by Brian Keene
They swam for shore and caught up with Roberta. Becka continued staring at the island. Jerry and Roberta followed her gaze.
"Pretty, isn't it?" Roberta asked.
Becka nodded, watching the sunlight glint off the highest peaks.
"We don't have anything like it back in Poughkeepsie," Roberta said. "Even if I don't win, it doesn't matter to me anymore. Just seeing this place—just being here—has been worth it. Never in a million years would I have ever thought I'd get to do something like this."
"It looks like something out of Jurassic Park," Becka said, eyeing the lush, green tropical foliage.
"Yeah." Jerry flicked water from his eyes. "But on this island, it's not the raptors you have to watch out for. It's our fellow castaways. They're the predators. Everybody's out to get paid. That's why we should form an alliance. What do you say? I'll watch your backs and you guys watch mine. Deal?"
Roberta shrugged. "I've already got an alliance with Pauline, so you'd have to bring her in."
Castaways "Do you trust her?"
"Sure," Roberta said. "I mean, she's sort of flighty, but I don't think she's deceitful."
"What about Stefan and Jeff and Raul? Aren't you loyal to them?"
"It's a game, right?"
"Okay," Jerry said. "I'd be up for that. How about you, Becka?"
Becka tried to catch her breath. Exhaustion was creeping back into her muscles.
"Let's focus on getting to shore first."
They reached shallow water and found their footing. Then they waded toward the beach and joined the rest of the contestants, who were killing time while the crew put makeup on the show's host, Roland Thompson. Becka sprawled in the white sand next to Shonette, a twenty-five-year-old single mother of two from Detroit, Michigan, and Ryan, a strikingly handsome, twenty-one-year-old hairstylist from Los Angeles. Jerry joined them after a moment, sitting cross-legged next to Becka. She wondered if he was being friendly, or just waiting for her decision on forming an alliance.
Farther up the beach, Roberta joined Pauline in a game of keep away with Troy's hat. The feisty mechanic was frothing now, letting loose with one string of curse words after another. A few feet away, Sal, a stockbroker from Long Island, and Richard, a drummer from a small town in Kansas, were deeply involved in a hushed conversation. Becka wondered if they were scheming about tonight's choice for exile. Both men were in their thirties, and unlike the other contestants, they seemed to have formed a real
friendship during their time on the island, rather than just an acquaintance of convenience.
Beyond them were Stefan, Jeff, and Raul. Stefan was originally Welsh, but had moved to the United States several years ago and now worked as a music producer in Nashville. Jeff was an adventure tour guide from Estes Park, Colorado. Along with Jerry, the two were the most physically fit contestants, and therefore among the most formidable in the challenges. Raul, who hailed from Philadelphia, worked in a machine shop.
And finally, standing apart from the rest of the group was Matthew, a lanky, dirty twenty-eight-year-old from the small town of Red Lion, Pennsylvania. The laconic loner didn't interact much with the other castaways, and his rat-faced features seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl. In Becka's opinion, the only reason he hadn't been exiled yet was because he was so uninvolved with the other players that he was often forgotten when it came time to vote. Currently, he was drawing stick figures in the sand with a six-foot length of bamboo. He'd used the implement as a walking stick since their second day on the island, sharpening one end against the rocks to form a makeshift spear. He took it with him everywhere, even slept with it. Becka had to give him credit, though. Matthew's spear had come in handy a few times. He'd used it to catch fish in some of the island's shallower pools.
Missing was a girl named Sheila, who had forfeited her position in the game the day before due to a medical emergency. She'd fallen out of a tree while trying to pick coconuts and had broken her leg.
Unable to compete, she'd decided to quit and was now back on the ship with the other contestants who'd already been exiled. Becka grew maudlin, remembering Sheila. She'd liked her, and although they weren't friends, the two had gotten along well.
