by Brian Keene
But while the castaways had to remain on the island, the crew was allowed to return to the relative comforts aboard the ship when off duty. They worked in eight-hour shifts, covering the contestants twenty-four hours a day, even when the castaways were sleeping. There were nine, three-person camera crews, consisting of a "shooter," sound technician, and field producer. Three of the crews were on the island at a time, along with at least two emergency medical technicians. There were also crew
members the contestants never saw or had little interaction with—construction workers and various people from the production office. The audience would never realize these people had been involved with the production, because the producers did such a good job of presenting the Castaway contestants as being on a remote island by themselves.
The network helicopter shuttled the crew members back and forth. When not working, they had a wide variety of amenities aboard the freighter, ranging from video games and first-run movies to a swimming pool and full-service spa. While they dined on lobster, steak, and pasta each night in the ship's galley, those left on the island made do with rice— the only food provided by the show's producers. While the crew slept in comfortable, two-person cabins, the contestants huddled together, shivering in the darkness. The ship was equipped with a state-of-the-art communications center and wireless internet, so that network employees could stay in touch with their loved ones. It also had a laundry, medical staff, counselor, and even a nondenominational clergyman who held services every Sunday.
The contestants who had already been exiled from the game were also allowed to enjoy these luxuries—a small comfort after losing their chance at a million dollars.
Mark Hickerson, Jesse Carroll, and Stuart Schiff were all reality television veterans, and they'd each been with Castaways since its first season. Mark, who hailed from Tennessee and whose blond hair frequently took first place in mullet contests, was a shooter, or camera operator. Jesse, the sound
engineer, was from Florida. He played guitar in a band and enjoyed collecting rare books in his spare time. Stuart split his time between his hometown of Binghamton, New York, and Los Angeles, and had worked his way up the ranks over the past few seasons to become a field producer. Network gossip pegged him as the next big thing—the future wun-derkind of reality programming and becoming executive producer of his own show. All agreed that he'd more than earned the opportunity.
While the other crew members hovered around the contestants, filming their every action and word, the three men huddled together in the undergrowth near a small, weatherproofed storage shed used by the crew to house tools and equipment. The shed was close to the base camp, but hidden in the trees so that it didn't appear in any footage, thus ruining the viewer's illusion.
Stuart was involved in a conversation with the ship via satellite phone. Mark and Jesse occupied themselves by discussing the technical aspects of other reality shows and how they compared to Castaways.
"You ever watch the one where they compete to see who can lose the most weight?" Mark spoke quietly so as not to disrupt Stuart.
"Yeah," Jesse said. "The season finale was fucking painful, man. It should have been the biggest show of the season, but it was shit. Whoever the network has producing that show should be getting water-boarded at Guantanamo Bay right now and never be allowed to work in television again."
"Why's that?"
"Well, it's the season finale, right? And they announce the winner. They do it live, just like us. And when the big moment comes, instead of showing the winner's face, they pull back and do a wide pan of the audience. The poor guy who won is crying and showing all this emotion, and instead of zooming in on that, they cut to the host."
Mark shook his head. "That's pretty bad."
Jesse was about to respond when Stuart clipped his satellite phone back onto his belt and looked at them. His expression was worried.
"What's wrong?" Jesse asked.
"The meteorologist says the storm might change course, after all."
Mark and Jesse glanced at each other and simultaneously said, "Shit."
"Yeah," Stuart agreed. "And speaking of which, I really wish you hadn't let that slip to the contestants earlier, Mark."
"What else did they say?" Mark asked, ignoring the reprimand.
Stuart shrugged. "A lot of technical stuff about thermal currents interacting with the various jet streams and how that might produce hurricane-force winds."
"Just to be clear," Jesse said, "we're talking about a cyclone here, right?"
"Right. Its name is Ivan—I think that means 'a real pain in the ass.' "
Jesse frowned. "Not to put too fine of a point on this, but cyclones are air currents with a swirling pattern, right? Like what took Dorothy to Oz?"
