Castaways

by Brian Keene

  "You good?" Troy called. "All settled in and shit?"

  "I'm all set. And we've wasted enough time. Whatever you're going to do, do it already." "Okay."

  Troy was silent for a moment, and Jerry wondered if he'd left. Maybe he'd been waiting to abandon Jerry and had just needed the opportunity. After all, Troy had no loyalties to Jerry or Becka or anyone else. They weren't lifelong friends. They were contestants on a television show. They barely knew each other. Jerry shook his head. What did he really know about Troy? That his brother had been involved in a bank robbery. That he cursed more than any human being Jerry had ever met. That was all. How could he really trust him? Jerry was about to turn the flashlight on and make sure he was there, when suddenly, Troy shouted at the top of his lungs.

  "Hey, you hairy mother fucking cocksuckers! Come out and play."

  Jerry nearly toppled out of the nook. Gasping, he clutched at the rocks and screamed at Troy.

  "What the hell are you doing? You'll have every one of them on us in a second!"

  "I know. That's my fucking plan."

  Even though he couldn't see him, Jerry could tell by his tone that Troy was grinning.

  "That's your plan? That's your fucking plan? Are you insane?"

  "Didn't you ever see The Warriors} 'Warriors, come out and playyyyyy'?"

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  Ignoring him, Troy yelled again. His cries echoed down the tunnel, reverberating off the walls.

  "Come on, you retarded fucking monkeys. What are you—pussies? Come and get some of this, you mongoloid douche bags! Let me show you how we do it in Seattle."

  He tapped his spear on the floor and banged his stone knife against the wall, creating more noise.

  "Oh, goddamn it." Jerry scrambled down from his perch, using his spear for balance and dislodging debris as he did so. Pebbles and stones clattered down the pile.

  "Stay the fuck there," Troy warned him. "Just stay put, goddamn it. I'm gonna lead the fuckers outside and away from here. When I do, you sneak in and find the girls and get them out of here. I'll get these things to chase me toward the other end of the island, and then I'll circle around. We'll meet up at the circle of protection. That's where the chopper always lands. Hopefully, it'll fucking be there by the time we arrive."

  "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! Are you crazy? What makes you think all of those things are going to come rushing out after you?"

  "Because I'm gonna be a pain in their ass long enough that they'll fucking have to send everybody after me."

  "Troy, this isn't going to work."

  "You asked if I had a fucking plan. I said I did. I didn't say it was a good fucking plan. And I didn't exactly hear you making fucking decisions, Jerry. You want to save Becka? You said it yourself—we couldn't fight our way through all of them. I'm evening the fucking odds."

  "Oh, you idiot. You goddamn unbelievable idiot."

  Troy's tone turned dejected. "I'm tired, too, man. And it's too late now, in any fucking case. So, please, Jerry. Get the fuck back up there and hide!"

  "Troy—"

  "Goddamn it, I said please, motherfucker. Don't make me say it again."

  Part of Jerry wanted to curl into a ball and cry. The other half wanted to slide down the rock pile and punch Troy in the face. He ignored both urges and scrambled back to the top, clinging to the rocks as a sick, emotional mix of fear and revulsion swept over him.

  The roar that blasted up from below was deafening. It sounded like someone had bottled up all the thunder from the storm and set it off underground. Trembling, Jerry ducked his head and tried to block the noise by pushing his shoulders up over his ears. It didn't work. The roars continued, followed by the sound of pounding. He tried to figure out what it was, and after a second, it came to him.

  Running footsteps.

  Lots of them. It sounded like an army.

  "Damn," Troy muttered. "Sounds like I fucking pissed them off good."

  Jerry shook his head and closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ. . . oh, Jesus fucking Christ, this is not

  happening. This is not happening at all. I'm sorry, Becka..."

  "Come on, you stinky bastards," Troy called. "I can smell you coming. You all need a fucking shower."

  "Stop it, Troy," Jerry pleaded. "Please stop. We can still get away."

  "Come and get it! Step right up and don't be shy. I got something for you. The golden goddamn goose is on the motherfucking loose and never out of season. It's two minutes to midnight, bitches, so die with your boots on. Bring your daughters to the fucking slaughter, motherfuckers! Up the irons!"