All the contestants did their best to ignore the cameras flitting among them, filming their every word and action. More crew members worked on Roland Thompson's hair and clothing, making sure the host looked his best before going back on camera again. He sat removed from the contestants, occupying a small pavilion above the high-tide line. As a longtime Castaways viewer, Becka was secretly disappointed with Roland. On television, he was charming and witty and handsome. Here, in reality, he was haggard, cranky, and usually sipping a gin and tonic. He stank of cologne, cigar smoke, and sweat. When he was actually on the island, he spent much of his off-camera time hitting on Pauline.
The beach was noisy. Snatches of conversation blended with the shrieks of seabirds as they circled overhead or darted across the sand looking for crabs. The waves crashed against the shore. Farther inland, the treetops rustled in the breeze.
As Becka watched, Troy succeeded in reclaiming his hat and gave a victorious, profanity-laden cheer. Pauline began stretching, bending over to touch her toes and then reaching for the sky. She brushed grains of sand from her coffee-colored skin. Becka frowned. Her own skin was blotchy and peeling from overexposure to the elements, while Pauline's stayed smooth and unblemished. As Pauline's acrobatics continued, Raul, Sal, and Richard openly
leered at her, while Jeff and Stefan cast furtive glances in her direction. Troy seemed oblivious. Ryan was checking out Jeff, rather than Pauline. And Matthew .. .
Matthew was also staring at Pauline, but his expression was one of contempt.
Despite the warm sun on her skin, Becka shivered. She glanced at Jerry to see if he was also captivated by Pauline's aerobics, then wondered why she cared, Even so, she felt relieved when he turned his attention to her and smiled.
"When this airs," he said, "I'll be amazed if Troy gets any screen time."
"Why?"
"Because they'll have to bleep everything he says. Dude swears more than a sailor."
Becka, Ryan, and Shonette laughed. Noticing them, Troy walked over and joined the group. He plopped down onto the sand and scowled. Becka studied the tattoos covering his forearms, back, and chest. Most of them were basic black, and the ink had faded in spots.
"What's wrong?" Shonette asked him. "You got your hat back."
"I need a fucking cigarette," Troy said. "Thirty days of this shit without a fucking smoke? What the hell was I thinking, man?"
Jerry brushed white sand from his forearms. "Why didn't you just bring some cigarettes as your one luxury item?"
"Because the fuckers at the network made me pick between my hat and my smokes."
"But a hat is clothing," Becka said.
"They didn't see it that way, and I don't go anywhere without my fucking hat." "Why not?" Jerry asked.
"Because it's my lucky fucking hat!" Troy's tone was incredulous, as if Jerry should have already known that. "I've traveled all over the fucking place, and this hat is the only thing that's been with me each and every time."
"You're from Seattle, right?" Becka asked.
"Yeah. But I moved around a lot. I was born in New York. Brackard's Point, armpit of the fucking world. Me and my older brother, Sherm, ran away from home when I was fourteen. Our parents didn't give a fuck. We went from New York to Florida, and stayed there for a while. Then we lived in fucking Texas. Then Wisconsin, which was even worse than fucking Texas. Eventually, we ended up in Seattle. Been there ever since. My hat stayed with me the whole fucking time."
"It's funny," Jerry said. "Seeing as how you've lived in Seattle for so long, I would think you'd be craving a Starbucks caramel macchiato rather than cigarettes."
Troy scowled. "And you'd be wrong. I hate that fucking shit. Starbucks tastes like hot cat piss. Whatever happened to just plain old coffee? Black, no flavors or fancy names that so
und like French and Italian run through a fucking meat grinder? This country is going down the fucking tubes. Not every person from Seattle is a Starbucks-loving asshole. I hate Starbucks. Give me fucking Folgers any day of the week. If I want vanilla, I'll eat some fucking ice cream. You know what I'm saying?"
"I guess so." Jerry shrugged. "I kind of like their iced cappuccinos."
"So," Becka said, trying to change the subject, "I bet your brother will be pretty excited to see you on TV, then?"
Troy lowered his head and stared at the sand. "Not really. Dumbass got in trouble a few years back and had to bail. Moved his ass to Pennsylvania and got shot during a fucking bank robbery."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was his fault. Stupid son of a bitch. He was always doing crazy shit like that. You should have seen what he got up to in Seattle."