"On land," Stuart said. "But this is on the water."
"Well, then why would they call it a cyclone? It's the air masses themselves, not the water currents and such, right? Seems to me like they'd call this Hurricane Ivan or Typhoon Ivan. Tropical Cyclone Ivan just doesn't have a ring to it."
"They should call it Bob," Mark suggested. "That's always a good name. If I ever get another dog, I'm gonna name him Bob. It sounds friendly."
Stuart rubbed his temples and sighed. "We're getting a little off track here, guys. I don't know why they call it what they do. I'm not a weatherman. All I know is what they tell me."
"Sorry," Mark apologized.
"Yeah," Jesse said. "Sorry about that, man. So what's the network want us to do?"
"Well, they're still not sure if the storm itself is gonna hit us or not. It may just skirt us and head farther north. It's moving quick and defying all their computer models. But at the very least, we'll have some killer winds tonight. Because of that, the pilots are refusing to fly, unless there's a medical emergency on the island or something like that. So the producers have decided to hold off on tonight's exile vote. We'll do it tomorrow night, once Ivan has passed on. The last chopper is leaving in twenty minutes."
"Well," Mark said, "let's get going, then, so we don't miss it."
"Yeah," Jesse agreed. "At least we won't have to be stuck here tonight."
"That's where you're wrong. Even though they're recalling all nonessential personnel back to the freighter, the producers want a skeleton crew to stay behind with the contestants."
Mark flinched. "They're leaving the castaways here?" "Yep."
"Is that even legal?"
Stuart nodded. "Apparently, the network lawyers seem to think so. And you've got to admit, if the storm does hit here, it will make for some great drama. Somebody needs to capture that footage— and the castaways' reactions to it all. That's why they want a skeleton crew on hand."
"How many?" Jesse asked.
Stuart held up three fingers. "Field producer, shooter, and sound tech. They're even sending the EMTs back to the freighter."
"One crew for everything," Jesse said. "That's a tall order."
Mark sighed. "Poor bastards."
Stuart didn't respond.
"Wait." Jesse groaned. "Let me guess. That skeleton crew is us?" "Bingo."
"But our shift is over this afternoon, Stuart."
"Yeah, but they're evacuating everyone now, and since we're already here at base camp, we drew the unlucky straws. I'm letting everyone else go, but you guys need to stay with me. I need professionals— people I trust to get the job done. And don't start quoting union regulations at me, either. You guys know basic first-aid, in case things get hairy. Plus, you've both been with the show long enough to know the drill. This is what you signed on for."
"Screw that," Mark said. "Getting bit by a snake
or stung by a scorpion is one thing. Sitting around waiting for a cyclone to hit is a whole other ball of wax."
"We'll be fine," Stuart insisted. "Believe me, I don't like it any more than you guys. But it is what it is. I know I can trust you both to get the job done. You're the most competent crew members we have. I'll make sure you guys get taken care o
f—some kind of recognition for your dedication above and beyond the call of duty and all that shit."
Jesse rotated his finger in a circle. "Whoopee."
Scowling, Mark stuck a twig in his mouth and stared at the horizon.
"And besides," Stuart said, "maybe Pauline will sleep in the nude again tonight. You guys weren't on duty last time she did that."
Both men grinned. They'd seen the raw footage of Pauline in the buff. It was a popular choice in the editing room onboard the ship.
"So when do we inform them?" Mark cocked his thumb over his shoulder at the contestants.
"Now. And make sure you film it, because their reactions should make for great footage. We'll send the rest of the crew back to the landing zone, so they can evacuate. Then we've got some other scheduled shoots while there's still daylight and before the weather gets bad. We need to do some one-on-one interviews with Matthew, Roberta, and Stefan. We need to get some stock footage of Matthew and Roberta, because what we have so far isn't that useful. Also, I'm noticing some sparks between Jerry and Becka."
