by Brian Keene
"Even if she didn't like him, she wouldn't do you, man. She'd sooner fuck that worm snake we found today. You're better off sticking to the fish."
Richard laughed, then shivered as a particularly fierce gust of wind blasted across the beach. The skin on his arms prickled.
"It's getting pretty chilly," he said. "Maybe we should head back to camp."
Sal glanced up at the foreboding sky. It was growing darker by the minute. The sun had almost completely vanished behind a mass of thick, roiling clouds.
"If it's gonna rain," he muttered, "then I wish it would start already."
"I can't believe how cold it's getting."
"It's not," Sal said. "We've just gotten so used to the heat that as soon as the temperature drops a little bit, it feels like we're in Antarctica or something."
Richard gathered their equipment—netting, lines, and hooks that they'd won during a challenge, and two bamboo spears they'd fashioned in camp— while Sal continued studying the sky.
"Come on," he urged. "Let's head back."
Nodding, Sal picked up the bundle of fish. "Don't forget about your girlfriends."
"Hey, listen." Richard glanced around, making sure they were alone. The beach was deserted. "You're not going to tell anybody about the chicken, are you?"
"That depends. How much is it worth to you?"
"Oh, come on, Sal. That's not right."
"You shouldn't have said anything. You're just lucky we don't have a camera crew following us around."
"Well, even so, I'd appreciate it if you kept it between us."
"I will—for half your prize money if you win."
"Half?"
"Half."
"How about I just wait till we get back to camp, and then look in the camera and tell America all about the fat chick you banged."
"I've changed my mind," Sal said. "The chicken will be our little secret."
They walked along the beach, heading back toward the island's interior. They didn't hurry, but they didn't lag either. Neither man wanted to get caught in the jungle during the storm. As they crossed the beach, their discussion changed from women and fish to music. Both of them were metalheads, but while Sal was a fervent KISS fan, Richard was into more esoteric bands like Iced Earth and Death. He was telling Sal about his current favorite group, Co-heed and Cambria, when something in the sand caught his attention. He paused, cupping his hand over his eyes, and stared.
"What's wrong?" Sal asked.
"Look over there."
A few yards away from them were a series of footprints. They led from the jungle to the beach, stopped, and then went inland again in a U-shaped pattern.
"Big deal," Sal said. "They're ours."
"No, they're not." Richard pointed. "Ours are over there. See? That's where we came down, over near the path."
"Then they're our tracks from yesterday."
"They can't be. The tide would have washed those away last night. These are fresh. It looks like whoever made them sneaked onto the beach while we were fishing, stood here looking at us, then went back into the jungle."
"Maybe Mark or Stuart shot some footage of us."
Richard didn't respond. He continued staring, fascinated by the tracks.
"I'm telling you," Sal said, growing impatient, "they're our footprints."
Richard put down the fishing equipment and stepped closer, studying the tracks. They were human in shape, but child sized. The five toes were longer than a human's, and the heel seemed rounder. At the tip of each toe there was a long impression that designated a claw or talon. He reached out and ran his hand over them. The wet sand shifted and collapsed, partially filling the depressions.
"This isn't us," Richard insisted. "I'm pretty sure of it."
"Maybe it's one of the girls, then. Roberta has small feet."
"She hasn't been down here since she got that bad sunburn. And look at them. They look more like a monkey's prints than they do a person's."
"There aren't any monkeys on this island," Sal said. "They're not indignant."
Richard chuckled. "You mean indigenous."
"Whatever. There aren't any monkeys here. If there were, you'd probably try to fuck them."
Richard ignored the taunt. "Maybe it's some other kind of animal. I guess that could be possible. There's been a lot of rain lately. Some wild animal could have left them, and then the prints got distorted or something."
Sal knelt next to his friend and studied the tracks closer. "Except there aren't any wild animals on the island. Just snakes and turtles and stuff. And these definitely aren't turtle tracks."
"So now you agree with me?"
"I didn't say that. I just said there aren't any wild animals on the island that could make tracks like this. The only thing that was ever here were wild pigs, left over from shipwrecks, and Roland said they died off years ago."
