’s an unspoken rule not to read each other’s entries, or at least I hope it’s been one, but flipping back through my own is comforting somehow. We’ve definitely made progress.

  But…What happens when we run out of space?

  * * *

  The knight looked better in wet sand; moving down to the shoreline had been more than worth it. The breastplate seemed a little too bright now, though…

  Those darker shells.

  There.
That gave the armor the right level of rust.

  Standing up, he surveyed his two-dimensional warrior, picturing how the tide would lap away the sand supporting each interlocking circlet. A white greave would flutter here, a crimson gauntlet would float away there, and the whole suit would flake away bit by beautiful bit.

  He couldn’t wait.

  But the knight still needed a weapon. A sword? Maybe that strip of wood…He walked over to it, bent down, and studied it with his eyes and fingers. Dull and rotten…But a little sharpening would transform it quickly enough. Scrambling up and down the beach, he looked for the right sized shell, located one, and shattered it on a half-submerged rock, unconcerned when razor-edged shards exploded outwards.

  “Keith? Keith!”

  His blood began trickling into the ocean in the most amazing, amoeba-like patterns. He did nothing to stop the red flows, enthralled by the way his sluggish vitality pulsed with the surf…Now receding and lengthening…Now advancing and compressing…Always the shade of sunset, whirling languidly around his feet…Backwards and forwards, diluting and replenishing.

  “Jesus, Keith…That looks pretty bad. Here, hold this on it until I can get some bandages together. I’ll…No, keep it on there. Like that; we need to keep constant pressure. I’ll be right back.”

  So beautiful.

  * * *

  Log: Day 45—George

  Things have been pretty shook up since Randy saw the plane yesterday. But the fool couldn’t make out the markings. Probably didn’t even look. At least he had the sense to call a meeting last night. First with everyone in two weeks—minus Keith, of course. He’d made himself some kind of drum. Sounded all right, but then it usually does.

  We all agreed to get the signal up and smoking again, but the rain two nights ago wiped out our fires, even my covered one. So getting a spark meant burning what was left of the journal. We agreed to save one entry each, though. I didn’t like any of mine, so this is my one.

  They left me too much space.

  The way I see it, either we’re rescued in a few days, or we’re here for good. And who knows why the plane was even in the area? If the fighting’s spread this far south, they won’t be looking to rescue people right away.

  We’ll see.

  * * *

  He watched the twisting flames, picking out the disparate tendrils that combined to form the larger fountain of fire. The setting sun seemed to cede some of its dying brilliance to its lesser cousin, as if urging it to shine brighter and outstrip the moon.

  Remarkable.

  Once the sun was finally swallowed by the horizon, he rose and strode to his cache of supplies. Then he turned back and stared for another long while, focusing on the hollow between the dusty boulder and the miniature dune.

  It could be done; he had all the materials now. The gourds, berries, charcoal, shells, bones, pebbles, stones, twigs, sticks, bark, clay, feathers, skins…Yes, it could be done. If he began now.

  So he ground, dipped, brushed, and stroked. Dyed, etched, traced, and grooved. Ran, walked, stooped, and squatted. Stopped, sighed, reflected, and resumed. Applied the finishing touches. Nodded in satisfaction.

  Leaning into the wind, he rocked back and forth at the water’s edge and judged his effort, drawn to the way the signal fire at the piece’s center cast its shadowy brilliance over the crafted sand, causing a cascade of sparkles as colored grains were caught at just the right angle.

  He would not surpass this.

  After soaking it in for a few moments more, he turned and walked away.

  * * *

  Log: Day Who Cares—Randy

  The last entry in the Bible of the Abandoned, neatly coinciding with my first. It’s too bad I don’t have the heart to close this off the way it should be done. But I’ll try.

  A one-man hybrid-flyer touched down just off the coast this morning and skimmed up to the beach. The pilot woke up Linda and Terrance, and for once they screamed together instead of taking turns. That brought the rest of us running, and once we got there, we screamed with them. If I’d been the pilot, I would have hightailed it right then. But the guy was so distracted he didn’t care: he was looking for “the giants in the dark.”

  Stuttering poetry, he forestalled our shipwreck stories by blurting something about how the image of “two titans m-m-making love in the n-n-n-night sky” drew him to our island and away from his reconnaissance mission. He thought he was hallucinating, but he couldn’t make himself turn away. Eventually we led him to the signal pyre and found exactly what he’d described, with the fire marking the meeting point between the two enormous pairs of lips.

