Castaways

by Brian Keene

  Becka thought again of Jerry. She listened to the sounds of rape and feasting and tried to decide which was worse. She prayed that they would kill her. When that didn't happen, she asked God to do it first. She begged to have a heart attack, an aneurism, to slip into a sudden coma—anything that would help her escape. When those prayers also went unanswered, she cried harder. God wasn't coming to save her. Neither was Jerry. Unlike the game, there was no circle of protection she could take shelter in.

  Around the corner, the noises stopped. She heard talons clicking against the stone. A shadow loomed at the entrance to their alcove. Then another. And another.

  Somehow the three monsters' laughter was the worst sound of all.

  Becka's sobs turned into screams as the creatures approached.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jerry and Troy pushed on through the forest, shoving the greenery aside and carefully following the trail left behind by the cryptids. Once they knew what to look for, it was easy to spot the signs of passage, even in the dark. Dozens of footprints were splattered through the mud, and the creatures had snapped branches and trodden on lilies and ferns during their retreat. Occasionally, they found a splash of blood, stark against a leaf, or a tuft of brown fur clinging to a vine. The two men walked single file and proceeded in silence, communicating only in gestures and grunts. Jerry shined the flashlight on the ground in front of them, occasionally probing the soil with the tip of his spear. Troy gripped his own spear and his makeshift stone knife. Both were scared and tired, but both were also experiencing a second wind, brought on by adrenaline and concern for Becka and the others. When a low-hanging branch snatched Troy's hat from his head, he didn't even bother to curse as he retrieved it.

  The storm slowly abated, and now a thin layer of mist rose from the ground as the temperature

  started to warm again. Jerry hoped that the fog didn't grow too thick, lest they miss the trail and go in the wrong direction. Thunder rumbled occasionally, but it was distant now and fading.

  Troy signaled a pause and both men leaned against a broad, gnarled tree trunk that had withstood the pummeling storm, and caught their breath.

  Jerry freed a pebble from his shoe. "At least the bugs aren't back yet."

  "Fucking little bloodsuckers." Troy panted. "I wonder what time it is? I'm fucking beat."

  "I don't know. But it feels late. Hopefully, the sun will come up soon."

  "Think that'll help our situation?"

  "Not necessarily. But it will warm things up again, at least. And by then, help should arrive."

  "By then, it might be too fucking late."

  "You're not helping things, Troy. Talk like that— it's useless. We've got to stay positive, for Becka, at least."

  "Positive? Dude, I'm the most positive son of a bitch on this island. I'm positive that everything sucks all the time. That's my motto. Hell, I've got it tattooed on my ass—everything sucks all the time. And let me tell you, man, I'm positive that this fucking sucks worst of all, and I'm positive we're gonna die."

  "Thank you. That's very helpful. You have any more positive vibes to add to the situation?"

  Troy shrugged. "It is what it fucking is."

  "You were all for this a while ago!"

  "What the fuck do I know? I'm just a guy who bends wrenches for a fucking living. But I've been

  thinking about it as we go along, and this ain't nothing but a suicide mission, man. We're better off getting the fuck out of here."

  "I'm not leaving without Becka."

  "And if she's dead? What then?"

  Jerry didn't respond.

  Troy sighed. "Look, dude, no offense, but maybe we should consider our other options while we still can. Even if she is alive, you ain't gonna do much against these things with a fucking bamboo spear."

  "You did okay with your club."

  "That was against one. Not an army."

  "Well, like the slogan says, I'm an army of one."

  Troy shook his head. "You're a goddamn fool is what you are."

  Jerry started forward again. "You can run if you want, but I'm going on. You coming?"

  Troy gaped, then glanced at the ground.

  "Yeah," he muttered, "I guess so. I ain't fucking running around this goddamned island by myself."

  "Then shut up and come on."

  "I'll tell you one thing. I could—"

  "Use a smoke," Jerry finished for him.

  "What? You a fucking mind reader now?"

  Despite his annoyance with the man, Jerry grinned. "Something like that."

  "No shit? Well, if you've got any more super powers, now would be a good fucking time to use them."