"Well, then what are they if it wasn't us and it wasn't an animal?"
"I think that's obvious. The producers faked it."
"That's no special effect!" Richard jabbed a finger at the prints.
"Sure it is." Sal's knees popped as he stood again. "This has got to be part of the show. Think about it, Richard. When we first got here, Roland told us that bullshit story about how the natives in this region thought this island was haunted by a bunch of little hairy people. So now they scare us with some phony footprints and film our reactions. It makes for great drama back home. They probably had one of the crew strap on some fake feet and stomp around out here, like one of those Bigfoot hoaxes. Then they just waited for us to go fishing, and now we'll look
like douche bags on national television. I'm telling you, the whole thing is a hoax. This is just some new twist on the game. Anything for ratings."
A savage, screaming howl erupted from deep within the jungle.
"Then what the hell was that}" Richard leaped to his feet.
Sal was startled, but kept his voice calm. "They're just fucking with us, man." "You forgot something." "What?"
"There's nobody filming us. Mark and Stuart are the only ones left on the island with cameras, and they're back at camp interviewing Roberta, Stefan, and that weird guy. So if they were playing a joke, wouldn't they want to capture our reactions like you said?"
Sal swallowed the lump in his throat and peered at the swaying tree line. The wind's speed increased. Above them, the sky grew darker.
"We're all alone out here," Richard whispered. "This isn't part of the show. This is real."
Another howl echoed from the trees. It was answered by a third, some distance away. The howls were followed by a series of barking grunts and strange hooting, all from different locations. Neither had ever heard anything like it. Whatever the animals were, it sounded almost as if they were communicating. Then, something crashed through the foliage, heading toward the beach. A thicket of reeds swayed violently as something barged through them.
Sal grabbed Richard's arm. "You're right! What do we do?"
Castaways "Run, you dumbass!"
"Where? They're in the jungle—between us and the camp."
"Down the beach, toward the sea. If they're animals, maybe they're afraid of the water."
As they turned to run, a figure emerged from the jungle. It was short and squat, standing barely four feet high. Because of the distance, they couldn't make out any details, but it appeared to be naked and covered in long brown hair. It had a tiny head but large mouth.
Sal paused. "What the hell is that?"
The creature opened its mouth and roared.
"Holy shit," Richard gasped.
Sal fled. Richard followed, glancing over his shoulder as more of the creatures leapt from the foliage and gave chase. One of them looked horribly deformed. Its bulbous head seemed overly large, like a melon. A few others had obvious deformities, as well. Their angry cries echoed across the beach. Whatever the things were, they weren't human. Nothing about them resembled humanity. And when they caught up with Richard and Sal, the two men d
idn't resemble anything human, either. The two men were reduced to nothing more than steaming, bloody piles of torn meat and offal—limbs severed, organs splattered, blood drained out and swallowed by the sand.
When it was over and the prey had been butchered, the creatures carried the meat back into the jungle. A few small crabs emerged from the sand and battled for the remaining scraps. Then the rising tide washed the blood and hair and flecks of skin away, and the beach was quiet again.
Chapter Eight
"Dude, get off your lazy ass. I ain't lugging these fucking rocks all by myself!"
Grunting, Troy lurched toward the shelter, carrying a large, heavy stone. Unable to sleep, he'd gotten up after the other contestants had left and began building a crude barrier around the shelter to prevent water from flooding the interior if the storm grew too bad. Stuart followed along, filming Troy's efforts, while Stefan sprawled next to the fire pit with his eyes closed.
"Tell me something, Troy. Is it really bloody necessary for you to punctuate your every utterance with a curse word?"
"Damn straight it is. That's how I talk. Want to make something of it? Am I offending your delicate fucking sensibilities?"
"I'm sure your mother is quite proud."
"Hey, don't talk about my fucking mother."
"Please be quiet." Frowning, Stefan waved him away. "Can't you see that I'm preoccupied?"
Struggling with his burden, Troy stopped and readjusted his grip on the stone.
