by Brian Keene
"Make us proud," Barnes had told him, squeezing his shoulder. "Do right by the movement and your country. We can strike a major blow here. A real turning point. Don't fuck this up."
Matthew had assured him that he wouldn't, trying to project confidence and strength. Inside, he'd felt anything but self-assured. He'd been terrified,
worried that he'd fail, or worse, chicken out when the time arrived. But those fears had vanished the moment he'd jammed that bamboo spear into Jesse's throat. In that second, his doubts were replaced by a sense of righteous excitement. Matthew had marveled over how it felt—the shaft sliding into the soft, semiresistant flesh, the warmth spilling from the wound, the smell of Jesse's blood and urine and feces as he died. Matthew had enjoyed it. The murder had felt right. Felt. . . good. Following it with Mark's murder had felt even better. Neither man was guiltless. Both were parts of the corporate machine. They willingly participated in the numbing of America in exchange for a paycheck, and thus, they were acceptable targets. They were a beginning to something great. Something huge. Something that would change the world forever.
This was something different from assassinating political leaders or—the organization's greatest effort—blowing up the FBI's database in Quantico, Virginia. This mission struck at the heart of the problem—those who lied to the American public. Those who kept them asleep. Take out the propaganda, wake up the populace, and things would change. That was where people like Timothy McVeigh had fucked up in the past. McVeigh would have been branded a hero had he parked his truck bomb in front of an Internal Revenue Service building. Instead, he'd blown up a day-care center.
You had to pick your targets wisely. Most of America loathed reality television, even though they tuned in to watch it every week. Like the old song said, free their minds, and the rest would follow.
He shivered, more from excitement than the dropping temperature.
Another blast of thunder shook him from his thoughts, and for just a moment, Matthew felt the fear and doubts creep back in. Maybe Barnes and the others were wrong. Maybe not all the contestants and crew needed to die. They couldn't all be collaborators, could they? Maybe some of them just didn't know any better. After all, he'd been like them once upon a time. He'd believed what the nightly news told him, trusted in his government and law enforcement, paid his taxes, and went to sleep at night thinking everything would be all right. He'd grown up to believe everything his parents and teachers and church told him. If his parents hadn't been killed in that car wreck, maybe he'd still be that way—oblivious to the real world. He'd gone out to find himself and found the truth instead. Maybe some of the other contestants hadn't had that opportunity to learn. Becka, for example. He'd watched her constantly, fascinated and attracted to her like no other girl he'd ever met. She had a wholesome quality to her, yet she wasn't a Goody Two-shoes. She seemed innocent but wary. She was the kind of girl he'd always fantasized about. Maybe she could be spared or converted.
No. A point needed to be made, and he was the one to make it. Even if he'd wanted to, there was no going back now. There were two dead bodies behind him, and before he was done, there would be many more.
Matthew stretched one more time, cracked his joints, then bent over and retrieved Mark's camera.
During his time on the island, he had carefully watched the cameramen, studying how they operated the equipment. After killing Mark, he'd experimented with the camera until he was confident he knew how to work it. After all, the entire plan hinged on getting this footage into the hands of the public, so that the Sons of the Constitution's message and reach would be known. Matthew knew that the network freighter had a communications center with Internet access. Once he'd finished here on the island, he was supposed to upload the files to one of the group's servers. Once they'd been edited and polished, they'd be uploaded to the Internet for all to see. Hopefully, that would coincide with the media frenzy that would erupt once news of the massacre was leaked.
Matthew had no illusions. This mission would undoubtedly end with his death. Realistically, there were no other options. There was nowhere on the island or the ship where he could hide without eventually being found. When the end came, it would not be pleasant or without violence. The storm had been a godsend. It gave him better control of the situation, a chance to eliminate more people in relative secrecy. The rest of the crew wouldn't return until the storm was over. When they did, he'd be ready for them. All he had to do was take care of things here, then keep enough hostages to guarantee him safe passage to the ship, and hang on to them long enough to send the videos. Then . . .
