The Castaways

by Jessika Fleck

  “This is bad. This is really bad,” he says between moans at the spring like it’s the water’s fault.

  I turn my head toward him. “What can I do? You probably need food. I’ll go search.”

  He nods, rolling onto his side and curling into a ball.

  I stand and am instantly dizzy, my head all kinds of floaty and buzzy. Breathing deeply, I pull the map from my back pocket and try to orient myself to our location. We’re at one of two springs: the one we were en route to find or another, diagonal from our course but closer to the mountain. I hope it’s the second one.

  I wander the forest, searching the trees and plants, not veering far from Charlie. I pick some dandelion roots, a couple fallen coconuts, and three almost ripe avocados.

  When I return, Charlie is in the same position I left him—unmoving, eyes closed. Tip-toeing my way to him, I have an irrational—but maybe not so irrational—fear he could be…

  “Buddy?” I nudge him gently with my foot, my arms full of the bounty I’ve collected.

  “Mmmm…” he moans.

  “Okay. Good.” I set down the food. Then, digging Will’s knife from my pocket, I get to work.

  I wash, cut, chop, and core for what feels like a short while, but when I finally take a break, rubbing my eyes and stealing a glance around, it’s clear the sun has begun its descent. Where did the day go? The shade of trees casts down on Charlie’s exhausted form as shadows scream at me how ill-prepared I was for this task. I can’t even keep the time, much less keep my small companion well.

  Atop large palm leaves as plates, I split the food, carrying it to where Charlie still lies. He hasn’t moved, but every once in a while, I called his name and received a moan in reply. It’s been enough to satisfy me and I’m hopeful some food and a good night’s rest are the answer.

  I sit next to his small body. “Charlie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I’ve got food.”

  “Mmm ’kay.” He lifts his neck, eyes straining to open into slits. His head falls back to the ground. “’Mmsootrrrd.”

  “I know, buddy. You can sleep soon, but first you have to eat.”

  He doesn’t respond, so I fumble around for something to prop his head up, grabbing my pack. Gently lifting his neck, I stick my bag beneath it.

  “I’m going to put some avocado in your mouth, okay?”

  He barely nods.

  My hand shakes as I bring the firm light green square to his lips. The color reminds me of sage and my heart sinks a bit.

  “Open your mouth, bud.”

  He barely does it and I pop the avocado in.

  I wait.

  He doesn’t chew.

  All Charlie does is roll the thing around his mouth until it eventually slips out the side and slides down his chin.

  Oh God. This isn’t working. I’m going to have to soften it, cook it for him, which means making a fire, which means possibly exposing ourselves. And I’m not even sure food is what he needs. But what’s my alternative? I can’t carry him home. I can’t just sit here and do nothing and watch him get worse.

  I pluck the spongy piece of avocado off his chin and place it back on the leaf. Waste not, and all of that.

  “You rest, buddy. I’m going to make yours into a soup so you can drink it.”

  He grants me another barely there nod.

  While attempting to collect my thoughts, I wrap my food up to eat later after I’ve taken care of Charlie. When I stand, I do a quick scan of the area.

  The Panthers seem to be long gone—probably back up their mountain by now—so I hope it’s safe enough to build a fire. I gather materials and find most of what I need right here, just as Lewis said I would. “Building a fire is easy. The forest is a pyromaniac’s playground.” Thankful it’s still light enough to see, the sun not yet behind the mountain, I begin the process Bug and Lewis made look so simple just a few days ago.

  “All right,” I say to myself, search my bag for the square plank and bow that are waiting to help me make fire. My chore is to find moss, anything dried out enough to burn, and a rock with one flat side to place on top because, “Lugging rocks in your pack isn’t a wise choice” and “The forest is filled with them,” Lewis had reminded me in duh fashion as I dropped the large-ish rock I’d been practicing with into my bag. After further consideration, I left it behind.