"Yeah," Jesse said, "I picked up on that, too, during today's challenge. They were pretty cozy on the swim back to shore. Took their time together."
"Might be worth keeping an eye on that. And, of course, the ongoing conflict between Troy and Stefan should be focused on, as well. With an extra day before exile, that should lead to some interesting opportunities. Make sure we film it."
Mark spit out his twig and hefted the equipment. "How in the hell are we gonna capture all that with only one camera?"
"We'll have to pick and choose, of course. I've got a spare handheld stowed with my gear. We'll make due. In fact, I'll stay here while you guys conduct the interviews with Roberta, Stefan, and Matthew. Just in case something big happens."
Mark shrugged. "You're the boss."
Stuart stood. "Let's go tell them the good news."
"How do you think they're gonna take it?"
"Everything will be fine," Stuart said. "They'll be okay with it. After all, this is showbiz! They want to be famous? This is a part of it. The show must go on."
"Fuck that shit," Troy shouted. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. There ain't no fucking way I'm staying on this fucking island in the middle of a fucking hurricane. Fuck that."
"Jesus," Raul muttered. "The air's gone blue, dog."
Jeff nodded. "He curses more than the guy on Deadwood, doesn't he?"
"And I'll tell you something else," Troy contin-
ued, ignoring the comments. "You're postponing the next exile vote until after Ivan passes, right? I say the hell with that. I want to know right fucking now if I'm getting fucking exiled or not before I agree to fucking stay here during a goddamned storm."
Richard nodded. "Yeah, that sounds about right. I'm with him. I've lived through tornadoes in Kansas. I don't really want to do it again."
While Mark and Jesse captured their reactions, Stuart held up his hands.for silence.
"Obviously," he said, "we can't force you to remain behind. If you are that concerned, you are certainly welcome to evacuate with the rest of the crew. But understand, according to the contract you signed, if you choose to do so, you are forfeiting the game."
"What?" Troy was exasperated. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"If you leave the island for any reason—be it by personal choice, medical emergency, death at home, whatever—that counts as a forfeiture. You agreed to that when you signed up, Troy. You too, Richard."
Richard shook his head.
"It's just like what happened with Sheila," Stuart pointed out. "She broke her leg and was unable to play anymore. Legally, we could have allowed her to keep playing, but she chose not to—wisely, I might add. So she forfeited. You can do the same thing, if you want."
Troy opened his mouth to curse some more, but Stefan interrupted him.
"Go ahead and leave, you bloody gearhead. Go back to Seattle with your tail between your legs and
bend wrenches for the rest of your life. Live up to your potential as a loser and let us big dogs compete without the constant annoyance of your presence."
"Yeah," Jeff chimed in, "in fact, I'm willing to carry you down to the helicopter if you can't make it. What do you say, Troy?"
Mark zoomed in on Troy, capturing his expression.
"Fuck you, pretty boy. I'll outlast a metrosexual fuckwit like you any day of the fucking week— storm or no storm. You and your English buddy."
"I've told you before," Stefan said, "I'm not English. I'm Welsh."
"Whatever. We still kicked your ass during the Revolutionary War, bitch."
Raul, Stefan, and Jeff feigned shock, but before rhey could respond, Stuart appealed for silence again.
"So all of you are staying, correct?"
The contestants nodded and shrugged.
"Okay. Then on behalf of the producers, the network, and Roland, I'm glad to hear it. And keep in mind, they don't even know for sure if the storm will hit us directly. Ivan may turn out to be much ado about nothing. It might just be some winds and rain. Mark, Jesse, and I will be here with you. I've also got a satellite phone. We'll be in constant contact with the ship, should an emergency arise."
"Do all three of you have one?" Richard asked.
"No," Stuart said, "just me."
"Well, I know who I'm sticking close to then."
Sal elbowed him in the ribs. "You can stick close to me tonight."
"You guys are something else," Ryan said, shaking his head. "I mean, seriously, you make me look straight, and I fit every gay stereotype there is."