Well, in between now and then, he'd have some fun. After all, there was no reason why he had to kill them all immediately. Especially Becka and
Pauline. Once he'd finished with the others, he'd pay some extra attention to them.
With his free hand, Matthew rubbed his erection through his shorts. His eyes shone with anticipation. He picked up the bloodied spear. Bits of hair and tissue clung to the tip. In addition to the weapon, he now had a pocketknife, which he'd found after searching through the dead men's pockets. Wondering why Mark hadn't tried to use it on him, Matthew had tossed aside everything else— money, keys, their wallets and pictures of their loved ones. Curiously, Jesse had carried a guitar pick in his pocket. Matthew had tossed that aside as well.
Hefting the camera over his shoulder, he walked through the jungle, listening to the rain drum against the leaves. His thoughts were on Becka and all the things he wanted to do with her before he killed her. With Pauline, he'd probably be quick. A fast, brutal fuck and then cut her throat, or maybe cut out her breast implants first.
But with Becka, he intended to take his time. He'd save her for last.
Matthew cleared his mind, remembering that he had a job to do before he could enjoy any final reward. He walked on through the jungle, heading for camp, his senses alert and his thoughts focused. At one point, he felt eyes on him, but when he glanced around, there was no one in sight. Ignoring the sensation, he continued. There was a lot to do and not much time to complete it.
Above him, the storm unleashed its fury.
He knew how it felt.
Chapter Eeeven
Reaching its full strength and ferocity, Ivan raged over the island, carving a wide swath of destruction in its path. It swallowed the last vestiges of daylight and the area around the base camp grew pitch black. The last, persistent flames of the campfire flickered under the assault from the rain, and then were extinguished. The smoldering wood hissed and sputtered under the constant barrage of water. The glowing coals faded. Within a few minutes, the temperature had dropped considerably. A fierce gust of wind tossed the campfire's wet ashes into the air and sent them smacking into the contestants like chalky mud. A few drier ashes, that had somehow miraculously escaped the drenching downpour, swirled about like a miniature tornado. The gale also littered debris around the camp: broken tree limbs, leaves, bird feathers and carcasses, sand, a dead turtle, and trash left behind by the absent crew members. The storm uprooted a particularly large tree, its trunk several feet thick, and sent it crashing into the latrine. The structure crumbled beneath the weight. Water coursed through the camp in small, twisting
streams, carrying away some of the lighter flotsam and jetsam. Troy's partially finished rock wall helped divert the floods from the shelter, but the water carved shallow trenches throughout the rest of the camp, eroding the ground.
Stuart and the contestants huddled together inside the shelter, clinging desperately to one another and shivering. Some sat in silence. A few of them prayed. A few more wept. The gale ripped off part of the shelter's roof, and it fluttered away on the wind. The walls were leaning and swaying perilously. Despite the damage, the construction held and the shelter remained standing, although precariously. Stuart considered congratulating the frightened contestants on their engineering abilities, but talking was useless. The howling wind drowned out all other sound. Rain streamed through the holes in th
e roof, exposing the cowering players to a steady soaking. Even though he was wet and miserable, Stuart thought that was better than being exposed to the savage downpour outside.
When the storm first hit, he'd suggested that they all take shelter inside the small weatherproof storage shed, but that plan had been stymied when a tree fell on top of it, smashing the roof and one wall. They'd opted for the camp shelter instead.
He looked around the shelter's interior. Becka was huddled between Jerry and Troy, gripping both their hands tightly. Neither man seemed to mind. Indeed, they barely seemed to notice; their attention was preoccupied with the terrifying storm. Troy's teeth were chattering, and he looked even more miserable and pissed off than usual. Water streamed off
the mechanic's beloved hat. Becka mouthed the Lord's Prayer silently, and although he couldn't hear her, Stuart read her lips. Pauline clung to Jeff, and unlike Jerry and Troy, Jeff definitely seemed to notice. He kept risking glances at Pauline's cleavage and "accidentally" groping quick feels around her bikini line. Then, with each blast of thunder or lightning strike, the startled man would jump, jerking away from her. This was the first time Stuart had seen him displaying anything other than confidence and strength. Stefan sat on the other side of Pauline, kneading his temples with his fingertips. His eyes were closed. Raul crouched in the corner, trying to avoid the rain streaming through the holes in the roof.