  As sun rays shine low through the trees and sparkle off the spring, for a fraction of a second, I take in the beauty of this place, the contradiction of its magnificence and our horrid situation. So much natural beauty housing so much pain, confusion, and anger. The corners of my eyes sting, and I wish I’d let Will convince me to leave Charlie behind. Had it been Will and me, we’d probably be at the base of the mountain. Or we’d have intercepted the Panthers before they stole whatever they’re hiding in that bag of theirs. Or…

  “Olive?” Charlie calls with little energy and plenty of pain.

  I run to him, swallowing my or’s and what-if’s, forcing my stinging eyes to cool.

  Kneeling next to him, pushing the dirty straw hair from his forehead, I swipe my hand back in shock. He’s hot. Burning hot like a furnace.

  No.

  “How you doing, buddy?” My voice shakes along with the words.

  “I’m so hot and my stoma-ugh!” Charlie doubles over, hugging his belly like he’s keeping it from exploding, coughing like he needs to vomit, but there’s nothing left to come up.

  Nothing in that tiny belly of his.

  He dry heaves.

  I rub his back. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, bud.” The fear in my voice is so heavy, even I doubt my words. Still, I refuse to give in to the island’s dark side. It’s not an option.

  I jump up, pull out my knife, and cut a strip of fabric from the bottom of my shirt. I run to the pool, dunking it in the water, then return to Charlie.

  “Here, keep this on your head while I build a fire and get you something to eat.” I drape the dripping rag across his forehead and it practically evaporates from the red-hot heat coming off his skin. I dunk it again, then cut another piece of my shirt and do the same but pile it behind his neck. Again, the rag is hot within seconds. I continue dunking and draping the rags until they’re finally staying cool enough for me to feel comfortable walking away.

  “I’ll be right back; just going to find fire-building stuff. Okay?” He doesn’t respond. “Charlie?”

  “’Kay.” He barely utters the sound.

  I’ll take it.

  I turn in a helpless circle and search the area. The sunlight’s been reduced to a sheer, golden sheen as it sets behind the mountain. I have minutes, at best, to find what I need and do what I have to do.

  I scavenge the ground like a rodent and soon find being near the water, most everything here is damp. The moss, the sticks, the leaves, they’re all teeming with life and moisture. A quick squint back at Charlie shows he’s shivering, the fever breaking—or, at least, I hope that’s what’s happening—my diagnosis based on several movies, books, and a vague recollection from my freshman health class with Coach Nelson.

  “I’ll be right back, bud. Just gotta find some dry wood,” I call through cupped hands, no time to run to his ear.

  He nods his head with a slight nudge, curling into a tighter ball.

  I mentally give myself five minutes—a generous estimate for how much longer I’ll have light and the amount of time I feel comfortable leaving Charlie alone.

  With no way to time myself, I’m forced to rely on my gut and instincts, two things I haven’t quite figured how to gauge in my sixteen years, though, like it or not, this island is forcing me to tap into it.

  “Moss, sticks, bark, leaves, where the hell are you?” I ask myself. Another quirk I’ve picked up on this island. I’ll be hearing voices next, for sure.

  I walk, bend, stand on tiptoes, and search in this “pyromaniac’s playground,” which isn’t such. Everything in this part of the forest is green and blooming.

&nb
sp; Careful not to lose my way, I take calculated steps along a sort of natural path between the trees. The path forks and I veer to the right, not thinking, just going. I take a curve, stepping around the corner, and it’s as if the climate changes with it. Leaves crunch underfoot. The scents change from fresh, ripe aloe, to crisp, bitter oak. Yes.

  I drop to my knees and crawl along the dry forest floor, Lewis’s voice like that of a ghost in my head reminding me, “Can’t find what you’re searching for? Turn a corner. There are five different climate zones on the island. Well, five I know of—so far.” Then he had looked at me, blushed, pushed the dark hair from his eyes, and glanced away.

  My heart warms and longs for my family. Both my families.

  “Thanks, Lewis,” I whisper.

  My shirt doubles as a hammock as I lift it up and away from my stomach, gathering handfuls of dried moss from a grouping of boulders, fallen leaves, and several bunches of sticks. My once-white shirt is now dusky brown and stretched to capacity as I hold the bundle like an infant across my chest.