  They crept on in silence. All around them, the island started to come to tentative life again. A few angry birds squawked from the treetops. Troy almost stepped on a small lizard. It scampered off, hiding beneath a stone. A snake uncoiled from a nearby limb,

  and Jerry recoiled from it. Overhead, the leaves rustled. Although the storm had ceased, a strong breeze still cut through the foliage, swirling the mist around their feet.

  They'd traveled for about fifteen minutes when Jerry stopped and held up one hand. Troy halted behind him, shuffling from foot to foot to stay warm.

  "What's up?" he asked. "Why are we stopping?"

  Jerry clicked off the flashlight. "I smell smoke."

  "Smoke?" Troy sniffed the air and scowled. "Oh, that's just fucking great! Now the goddamned island is on fire. Fucking lightning must have hit a tree or something. That's it, man. Game over. We've got to—"

  "Would you lower your voice?"

  "Sorry," Troy whispered. "Where do you think it's coming from?"

  "I don't know. I can't tell with all this fog and the wind. Somewhere close by, I would imagine."

  "I don't hear it. Maybe it's small."

  Jerry nodded in agreement.

  "You think those crypt-things—whatever the fuck you called them—can start a fire?"

  "Maybe," Jerry said. "I guess it's possible. They must have evolved at least that far."

  "Well, maybe they're sitting around toasting marshmallows and signing Kum-ba-fucking-ya."

  Jerry rolled his eyes.

  "Hey," Troy said. "It fucking beats the alternative. If it's a wildfire, we're fucking toast, Jerry."

  "Quiet," Jerry hushed him. Abruptly, he ducked down and peered into the dark. "Listen."

  "I don't—"

  "Shut up."

  Somewhere in the shadows ahead of them came the sounds of rustling leaves and snapping branches, as if something was crashing through the undergrowth.

  "Oh shit!" Troy tensed, gripping his weapons tighter.

  "It's moving away from us," Jerry whispered. "Come on."

  "Fuck that. I'm staying right here." "Then fuck you, Troy." "Fuck me?" "Yeah. Fuck you."

  Jerry crept forward, keeping his spear pointed ahead of him. Troy hurried along behind him. "Wait!"

  "I thought you weren't coming?"

  "You've got the fucking flashlight, man. I ain't staying out here in the dark, and I can't find my way back to the path without it."

  As they drew nearer to the sound, they noticed a wide swath of crushed vegetation. Something had been dragged through it, smashing the ferns and flowers to the ground, and disturbing the dirt and beds of moss. Jerry sniffed the air again. He still smelled smoke, but now, it was overpowered by another odor—the same foul stench they'd smelled back at the camp.

  Troy recognized the sour reek, as well. "It's one of them, isn't it?"

  Nodding, Jerry parted a thicket of vines and peered through to the other side. Troy pressed up beside him. In a moonlit clearing not twenty feet

  away from them was one of the hominids. This one appeared severely malnourished and weak. Huge swaths of fur were missing, and bones jutted sharply beneath its mangy hide. It moved slowly, dragging a heavy burden behind it with one arm. After a moment, they recognized it. It was Roberta.

  The creature hauled her across the g
round by her hair. It was eating something from its free hand, but they couldn't tell what—a dark morsel, about the size of an apple. As they watched, Roberta's body caught on a rock, and a clump of her hair came out by the roots. Her head slumped to the ground. Yowling in frustration, the beast tossed its meal aside and kicked her limp form. Then it seized one of her arms and continued pulling her through the clearing. Roberta didn't resist.

  "She's dead," Troy breathed. "She has to be."

  "Or unconscious."

  "No way. Did you see her fucking hair come out? That shit would wake a person up no matter how fucking out of it they were."

  They remained still, watching as the thing dragged her to the end of the clearing and disappeared into the thick vegetation. The low-hanging branches closed like curtains, concealing the creature from view.