Palm fronds from the roof tore loose in the wind and fell on top of Stuart. He uttered a small, surprised cry, and then disengaged himself from them, throwing the wet leaves to the muddy floor. The others glanced at him—all except Stefan, whose eyes were still closed—but they said nothing. They, too, saw the futility in trying to speak.
Stuart fumbled for his satellite phone and brought it out. He was surprised to see that he still had a signal, despite the ferocity of the storm. He considered calling the freighter, but decided against it. They might be able to hear him, but he wouldn't be able to hear their replies. Not only that, but what could he report? That they were wet and cold and this sucked? Nobody was injured. Everyone was safe.
At least he hoped so. He was concerned that Sal and Richard weren't back yet, and extremely worried about Mark and Jesse. The two should have
wrapped up their interview with Matthew and been back hours ago. Sal and Richard and the others might be wandering around out in the storm, but the two crew members had worked on Castaways for a long time, and both Mark and Jesse were smart enough to head back to camp as soon as the weather had shown signs of worsening. They'd been on the China shoot when a monsoon hit and in the Philippines during the tornado. Both knew what could happen in a situation like this, and neither man was foolhardy. But here he was, sitting at base camp, and there was no sign of them. So where were they?
Stuart stared out at the trail and willed them to appear.
Lightning crashed overhead, illuminating the surrounding jungle in a flash of stark, white light. Stuart flinched. He thought he saw movement in the shadows. Then the darkness returned.
He cupped one hand around his mouth. "I think I saw something!"
Jerry, who was closest to him, mouthed, "What?"
Stuart leaned closer, shouting and enunciating each word. "I. . . think .. . I. . . saw . . . something."
Jerry frowned, and Stuart pointed out at the jungle. When the lightning flashed again, they both peered into the foliage, but there was nothing to see. Nothing moved, save for the trees and plants, bending and snapping under the shrieking wind.
"There's nothing out there," Jerry yelled. He had to repeat it twice before Stuart understood him.
Another section of the roof was sheared away. Rain poured into the shelter. Pauline screamed, loud
enough to be heard over the storm. All of them moved toward Raul's corner, cowering together in the mud. The shelter's floor was turning into soup with each passing minute. Troy pulled his sodden hat from his head and wrung the water out of it. Then he put it back on and shrugged miserably. Rain dripped steadily from the tip of his crooked nose.
Stuart got settled, crouching on his haunches next to Jeff and Pauline. He slipped in the mud and almost fell over on them, but steadied himself at the last moment. He stared back out at the jungle, his thoughts returning to his missing coworkers. He felt helpless and frightened, and his panic increased with each blast of thunder. They could be hurt—or worse. Struck by lightning. Trapped under a fallen tree. Getting lost in the dark and the rain and slipping off a cliff. Swept out to sea by a storm-swollen wave. The possibilities were limitless, and his mind seemed to relish conjuring one potential catastrophe after another.
Stuart didn't have many friends. He didn't have time for them. He didn't even own a pet. His work was his social life, and as soon as one season wrapped, it was time to start another. He was always on the go, always rushing to the next location, and his small, cramped cabin aboard the network freighter felt more like home than his apartment in Binghamton or his expansive condominium in Los Angeles.
Mark and Jesse were his friends—or at least the closest thing he had to friends. Associates, certainly. He cared about them and their well-being. Right now, they were out there somewhere, lost in the
storm, along with the six missing contestants— Roberta, Matthew, Sal, Richard, Ryan, and Shonette. The contestants might be lost or hurt, as well, and that was unfortunate. But Mark and Jesse were his friends. If something had happened to them, he'd never forgive himself for picking them to remain on the island with him while everyone else went back to the ship.