  He's snapped, Jerry thought. / mean, for God's sake—he's shouting Iron Maiden slogans at them now. What the hell is that about? His mind is gone. I shouldn't have pushed him so hard to come with me. It was obvious that he was terrified. Now he's over the edge and we're all screwed.

  The clamor of onrushing feet grew louder.

  "Jerry?"

  "What?"

  "Make sure you stay there until there's no more of those things in the tunnel, man. Hopefully, there won't be many left behind at wherever they're holding Becka."

  "Shut up, Troy. Just shut the hell up. Oh, Jesus . . ."

  "And, Jerry? Good luck, man. You're an okay dude, as far as I'm concerned. You're both good people. Best I've met in a long fucking while. Just make sure you fucking save her."

  Jerry's response was drowned out by a deafening, angry roar.

  "Here we go," Troy shouted. "Fuck me running."

  Jerry could only listen in horror, cowering against the wall and praying that he wouldn't be discovered, while what sounded like a veritable mob of cryptids bore down on his friend. Talons clicked on stone. Growls split the darkness. Teeth gnashed audibly.

  Then a series of unexpected sounds echoed down the corridor. Troy grunted in exertion. Jerry heard a wet thud, and then something howled in pain. Then, instead of the cryptids, it was Troy who was growling.

  "One down," Troy taunted. "Who's next, motherfuckers?"

  One of the creatures yelped, and then shrieked. The cry ended abruptly. Several more of the cryptids roared again. The sound was loud enough to shake the debris Jerry was crouched among. Beneath the cacophony, he heard Troy laughing.

  Then silence.

  From the darkness, Troy muttered, "Oh shit."

  Jerry heard the unmistakable sounds of Troy running away. His echoing footsteps raced back up the tunnel, heading toward the surface. The creatures rushed after him, screaming with rage. Jerry glimpsed their shadowed forms, black shapes that were darker than the darkness around them. Worse than that, he smelled them. Their stench filled the tunnel, making his eyes water and burning his nose. He held his breath as they dashed past his hiding place. Luckily for him, none of them paused long

  enough to investigate. They were too enraged, too focused on their fleeing quarry to notice him. Jerry feared that they might catch his scent as they filed past, but if they did, they must have assumed it was Troy's. Perhaps they had trouble distinguishing the two. Maybe all humans smelled alike to them, or maybe their noses were no better than a person's nose. After all, they weren't evolutionary offshoots of dogs or cats.

  Jerry wondered how far Troy could get before they inevitably caught him. He was vastly outnumbered, and his pursuers had the advantage of knowing the terrain. Plus, Jerry still had the flashlight, so Troy was running in the dark. Running blind. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the creatures had much better night vision than their human prey. There was nothing he could do. He wanted to help Troy, but if he revealed himself now, he'd be killed. If that happened, Troy's brave—if foolhardy—sacrifice would be in vain, and Becka would surely die.

  If she wasn't dead already.

  The sweat on Jerry's back suddenly felt like ice water. Until now, he hadn't even considered the possibility that Becka and Pauline might be dead. Now that the thought had occurred to him, he couldn't put it from his mind. Crippled with indecision
and fear, he remained where he was and listened to the echoes fade.

  When the cavern was silent again, Jerry took a deep breath and carefully maneuvered his way back to the bottom of the rock pile. He crept back out into the main tunnel and paused, listening. If any of

  the creatures had remained behind and were lurking in the darkness, he couldn't hear them. He tiptoed forward and his foot collided with something soft but solid. Startled, he almost tripped. He struggled to keep his balance and bit down on his tongue. His spear slipped from his hand and clattered onto the stone floor. Wincing, Jerry knelt and patted the ground, searching for it. His fingers brushed up against fur, and he yanked his hand away, nearly crying out. The cave remained silent. Cautiously, he stretched his hands out and explored again. The fur was sticky and wet, and the body was still warm. His hands roamed over its face, and his finger slipped into a gaping hole. At first, he assumed it was a mouth or nostril, but with dawning horror, Jerry realized it was an empty eye-socket. Troy had put the creature's eye out—either with his spear or the jagged stone.