  Jerry pointed, indicating they should follow. Troy shook his head. Jerry pointed again, insistent. Slowly, they crept forward, careful to stay downwind, trusting that the strong breeze would mask their scent and sound. A thin branch snapped backward, slapping Troy in the face and leaving a bright red

  welt across his left cheek, just below his eye. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. Jerry mouthed an apology.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger as they crossed the clearing, and the mist thickened, turning into swirling clouds of fog. It swelled up around them, filling the open space and limiting their visibility. Worse, the clouds drifted across the moon, obscuring its meager light. Jerry considered turning on the flashlight but decided against it. They could still hear Roberta's body being dragged along, and the small grunts of exertion from her captor. They followed the sounds as the fog grew even denser. They both shivered—partly from nerves and partly because of the damp air.

  Jerry glanced at the spot where the creature had tossed its meal, and blanched. At first he didn't recognize the object. A second later, Troy whispered confirmation.

  "Fuck me running. That's a heart, bro. A human fucking heart."

  Gagging, Jerry took shallow breaths until his nausea had passed. Then he motioned them onward. They reached the edge of the clearing, and abruptly the noises ceased. Troy tapped Jerry on the shoulder, and Jerry glanced at him.

  What now? Troy mouthed.

  Jerry didn't respond. Instead, using his spear, he pushed the tree limbs and bushes aside and peered through the greenery. Then he nodded ahead of them. Troy followed his gaze. His bushy eyebrows arched in surprise.

  The open mouth of a cave stared back at them. It

  was located at the bottom of a rocky hill. There was no sign of the creature or of Roberta. The area reeked of the creatures, and the smell of smoke grew overpowering, stinging their eyes. They crept forward a few steps and studied the ground. The soil around the cave entrance was obviously disturbed. Roberta had been dragged across it. Jerry spied a scrap of her clothing caught on a sharp rock.

  "It's a fucking cave," Troy whispered.

  "I can see that," Jerry snapped, his patience at an end. "Look up the hill."

  Troy did, then shrugged. "I can't see shit. It's all covered in fog."

  "That's not fog. It's smoke."

  Troy's eyes grew wider. "You mean it's a fucking volcano?"

  "No, you idiot. It's fucking wood smoke. Can't you smell it?"

  "Dude, don't call me a fucking idiot. I'd expect that shit from Stefan, but not you."

  Jerry took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, man. Seriously. I'm just scared."

  "It's cool. I am, too." Troy glanced upward again. "Where's the smoke coming from? Not the caves."

  "I don't know. But it looks like that thing took Roberta inside the cave, so there's a good chance that's where they took Becka and the others. We've got to go in there."

  "I knew you were gonna fucking say that."

  "Come on," Jerry urged quietly, moving forward.

  Shoulders slumping, Troy followed.

  They split up and approached the cave from both sides, alert for any signs their presence had

  been detected. Gravel and twigs crunched under their feet, but otherwise, the silence continued uninterrupted, as if the island itself was echoing their stealth—or perhaps waiting for something. When a bird suddenly cried out in the darkness, Troy nearly screamed.

  They crouched over and peered into the dark opening.

  "It looks pretty small," Troy whispered, dropping to his knees. "You sure that fucking monkey-thing could fit inside there?"

  Jerry knelt beside him and poked his head inside the crevasse. Then he withdrew again.

  "It could have fit through there easily," he said. "The tunnel is narrow for the first six feet, but then it opens up wide enough for us to stand. And it looks like it's been well used. The floor is smooth, and there isn't any debris."

  "Okay. But we still don't know for sure that's where the motherfuckers went. What about all that smoke? Maybe they've got a camp on top of the hill."

  "Trust me. They went into the cave." "How do you know?"

  "Because there's blood on the cave walls, near the floor, and more scraps of Roberta's clothing."

  "Oh." Troy sighed. "Well, fuck me running, then. I guess we have to follow."

  "Yeah, we do."

  They stared at each other, unmoving.

  "After you," Troy said, gesturing with his spear. "Like I said before, you've got the fucking flashlight, man."

  Swallowing hard, Jerry turned toward the opening. He shivered and blinked the sweat from his eyes. The ground seemed to spin, and for a second, Jerry was afraid he was going to pass out. Then he thought of Becka, and the dizziness cleared.

  "Okay," he whispered. "Let's do this."