  I make my way back, unsure if my estimate was wrong or if I’ve taken longer than I’d intended, but it’s dark, the light of the moon and stars, despite their brilliance here, barely illuminating the path.

  But it isn’t the night sky that finds me back to the spring.

  It’s the sound of laughter.

  Screechy, Wildling laughter.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Other Wildling

  My hands fall.

  I drop everything I’ve worked so hard to gather. All of it tumbles to the ground, leaves crunching, sticks clapping, the rock pelting the forest floor with a thump.

  The Wildling cackles again. It’s a scratchy, whistley, whee-hee-hee!

  I run toward the laughter. Toward Charlie.

  The night is not my friend as roots and fallen branches, plants, and stones trip me up.

  I stumble, skinning my knees.

  No more than twenty strides later I fall again, scraping my palms.

  Another wee-hee-hee pierces the night air. It’s louder. Closer. The laughter trails off followed by chattering and a girl’s voice demanding, “Where is she?!”

  A moaning Charlie responds.

  Then I’m there. Just behind a line of trees.

  And they’re there, three Panthers: the girl, the other twin, and Dimples von Trustworthy. Damn, what is it about his face?

  Charlie lies as I left him, on his side in the fetal position, the girl and Wildling standing over him as Dimples digs his bear claws through our packs.

  I peek around further, but can’t see any sign of the one-hundred-pound bag we heard Dimples complaining about carrying this morning. Is it possible they made it up the mountain, deposited their prize, and hiked back to us already?

  “Where. Is. She?” the girl shouts right into Charlie’s face.

  He flinches, squeezing his body into a tighter ball.

  “God. What a useless little shit.” She lifts her leg over his stomach and nudges him with her boot. Hard.

  Charlie bellows then coughs.

  I squeeze my hands into fists. Unsure. Still not ready.

  The girl laughs as Charlie continues sputtering.

  I crack.

  My feet move before my brain can agree with the action and I sprint straight for her back. Hands out, I push all my weight into her and she flies, feet off the ground, head first into the spring with a splash.

  “Hey!” yells Dimples.

  “Yes!” Wildling twin hisses through his teeth, leering at me like I’m prey.

  All the while, the girl makes quick work out of the water, screaming a slew of four-letter bombs my way, the rate of which make Tawny sound like a Girl Scout.

  I search from one to the other and then down at Charlie who’s whimpering into the dirt. They all appear as stunned as I feel. All but the girl, who’s coming straight for me. For the first time, I get a good look at her; her long black hair swings side to side like a slick, inky pendulum as she trudges and slips over rocks, bloodying her knee but not taking her furious dark eyes off me.

  No time to think, I lunge to the ground and try scooping Charlie up, but he’s so limp it’s like lifting a sixty-five-pound bag of jelly. I get him maybe an inch off the ground and tumble back onto the dirt with him.

  “Get her, Henry!” the girl shrieks.

  Two large hands pinch my shoulders and warm breath pants against the back of my head.

  “Nice try,” Henry says, his voice laced with a smile, that dimple surely showing in all its conflicting glory.

  The Wildling lets out a long whee-hee-hee.

  The Wildling’s squeal still rings in my ears as I’m lifted off the ground, thrown onto my stomach, and bound with rope like an animal—tied wrist to wrist, ankle to ankle. Henry does the same to Charlie, though I don’t see why. The kid’s in bad shape, his body listless, skin clammy and pale. Really bad shape.

  “He needs food. He’s sick. Please, untie him?”

  My answer comes as a cold sneer from the girl. She’s still wet, having braided her hair into two long black ropes, the tips dripping onto her once yellow blouse.

  Next to me, Charlie breathes into the ground like he’s in a deep sleep, but his eyes are open as slits, staring right through me and into nothingness.

  “Buddy? You okay?” The fear clings to my words and scares me. We’re out of options and it’s my fault. Why didn’t I stick to the plan? Follow the map? But, no. I had to chase after the Panthers, running Charlie ragged instead. This is bad. Bad, bad.