  Jerry recoiled in disgust. His hands came away slick.

  He fumbled with the flashlight and clicked it on, shining it over the floor. Jerry gasped. Somehow, Troy had managed to kill two of the creatures before he fled. Obviously, their murder had further enraged the rest of the tribe. No wonder they'd gone after him in such numbers. The second cryptid had been impaled through the throat. He noticed that this one had a genetic mutation—a webbed left hand. Pink flaps of membranous skin connected its fingers. Small red veins ran through the webs.

  Jerry's dropped spear lay next to the corpse. After retrieving it, he turned the flashlight off again and immediately regretted it. The darkness seemed

  to loom before his tired eyes, pressing in on him more than ever.

  He proceeded, listening cautiously, ready to flee or fight at a moment's notice if he heard more of the tribe coming toward him. Despite his fears, there didn't seem to be. The tunnel was deserted—if not soundless. He still heard some of the creatures, but now the noise was muted. Gone were the shrieking howls and ferocious roars. They'd been replaced with meek, frightened mewling and hushed cries.

  Jerry paused, readjusting his grip on the spear. A blister popped on his palm and he grimaced as he felt warmth gush between his fingers.

  Damn it, Troy, he thought. What the hell were you thinking?

  Still, he had to admit, as bizarre as the mechanic's plan had been—it had apparently worked. Jerry didn't know how to explain it, but the cavern felt emptier. His frayed nerves calmed somewhat, and he began to hope again. Despite the confusing, echo effect the stones had on sound, the noises seemed to be stationary. Even so, Jerry moved carefully. He took his time and was mindful of not stumbling or making any sound. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger and the noises grew progressively louder.

  He rounded a slight curve and saw a yellow-orange glow ahead of him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The light flickered and danced.

  Fire. That explains the smoke. It must be going out another exit, though. Otherwise, there would be more of it in this passageway.

  As he drew closer, Jerry hunched over and stuck closer to the wall. The tunnel ended abruptly,

  opening into a huge cavern with a high ceiling. He inched forward until he could see inside it. A large fire blazed in the center of the cave. The smoke from the fire drifted slowly toward a natural rock chimney located in the center of the roof. He spotted more cave art on the walls. The crude illustrations depicted several different scenes and figures. Some of them were simple caricatures of birds, lizards, and fish. Others were more complex. There was a group of spear-carrying tribe members hunting something that looked like a pig (a normal pig, rather than the swine-headed figures he'd seen in the previous artwork). Another picture portrayed the cryptids standing on the beach and greeting a group of humans in a boat. A third seemed indecipherable at first. It was just a series of dots and orbs. After a moment, Jerry realized that it was the night sky, as seen from the island. The final painting showed a towering figure that looked like a cross between a gorilla and a cat. It loomed menacingly over three prostate cryptids. Jerry was left with the impression that the figures were praying to it.

  Clearly, the tribe was regressing. Their own artwork showed them using tools and weapons, and possibly represented a deity of some kind, and a form of worship, but the creatures they'd encountered so far didn't seem capable of such things.

  Jerry's attention returned to the task at hand. The remaining tribe members were in various places throughout the warren. Most of them wore expressions of obvious distress and worry. As far as he could tell, most of the tribe's males had run off after Troy, leaving behind the females and the

  children. A few toothless old males remained, but not many. Most of the young had mutations and deformities. One of them, barely a toddler, was gnawing on something. Alarmed, he realized it was a human leg bone. The flesh had been stripped from it, and the salivating child was sucking out the marrow. Roberta's corpse lay next to it. Jerry turned his head away and took deep breaths.

  When he looked back again, he saw another young one crawling across the floor. Instead of legs, the poor creature had two short stubs. It bawled hungrily and was picked up and comforted by a young female with three breasts—two of them full and ponderous, while the third was stunted and shriveled. The child nuzzled at all three. Jerry's initial disgust was forgotten, and he almost felt sorry for their plight. Then he saw a bloodied scalp with blond-brown hair lying near the fire and recognized it as Ryan's; his pity vanished.