Sensing that Troy's mood had soured even more than normal, Becka tried to distract him again by returning to the original subject. "You could have hidden some cigarettes underneath your hat."
"Nah," Troy said. "Wouldn't have worked. They checked us all pretty good. What'd you bring as your luxury item?"
Becka blushed. "My diary."
"No shit? That's cool."
"I've been keeping them since I was a little girl."
Troy turned to Jerry, Ryan, and Shonette. "What'd you guys bring?"
Before they could answer, Stuart, one of the field producers, grabbed a battery-powered megaphone and shouted directions.
"Okay, everyone, if you could please gather together here, we're ready."
The contestants made their way to a large makeshift stage that the construction crew had built before filming commenced. The stage was lined with
bamboo torches and authentic native masks and carvings. Above it, out of sight of the cameras, were rows of lights, microphones, and other equipment. The group gathered on the stage after each contest and when they voted on who to exile from the game. In the center of the stage was an ornate white circle, painted directly onto the planks—the Circle of Protection. When it was time to vote, whoever had won the previous contest stood in the center of the circle, granting them immunity from exile. The contestant who was exiled had to leave the island immediately and join the game's other losers on the network's ship, a large freighter floating off shore that housed the camera and sound people, helicopter pilots, medical personnel, the director, Roland, and all the show's other crew members.
When they were all onstage, arranged in a semicircle, Stuart flashed a cue, and Roland Thompson strolled across the sand toward them. A camera filmed his approach. He was dressed in a safari outfit, and when he smiled, his capped teeth gleamed in the sunlight. There were dark sweat stains beneath his armpits, but Becka knew now that the producers would edit those out before the show aired.
"Prissy fucker," Troy muttered. "I'd like to see him spend a night in this fucking place."
Becka and Jerry stifled their laughter.
"Hello, everyone." Roland's deep baritone boomed across the stage. "And congratulations to Stefan, who won today's challenge."
"Thank you." Stefan smiled, flashing his own perfectly capped teeth. "I never had any doubt."
"As you know," Roland continued, "the last
castaway to leave this island will go home with one million dollars. You are now one step closer to that prize, Stefan. Tonight, weather permitting, you will stand in the Circle of Protection, and one of your fellow castaways will go home. The rest of you have until sundown to figure out who that will be. Head on back to base camp, and we'll see you tonight."
Roland began to turn around, but Richard raised his hand. The host called on him, visibly annoyed.
He probably can't wait to get back to the ship, Becka thought. Sit in the air-conditioning with his feel up and have a drink. Or take a shower. God, what I wouldn't give for a hot shower.
"I noticed that you said 'weather permitting,'" Richard said. "Any word on the storm? There was a rumor going around that a cyclone might be coming."
Roland glanced at Stuart, motioning for him to join them. The assistant producer stepped forward and cleared his throat. The cameraman and sound engineer turned off their equipment.
"There is indeed a tropical storm warning," Stuart confirmed. "But as far as we know, it's not going to amount to much, at least not here. It's currently tracking farther north. We've got a staff meteorologist back on board the ship keeping an eye on things, and he'll let all of us know if things change. They've named the storm Ivan, if that matters to any of you."
"So what if it does hit?" Shonette asked. "That mean you're gonna pull us off the island until it passes?"
Stuart smiled. "As I said, we're keeping a watch
on things, and if the situation changes, we'll let you know. Now head on back to base camp. We'll have more information for you tonight, after exile."
They filed off the stage and began walking along the beach, heading toward their camp. Becka noticed that everyone had split off into subgroups. Sal and Richard walked together, laughing at some private joke. Stefan, Jeff, Raul, Pauline, and Roberta celebrated Stefan's victory as a group. So much for Roberta and Pauline switching alliances. Jerry had been right to worry. Becka glanced from side to side. Ryan, Jerry, Shonette, and Troy walked next to her.
Our own little cabal, she thought.
Jerry must have been thinking the same thing.