"You can stay close, too."
Ryan grinned. "You're not my type, Sal."
"Okay," Stuart said, "if there are no further questions, we need to do a few more one-on-ones. Matthew, you're up first. Please follow Mark and Jesse. And let me remind the rest of you—the interviews are totally confidential and off-limits, so please, no eavesdropping or being sneaky. Find something else to occupy yourselves until we're done. Stefan, we'll need you when they're finished with Matthew. It should be about forty-five minutes or so. No more than an hour, I'm sure."
"Fine," Stefan agreed. "I'll stick close to camp."
"And then we'll get to you, Roberta," Stuart said. "But it will be a while, so feel free to do something else until then."
She nodded.
Matthew stepped forward, spear in hand, and followed Mark and Jesse into the undergrowth. The rest of the group dissolved again into their various cliques and alliances. Sal and Richard gathered their crude fishing implements—netting, a few sharpened sticks they used as both spears and poles, and some hooks they'd won during a challenge—and headed for the beach. Stefan's group settled in around the campfire, stirring the coals and building it up again. As Sal and Richard departed the camp, Stefan called out to them.
"Where are you gents going?"
"Fishing," Sal told him.
"Bollocks. Do you really think that's wise, what with the possibility of inclement weather and all?"
Sal shrugged. "Storm or no storm, we've still got to eat. I don't know about you all, but I'm frigging sick of rice. We'll be back before the rain starts."
"Be careful of the tide," Jeff warned. "It might be rising already. Don't want you guys getting washed away."
"We'll be fine," Richard assured him.
After they were gone, Jerry pulled Becka, Shonette, Troy, and Ryan aside. Sensing something good, Stuart followed them, backup camera in hand.
"Okay," Jerry said. "This storm bought us some unexpected time, but we need to take advantage of it. Who wants to work on Roberta? How about you, Becka?"
Becka hesitated. "I don't know, guys. I'm not very good at all this duplicity and sneakiness."
"You can do it," Jerry said. "It's just like playing chess."
"I suck at chess. My brother used to beat me all the time."
"Do we even need Roberta?" Ryan asked. "I mean, we've got seven of us in our alliance. We control
the vote, so what's the point of swaying her?"
"Insurance," Jerry said. "Let's be honest—if Stefan's group approaches one of us, can we really be sure someone from our alliance won't switch sides?"
"I fucking won't," Troy spat. "Fuck that limey cocksucker."
"No," Jerry agreed, "I don't think you would, Troy, but we can't say that for certain about everyone
else. Richard and Sal, for example. So adding Roberta would just give us extra insurance. Plus, it might be good to have a spy in Stefan's group. So who wants to talk to her?"
"I can give it a try," Shonette volunteered. "It's my turn to get fruit, anyway. How about me and Ryan ask her to go with us and help us out? And then we'll talk to her about Stefan while we're away from camp."
"That might work," Jerry agreed. "But the others might wonder why me or Becka or Troy didn't go help you instead. Or, they might want to tag along with you. We'll have to distract them."
Ryan frowned. "How?"
"I'm not sure yet," Jerry admitted. "We'll just play it by ear. If we get the chance, we can—"
He stopped, glancing at Troy, who was twitching and playing with his hat.
"What's wrong?" Jerry asked.
"I told you before. I need some fucking nicotine, man. Just ignore me. I'll be okay."
"Have you tried chewing on twigs or something?" Becka asked.
"Twigs? Ain't no nicotine in twigs, Becka."
"Maybe you should eat something," Shonette suggested. "That's what I did when I quit. I gained like fifteen pounds."
"I would, but all we've got is that fucking rice and fruit and shit. I'm sick of that stuff. Maybe I'll take a nap."
"Go ahead," Jerry said. "If you do, maybe Stefan will leave at least one of his group here to keep an
eye on you. That would help with keeping them away from Shonette and Ryan while they try to get Roberta to switch sides."