  I stare back at Charlie’s empty eyes, the blue clouded, my own eyes beginning to prick.

  I’m sorry, I mouth because the words won’t come. They’re stuck behind the knot in my throat.

  Tears poke like hot needles from my eyes, streaming down my face onto the forest floor, and I swear they smell like coconut. It’s been my main source of food and drink since we left, and now it’s secreting from my pores.

  Charlie begins to shake.

  “Charlie!” I shout.

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Here, pour this down the kid’s throat! We don’t need him dying on us before we get back to Duke,” the girl says, and I can just make out the blur of her tossing a coconut to Dimples—er, Henry—over Charlie’s shivering body.

  In swift motions, he pierces the coconut with Will’s knife, which I’d idiotically left by the food. Then he flips Charlie onto his back, shoves my pack beneath his head, and proceeds pouring the coconut juice down his throat as instructed.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. Catching his dark eyes, I swear I see a flash of Grandma Olive’s dimpled smile. And there’s my connection. That trust I sense in his face? It’s in his dimples. They remind me of her, so much so it’s unsettling.

  He clears his throat, opening his mouth to say something, when Charlie lurches his body to the side, vomiting all over Henry’s feet.

  “Aw, man! Come on!” Our moment over, he strides to the spring and rinses off.

  Charlie lies his head back onto my bag and continues coughing, gagging, and shaking. I can’t escape the fear, the guilt, the coconut tears that follow. And I’m angered and sickened over how everything at this moment is coconut. The spilled coconut juice at my right shoulder. Remnants of the coconut I ate earlier lingering in my mouth and throat. Charlie’s puke.

  A memory floods into my mind. The story of Charlie throwing up a macaroon, his puffy eyes, the allergies. The kid’s words go off in my head like a siren. “Mom used to tell me my allergies were like a big cup—that my body was okay until it filled up, but if it spilled over the side, I was in trouble. “

  “He’s spilling over,” I scream, trying to lift my head. “He’s spilling over!” Charlie winces at my shrieking nonsense in his ear.

  Footsteps approach and I crane my eyes to the sides in time to see all three of them crowded around, staring down at me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  His Cup Spilleth Over

  “Hey
Shiloh, you have any idea what she’s talking about?” Henry asks the girl, the gravel of his voice part confused, part…concerned?

  “Ugh, who knows. Hey!” She kicks me in the back. “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Charlie must be allergic to the coconut! It’s killing him!” I shout into the dirt.

  “Turn her over,” demands Shiloh.

  I’m flipped from my stomach to my back, tied hands crushed under my own weight. Henry towers over me, dimples concealed, then takes a couple steps back.

  Shiloh bends down, meeting my tear-filled eyes with her emotionless, cold and murky brown-green ones. It’s a color I’ve never seen, like muddy moss.

  “All right now. Why’s he shaking like that? He’s dying?” She smirks, shaking her head in disbelief. Tommy lets loose a nervous cackle. Henry just stares.

  I spit the words out as fast as I can. “He has allergies. One of them must be coconut. He didn’t know. I didn’t know until just now.” I take a breath. “It’s the coconut.” I say the last part under my breath, so damn angry I didn’t figure it out earlier.

  “And why should we believe you—murderer?” She cocks her head, pressing her lips together and narrowing those muddy eyes.

  “No. I… I didn’t mean to. They were attacking us. It was an accident. I… I’m—”

  She kicks me again, this time in the stomach. My breath sucked dry, I ball into myself as Charlie did. “An accident? Did you hear that, Tommy?” She laughs under her breath. “Oh no, I accidentally slipped and the sharp rock went into his head. Oops!” Wildling Tommy and Henry glare at me. Can’t say I blame them. “Accidents don’t matter where death is concerned.” She shoves me again with the toe of her boot. “We might get to find that out with your friend here.”

  Coconut tears of guilt, sorrow, exhaustion, and fear streak down the sides of my face.