This was bad. Each potential Castaways contestant signed a mountain of legal waivers and forms, and they all knew the risks of competing in the show. But while the network couldn't legally be held responsible for their deaths, it would be a public-relations nightmare if all six were indeed injured. Something needed to be done. Someone had to look for them, and more importantly, for Mark and Jesse.
He glanced around the shelter. If any of the other contestants were worried about their fellow players, Stuart couldn't tell. They all looked scared, but he guessed they were worrying more about themselves than anyone else. This game brought out the worst in people, and after countless seasons of documenting the worst in human behavior, he'd grown quite cynical.
No. If someone was going to do something, it would have to be him.
He considered the satellite phone again, then shoved it back down inside his pocket. He stood, crouching in the shelter and waded through the mud to the entrance. The others raised their heads in surprise, watching him. Jerry and Becka started to rise but Stuart motioned at them to sit back down.
"I'll. . . be . . . back," he shouted as loudly as
possible, overenunciating the words so that they could read his lips. "Stay . . . here!"
Jerry started to protest, but Stuart cut him off with a wave of his hand. Then, bending his head against the wind, he struggled out into the storm. The wind slammed into him immediately, knocking him back a few paces. Gritting his teeth, Stuart spread his feet apart and pushed forward again. It felt like walking in quicksand. Windblown grit and debris lashed at his face, and he squinted his eyes to protect them. His nose and lips felt hot and dry, despite the downpour. Stuart looked back only once. The others were huddled together, watching him go. None of them stepped forward to go with him. Turning, he pressed slowly onward, making his way toward the trail.
Visibility was null and the terrain grew more treacherous. Much of the ground was flooded or slippery, and each step was a chore. Determined, Stuart blinked the rain from his eyes and struggled to see. When the lightning flashed again, he spied the trail. Some of it had already been eroded from the rushing waters. He memorized its location and headed for it.
Being out in the storm did nothing to ease his fears. If anything, the situation merely accentuated them. Stuart told himself that Mark and Jesse would have done the same thing for him. A nagging voice in the back of his subconscious told him that he was fooling himself, that they'd have left him
to his own fate. Silencing those doubts, he thought instead of the six missing contestants. Surely, the network would approve of this search expedition. Indeed, he might be rewarded for going above and beyond the call of duty.
If he lived.
"This sucks. Fuck you, Ivan."
He slogged to the edge of the camp, found his bearings again, and shuffled into the night, hoping against hope that he wouldn't have to go too far and that he wasn't too late.
When lightning lit up the jungle again, and he saw movement in the shadows, Stuart jumped. After his initial fright passed, his spirits soared and he hoped it might be one of the missing. A second flash revealed nothing but trees and vines. He told himself that it had just been his imagination. His frayed nerves were getting the best of him. He stepped over a fallen tree blocking the path, and then cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted for Mark and Jesse. Then Stuart realized just how foolish such an attempt was. Jerry hadn't been able to hear him sitting just a few inches away. How would the two missing crew members ever hear him?
He passed the storage shed and peeked inside the wreckage, wondering if maybe someone had taken shelter inside and been injured when the tree fell on it. The collapsed structure was empty. He moved on, picking his footing carefully, and watching for any sign of the missing.
Although he didn't notice, the shadows disengaged themselves from the trees and followed along behind him, creeping steadily closer.
Chapter Twelve
Roberta bit her lip as another thorn-covered vine ripped into her cheek, lacerating the skin and drawing a thin line of blood. She winced, but made no sound. She could no longer tell if the monsters— whatever they might be—were pursuing her, but she didn't want to cry out and alert them to her presence. She touched her cheek and her fingertips came away sticky. When she touched the cut again, the rain had already washed the blood away. Another jagged thorn pierced her bare ankle as she struggled on. "Ouch!"
She paused, leaning against a broad tree trunk, and struggled to breathe. Her lungs felt like two big fists were squeezing them. Her pulse throbbed in her temples, keeping time with the thunder. She listened for sounds of pursuit, but the storm drowned out all other noise. She thought she heard one of the creatures' strange, warbling howls, but after a moment, she decided it was just the wind. Wheezing, Roberta pulled the thorn from her ankle. Then she ran on.