  The blackness inside the cave's entrance seemed like a solid thing, waiting to absorb them both. After a moment's hesitation, they stepped forward and it did just that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Stefan hurried down the moonlit path, nearly slipping repeatedly in the mud and darting around fallen trees and other storm-tossed debris, but stopping for nothing. A thick fog surrounded him. He slowed occasionally to listen for sounds of pursuit, but even then he did not completely stop. Each time, he heard nothing. As far as he knew, he was alone on this part of the island. He assumed that the creatures had moved farther inland, returning to whatever lair they'd originally crawled from. If Jerry, Troy, or any of the others were alive and had thought to fall back to the circle of protection and landing zone as he had, they could be following him or ahead of him. But somehow Stefan doubted it. Other than the wind in the trees and the stirring wildlife, alert again now that the storm had passed, nothing moved.

  Yet something had indeed passed this way since the storm ended. The path to the beach showed signs of recent disturbance, as if a heavy weight had been dragged along it. This wasn't storm damage from Ivan. This was something else—something

  post-storm. As he ran, he spotted the occasional claw-toed footprint. The tracks always headed in the opposite direction, away from the beach, back toward the base camp and the island's unexplored center.

  Stefan rounded a curve in the path and finally halted. Ahead of him, a massive fallen tree blocked the trail. The wet bark felt rough against his hands. He clambered over the tree and cocked his head again, listening. To his surprise, this time, he heard a voice.

  "Hello? Stuart, do you copy? This is Brett. Is anyone there? Mark? Jesse?"

  The voice was muffled and tinny, as if coming from far away. Had the wind been blowing any harder, he might not have heard it at all. Stefan tensed, glancing about, trying to see through the fog.

  "Hello? Is someone there?"

  There was a brief pause, then a response.

  "Stuart? If you can't talk, just press the buttons. Let me know you're receiving this."

  Stefan followed the voice. Incredibly, it seemed to be coming from the ground. Specifically, from under the ground.

  "Well," he whispered, "this is certainly odd."

  "Is there anyone there? I say again, this is Brett Heffron calling
. We're getting ready to send the chopper, and we need to know your status ASAP. Please respond. Stuart, do you copy?"

  Stefan knelt in the middle of the path. Cold water soaked his knees and shins, but he barely noticed. His eyes widened in surprise. There was a faint red and green glow coming from beneath the mud,

  barely noticeable through the mist. He scooped handfuls of the muck aside and almost cheered out loud when he uncovered the satellite phone. He wiped it off on his shirt and hurriedly brought it to his ear.

  "Hello! Yes, I'm here. Can you hear me?"

  "Well, it's about time," the person on the other end said. "Who's this?"

  "This is Stefan. Who is this?"

  "Stefan? This is Brett Heffron. I'm a communications specialist assigned to the network's freighter. Is Mr. Schiff available?"

  "No, he's gone. They're all gone. I found his phone lying here in the mud. Had I not had the good fortune to be walking by while you were talking, I might not have noticed it at all."

  "What do you mean 'gone'?"

  "I'm afraid there's been an incident."

  "What's happened. Is everyone okay?"

  "Sadly, I'm afraid not. There's been . . . well, we've had some trouble."

  "Shit. That's what we were afraid of. Does anyone require medical assistance?"

  Stefan paused. "Well, that's hard to say. I don't, personally, but I don't know about the others. My best guess is yes. There have been a few fatalities."

  There was silence from the other end, and for a moment, Stefan feared the signal had been interrupted. But then Heffron spoke again.

  "Stefan, hang on a minute, okay?"

  "Oh, yes. Quite."

  "I'll be right back. Just stand by."

  He waited as told. The wind picked up, rustling

  the trees. Clouds obscured the moon again, and the darkness seemed to press closer. The fog wound around the trees. Something cried out in the shadows, shrill and frenzied.

  "Just a bird," he muttered. "Just a bird, expressing its contempt for this situation."

  When the moon appeared again, Stefan breathed a sigh of relief. Then his attention was drawn to something on the path, glinting in the moonlight. He walked toward it. The mist parted, and he saw a big depression in the mud, as if something heavy had been lying there during the storm. He looked back the way he'd come, remembering the signs of some heavy burden being dragged along the path. Then he glanced back down at the depression. Next to it was a muddy pocketknife with the blade extended.