"Oh, yeah," he snorted. "With what?"
"I'm thinking. You should try it sometime. It's quite liberating."
"I am thinking. Thinking about my fucking foot in your ass."
Stefan rolled over onto his stomach. Dirt and leaves clung to his back. He rested his chin in his hands and smiled at Troy.
"Such insolence. Is that any way to speak to the one person on this island who can get you a cigarette?"
"You got some?"
"No, I quit years ago—nasty habit. But I know somebody who does."
"Don't bullshit me, man."
"I swear. Someone on this island has cigarettes."
"Who? The crew? They're not allowed to give us any. I tried already. Fuckers filmed me begging for one."
"I should like to see that footage. But to answer your question, no, it's not the crew. One of our fellow castaways brought cigarettes as their luxury item and they've been using the campfire to light them when everyone else is sleeping. They've limited their smoking to one per day, so the pack will last."
"Get the fuck out of here."
"I'm serious."
"Who?"
Stefan paused. "The nigger. Raul."
Troy dropped the stone. It thudded to the ground, narrowly avoiding his toes, and rolled a few feet away, coming to rest against a tree trunk. He didn't notice. His attention was focused on Stefan.
"You realize what you just said on national television? Did you forget that you're being filmed?"
"And what of it?" Stefan shrugged. "I'm not here to win the hearts and minds of America. I'm here to play a game. And the network will edit that part out anyway."
"You're a real piece of fucking work, man." Stefan smiled. "How so?"
"Not only are you a lazy motherfucker, you're a racist, too. I thought you and Raul were tight, but all along, you've just been playing him, haven't you? I bet he wouldn't like it if he heard you calling him that. Some fucking friend you are."
"Bollocks. I'm not here to make friends, Troy. I am here to win a game."
"Yeah? Well, we'll see what Raul has to say about that when he gets back. You ain't gonna win shit when everyone turns against you. Fucking asshole."
Stefan ignored the threat. "Raul brought along a pack of cigarettes as his luxury item. He doesn't think any of the others know about it, but I do. It's doubtful that he'd give you one, let alone admit he has them in his possession. Make a deal with me, and I'll obtain one for you."
"What kind of deal?"
"You have to give me your word that you won't vote against me, should you be given the opportunity."
"How could I? We all know you and your fucking cronies are aiming for me during the next exile vote."
"Perhaps." Stefan paused. "Or perhaps that's just
what we want everyone to believe, so that we can catch someone else unaware and exile them instead. After all, you're not much of a threat, all things considered."
Frowning, Troy turned away and kicked the ground. Then he whirled on Stefan, fists clenched. Calmly, Stefan rose to his feet. Stuart zoomed in closer with the camera and tried to stay out of the way.
"You know," Troy spat, pointing a dirty fingernail at Stefan, "back in Seattle, we get guys like you in the shop all the fucking time. They bring their BMW in for an oil change and expect to have it done in five fucking minutes. Want us to drop whatever we're doing and focus only on their car."
"Actually, I drive a Lexus. The engineering on the more recent BMWs is vastly overrated."
"You're wrong. And that ain't my point!"
"Well, then, please do make your point."
"A few months ago, a guy like you came in with a blown head gasket. A blown fucking head gasket. He didn't think that's what it was. He wanted me to fix it right away, and when I told him I couldn't— that he needed a whole new head gasket—this stupid fucker got all prissy with me. He insisted that it could be fixed without that. Said all he needed was a fucking tune-up. Dude knew absolute shit about engines. When I told him again that there was no fucking way, he wanted to know why not. Know what I told him?"
"Something profound, I'm sure."
"Damn straight. I told him, 'that fucking fucker is fucking fucked.'"
Brian Keene "And your point is?"
"So are you, you Lexus-driving piece of shit." Stefan's smile faltered, then returned. "Is that a threat?"
"It is what it is."
Stefan's smile vanished. His face grew red. He stood slowly and took a step toward Troy. The mechanic did not back down.
"You want some?" Troy balled his hands into fists. "Bring it, bitch."