"That's trouble." He nodded at the group in front of them. "Stefan and the rest of the big dogs. Unless we come together, they can start picking us off one by one. There's five of them and five of us. If we make an alliance and get Sal and Richard to vote with us, we can come out on top."
"Count me in," Ryan agreed. "I say we exile Jeff."
"I thought you had the hots for him," Becka said.
Ryan shrugged. "Sure, he's cute and all, but this is a million dollars we're talking about."
The others laughed.
"I'm in, too," Shonette whispered. "And I bet you can convince Roberta to switch sides."
"Yeah," Jerry said, "we talked to her earlier. She wouldn't commit to anything, though. In fact, I'm a little worried that she might rat us out to Stefan and the others."
"She wouldn't do that," Shonette said. "Pauline might, but not Roberta."
"We'll see." Jerry turned to Troy. "How about you?"
Troy shrugged. "Fuck it." "Is that a yes?"
Troy shrugged again. "It ain't a fucking no, dude. Yes, I'm in." The cameras filmed it all. "Aren't you forgetting someone?" Ryan asked. Jerry frowned. "Who?"
Ryan glanced back over their shoulders. Matthew trailed after the group, slinking along behind the camera crew.
"Yeah," Jerry said. "I guess I did forget about him, after all. Kind of easy to do. He never says anything."
"He's flying under the radar," Shonette said. "Hoping that if he doesn't get noticed, he won't get exiled from the game."
Troy snorted. "He's a fucking weirdo. Always watching people. Like a snake. Dude never fucking blinks."
Becka turned, and sure enough, Matthew was staring at them. His expression was sullen.
She moved a little closer to Jerry, feeling Matthew's eyes crawl over her exposed skin.
They continued along the beach, unaware that other eyes were watching them from beneath the jungle's greenery, as well.
Chapter Two
The males of the tribe crouched, hidden within the foliage, watching the intruders as they walked along the beach. The tribe's females and few young were hidden in the caves, where they'd been since the strangers first arrived. Both had to be guarded. With each passing year, the females bore less young, and many of the newborns were severely deformed and unfit to live.
The tribe did not like the newcomers. They were noisy and destructive, and had chased away much of the island's wildlife. Their unfamiliar scent wafted through the jungle, souring everything it came in contact with.
The tribe had watched them from the shadows since their arrival, studyin
g and learning, unsure whether the intruders were predators or prey. At first, the tribe members were afraid. Like them, the newcomers walked on two legs, but they were clearly not the same. There were far more differences than similarities. The intruders' bodies were mostly hairless, except for a few of the males who had a sparse covering of hair on their chests and
backs—but nothing like the thick, curly hair covering the males of the tribe. The hairless ones' heads were bigger, but their brows weren't quite as sloped as the island's inhabitants. Their feet weren't as broad, nor were their lower jaws. While the tribe members could crack a coconut with their teeth, the strangers had to use rocks to penetrate the hull. They were much taller, and their language was different. Most bizarrely, they covered their bodies in a colorful, unknown material—not animal skins, or at least, not the hide of anything that lived on the island. They used strange and frightening tools, the purpose of which the tribe couldn't discern.
Perhaps the new arrivals were distant cousins—a missing tribe from far-off shores. The tribe members knew that other islands existed somewhere beyond the vast waters that surrounded them. Occasionally, debris washed up on the beach—items native to the island. And their legends told of a race of hairless visitors who had arrived on the island many generations ago, crossing the water on long, hollowed-out trees. The strangers had spoken an odd language. They carried shiny sticks that were harder and sharper than stone, and had spears that belched smoke and flame. Eventually the tribe's ancestors determined the newcomers were a threat and had slain them all. From that point on, whenever strangers arrived on the island, they were met in the same manner, until eventually the others stopped coming.
Now a similar decision faced this new generation of tribe members.
After a week of observation, their fears and
misgivings had given way to cautious urgency. The tribe was overcome with conflicting desires. Clearly, the strangers were a threat to the island's ecosystem. Their continued presence was throwing everything off balance. If the tribe did not act, and soon, its entire existence could be in jeopardy.