  Still in awe, the pilot’s off radioing for help while he tries to control his voice. Brad, George, Linda, and Terrance are wolfing down the delicious bits of candy bar he was kind enough to throw our way.

  And Keith…Keith’s vanished.

  No one wants to leave without him, without our mute saint, our addled little Jesus. But I think we’ve all more or less accepted he won’t be found when we look. Our little prophet has flown this sorry coop.

  Now I sit here writing these last lines as I gaze at his final (?) creation. I hear the dull thudding of an approaching chopper and I feel the wind picking up. Keith’s sand mural is being swept away, grain by grain, his gargantuan, androgynous lovers hovering in a haze of flickering colors and specks of brilliance before floating away forever.

  Our rescuers are jumping onto the beach, laughing as they land. Shiny boots, close-cropped hair, homogenous camo-outfits. Gilligan’s theme song keeps jingling in my head. I could care less who’s winning the war, or who won if it’s over. Who makes sense of the few fraying pages still intact in this journal. Whose side these guys are even on.

  Funny how we forgot to ask the pilot that.

  Whatever. Time to get off this rock.

  TIME TRICK

  Stumbling naked out of the hotel room, Jim turned and flung half the money in his wallet at the equally naked prostitute before slamming the door. He was too flustered to be thankful he was alone in the hallway, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Not after what had just happened.

  Still shaking, he fumbled on the undershirt and khakis he’d barely had enough presence of mind to grab, his black body hair poking out of the garments’ edges. He’d left his socks and shoes behind, but he wasn’t going back; he had more clothes in his gym bag.

  Which was in the car.

  He had to get out and get to his car.

  Taking the backstairs three and then four at a time, Jim raced down to ground level, moving his aging athlete’s body at a speed it hadn’t experienced since college. When he finally reached the lobby, he threw the rest of his cash at the uninterested woman behind the desk and fled out the front door. Sprinting to his car seemed to take an eternity, his bare feet avoiding the parking lot’s random bits of broken glass more by luck than design, and then it was another frantic few moments before he managed to fish his keys out of his pocket, jam them into the ignition, and roar away.

  But no matter how much physical distance he put between himself and the hotel, he couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened, what couldn’t have just happened…

  …“Looking for some fun?” She looked…bemused. Not nearly as tired, resigned, and drugged out as the other girls patrolling the street. Her clothes were just as tight, and her hair was dyed in the same half-hearted way (in her case, a faded red), but…she was the only one who made him nervous.

  “Yeah.” Jim had never done this before. But her expression; her inflection…He opened the passenger-side door for her.

  Torn between watching the road and watching her, he almost forgot to start driving again. Her skirt was dangerously short, and the seatbelt hit her chest in just the right spot to accentuate her cleavage. But it was her blue eyes he kept coming back to. “So…”

  “There’s a hotel I know coming up—turn left at the next light.” She sounded like she was enjoying herself…at least a little.


  Jim forced down a sudden surge of guilt; apparently the prospect of paying for sex had stripped away the aplomb he’d worked all his life to acquire. Swallowing hard, he attempted the intimacy of introduction as they waited for the light to change: “I’m Jim.”

  She chuckled. “I’m Claudia. And it’s green.”

  Squealing the tires in his haste to accelerate, Jim swerved hard to the left. He was still shocked at how unsure of himself he felt; he hadn’t been this awkward since his first time. Since sophomore year in high school, when Laura Dangles invited him over to her house with the promise that her mom would be at work until 8:00…

  He felt even more stilted when Claudia shut the hotel room door behind them.

  “So what do you like?” She still looked perfectly at ease.

  He knew he didn’t. “Just…just the normal stuff, I guess.”

  “You sure? Not looking for anything special?” She glanced down to tease off her shoes, but he could still see her knowing smile.

  “No…I mean yes, I want this to be…I just—”

  “It’s okay.” Claudia looked back up, her expression not just tolerant but tender now. She set down the shoe in her left hand and rose to touch him with her right.

  Jim tensed even further—so much that it felt like his muscles might shatter from the strain—but he started to relax when Claudia put her other hand on him.

  And then they were kissing…and his clothes fell away…and hers did too…and—

  “Look at me.”