"I shall." Stefan inched closer. "You need to be taught some manners, you bloody little troll."
"Not by you, shithead. And not today."
"Oh, yes? Do you think so? Then you are mistaken, my friend. I outmatch you in a battle of wits, and I can certainly best you in a physical matchup as well. School is now in session. Consider this your first lesson."
Yawning, Troy readjusted his hat. "You want to talk all day, or are we gonna throw down?"
The two men drew to within inches of one another. Stefan glared, puffing up his chest. Troy grinned. Stuart held his breath.
"Pussy."
"It shall be my pleasure to wipe that grin off your homely face."
Stuart braced his feet and zoomed closer, nervously trying to stay out of the way of both men's fists. A fight was imminent. He licked his lips in anticipation. Not once did the thought of intervening cross his mind. This was ratings gold in the making.
Stefan leaned forward, his nose almost touching Troy's. "I'm going to enjoy this."
"Whatever."
"We'll see how you feel once I've knocked that hat from your head."
Troy shrugged. "Put up or shut up. Daylight's fucking wasting."
The vegetation on the edge of the camp rustled, and Raul, Pauline, Jeff, Becka, and Jerry emerged from the jungle. Everyone except Pauline was carrying an armload of tinder.
"We've got firewood. Should be enough to get us through the night, provided the storm doesn't. . ." Raul trailed off, staring at Stefan and Troy in confusion.
Stuart panned over to catch the group's expressions and then pulled back, trying to capture the entire group, along with Stefan and Troy.
"What's going on?" Jeff asked. "Everything okay?"
Stefan glanced at the others. Troy continued staring at him, unblinking.
"Nothing," Stefan said. "Troy and I were just discussing the impending storm. Isn't that correct,
Troy?"
"Whatever you say, dickhead. Whatever you say." Snickering, he shook his head and turned to the others. "Need a hand stacking that wood?"
"Sure," Jeff said. "Feel free."
Stefan leaned forward and whispered in Troy's Car. "You'd do well to keep in mind what I said, if you want that cigarette."
Ignoring him, Troy relieved Becka of her burden and carried the firewood over to the pit.
"Thanks." Her shoulders sagged.
"Don't mention it."
Stefan announced, "I'm off for a slash." "What's that mean?" Raul asked. "As you Yanks put it, I have to take a piss." He disappeared into the undergrowth around the camp.
"I thought you were taking a nap," Jerry said to Troy. "Change your mind?"
Troy adopted an English accent. "And miss out on this stimulating fucking conversation with my fellow contestant? No way. Cheerio, old chap."
"That's the worst fake accent I've ever heard," Pauline teased. "You sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins."
Troy winked at her. "Well, maybe when this show is over, I'll get a job as a fucking chimney sweep."
"If you win, I'll let you sweep my chimney."
Becka and Jerry glanced at each other. Becka rolled her eyes.
"Careful what you wish for," Troy joked. "You just might get it."
Stefan returned from the undergrowth and sat back down around the fire pit. Pauline sat next to him. Becka chose a seat on the other side of the fire pit. Troy collapsed next to her, sighing. Raul, Jeff, and Jerry unloaded their firewood and then joined them. Stuart hovered in the background, filming.
"Well," Becka whispered to Troy, "I don't know what's going on, but you certainly seem to be in a better mood."
Troy glanced up at the darkening sky. "What can I say? I love this weather. It suits my fucking mood."
Raul nodded toward the jungle. "I wish Richard and Sal would get back with dinner. I'm starved."
"I'm sure they'll be back soon," Jerry said. "Hopefully, Ryan, Shonette, and Roberta won't be far behind."
Still filming, Stuart noticed that the group had once again forgotten about Matthew. Although he didn't mention it aloud, he hoped Mark and Jesse would return soon. There was no doubt now that Ivan would impact their location. He didn't like the idea of them being out in the jungle when the storm finally hit. With the weather worsening, the interviews with Stefan and Roberta would have to be rescheduled, but that was okay, as long as everyone was safe and accounted for.