  How many years have they been inbreeding? he thought. That's why they took the girls alive. They need to increase the gene pool.

  He wondered if such interspecies crossbreeding would actually work. Then he thought of Becka again and his fears returned, stronger than before. He had to find her before it was too late.

  Jerry scanned the rest of the cave. About twelve feet up the far side of the cavern was a rock ledge, running along the wall's length like a catwalk. It was dotted with several smaller caverns and grottoes. There was no sign of Becka or Pauline, and he saw no other tunnels exiting the main hall. If they were indeed still alive and being held captive, his

  best bet was to look for them on the ledge above. But how could he get up there? At the rear of the cavern, he noticed a large pile of boulders and debris about eight feet high. Positioned on top of this mound was a crude ladder, fashioned from bamboo and lashed together with vines. He saw no other way of attaining the ledge. Apparently, this was the only means of getting to the upper level.

  Sure. All I have to do is stroll through the fucking enclave there and avoid getting ripped to tiny little bite-sized pieces by a bunch of angry mothers trying to protect their young, then scale that ladder without breaking my fucking neck, then find Becka—if she's even up there.

  No, she's up there. She has to be. Because if she isn't. . .

  If she wasn't, then Jerry wondered if he could even go on. To have survived the storm and the subsequent massacre of his fellow contestants, to see Becka taken from him and to feel the helpless, futile desperation that followed her capture, to have ventured this far into the tribe's warren, and to witness Troy's maniacal sacrifice—if Becka wasn't there, or worse, if she was there but dead—then there was really no point anymore. He'd be better off just walking into the cave, laying down his spear, and letting the remaining tribe members do to him what they'd done to the others.

  Then he thought of her smile and the trusting expression on her face—and the kiss.

  Troy's voice ran through his mind. Just make sure you fucking save her.

  Okay, Troy, he thought. If you were here, you'd

  probably say something profound like, "Fuck it." So, fuck it. Fuck them all.

  He peered into the cavern. The closest of the creatures were about ten feet away—a young mother, almost a child herself, judging by her height and weight, and two small children who were pr
esumably hers. One of them was an infant, surprisingly free of physical deformities, as far as he could see. The other was maybe two or three years old, and blind. Its eyes were milky white, with no cornea or pupils. Yellow pus leaked from the corners of both useless orbs, drying and matting in the fur on its face. It stared sightlessly, and its bulbous, misshapen head lolled back and forth, barely supported by its thin neck.

  Fuck it, he repeated to himself.

  Jerry stood and shoved the flashlight into his pocket. Then, gripping his spear in both hands, he belted out a scream and charged into the cave. The startled creatures leapt to their feet and scattered, frightened by the outburst. Their hooting shrieks filled the air. Mothers clung to their infants and swept the older children behind them. They bared their teeth, snarling at him. Taking advantage of the chaos and uncertainty that his entrance had caused, Jerry grabbed the blind child and yanked it away from its clinging, three-breasted mother. The creature held on to her spawn, tugging on its arm. Jerry pulled harder. The young cryptid bawled and screamed, terrified at being used as a tug-of-war piece. Its sightless eyes jiggled frantically. Jerry thrust his spear at the older creature and she shrank away, releasing the child. He spun the toddler around, putting its back to

  him. Then, with one arm coiled tightly around its scrawny neck, he held the tip of his spear to his throat and faced the tribe.

  They circled him slowly, clearly enraged by this violent intrusion. While not as physically large as their male counterparts, the females possessed many of the same dangerous attributes, including the long, curved talons and razor-sharp teeth. They displayed both to him, promising of what was to come. As one, they drew closer.

  "Back off," he shouted. "Back up right now, or the kid gets it."

  To accentuate his threat, Jerry pressed the spear into the youngster's throat. The child quivered. Hot urine trickled down its leg, pooling around Jerry's foot. The ammonia-like stench was almost overpowering. Jerry coughed and his eyes watered. Mistaking it for a sign of weakness or doubt, the females inched closer. His hostage's mother bellowed her fury.