Castaways

by Brian Keene

  "Shit."

  The hat landed a few feet away from the cryptid, who finally broke eye contact with Troy and stared at it curiously.

  "Hey," Troy warned. "You just stay the fuck away from that. It doesn't fucking concern you."

  The creature glanced at him, then back down at the hat again. Its expression was one of curiosity. Snuffling, it bent over and reached for it with one clawed hand.

  "I'm fucking warning you, cocksucker. Get the fuck away from my hat."

  Its rheumy eyes flicked up at him again, then back to the cap. The cryptid snatched the hat and smelled it. Its nose crinkled. Troy quaked with anger as he saw it leave a glistening trail of snot on the brim. Then followed the ultimate insult—the creature stretched out its black tongue and licked the garment. It hooted softly to itself and then glanced at Troy.

  "That's it, goddamn you. You are fucking dead. Nobody—and I mean nobody—fucks with my hat, especially a fucking monkey-man like you."

  Troy ducked down and picked up a football-sized chunk of volcanic rock. Then he stood again and faced the creature. With a rough, throaty chuckle, it stepped toward him again, still clutching the hat in one paw. Hefting the rock over his shoulder, Troy charged. The beast roared in challenge. Troy swung the rock, aiming for its face. He missed as his opponent sprang backward. It swiped at him with its free hand, but Troy managed to dodge the eviscerating blow. They squared off, facing each other again.

  "You know how much pussy that hat's gotten me over the years? Now you want to do the same thing, huh? It ain't gonna work for you, though, shithead. You ain't had pussy since pussy had you."

  The cryptid growled.

  Troy gave it the finger. "Christ, you fucking stink. And you've got more back hair than a fur fucking coat. You got hair everywhere. I mean, just fucking look at you."

  The creature narrowed it eyes and snarled. Troy winced at its breath.

  "Don't get pissy with me, motherfucker. It's true.

  You've even got hair on your fucking dick. My brother had a name for that. He called it 'carpet dick.' That's what the fuck you have."

  The thing lowered its head and sprang. Troy had been hoping for just such a move. He'd goaded the creature in anticipation of it. As it closed in on him, he darted to the side and stuck out his foot. Momentum and gravity caught up with his opponent. The cryptid stumbled past him, arms windmilling. Troy slammed the rock into its back, and the monster fell. Troy snatched at his hat, but it was too late. With a cry, the cryptid rolled down the hill, arms and legs flopping helplessly as it crashed into rocks and bounced off them again like a pinball. His hat fluttered along in its wake. It took a very long time for the thing to reach the bottom, where it lay still.

  Troy took his time descending the rest of the way to the beach choosing his footing carefully. When, at last, he reached the bottom and stepped out onto the white sand, shells crunched under his feet. He barely felt them. He approached the crumpled form. The creature had broken its neck in the fall, but he wasn't sure if that was before or after it had split its head open on the rocks. Blood and brains cooled in the sand. His hat lay a few inches away. He snatched it up before the gore could reach it. He brushed the sand from the brim and gave the hat a cursory check. It seemed no worse for the wear.

  Troy put it back on his head and then spat in the corpse's glassy eye.

  "I fucking warned you. Nobody messes with my fucking hat. No one."

  Turning, he hurried down the beach toward the landing zone, muttering to himself as he limped through the sand.

  Stefan crawled on determinedly, dragging himself hand over fist through the mud. His nails were cracked, and his fingertips were bleeding from dozens of small cuts. When he heard the helicopter's tumultuous approach, he almost wept with relief. Each time his ankle brushed against a branch or stone, he was overcome with white-hot agony. His vision kept blurring from the pain, and his face and forehead were bathed in sweat. Despite that, he couldn't stop shivering.

  "Stupid bloody program . . . pack of wankers."

  He slid to a halt and collapsed facedown in the muck. Then he raised his head and fumbled for the satellite phone, intent on calling Heffron and advising him that he was on the way. But his hand stopped halfway to his pocket, and despite the haze of pain that he was in, Stefan became suddenly alert.

  He smelled the creatures before he heard them— a sour musk floating heavy and sluggish on the night's breeze. He rolled himself off the path and into the underbrush, biting his bottom lip until it bled, to keep from crying out at the torture to his ankle. Then he lay totally still, trying to control his trembling.

  Two of the hairy things shuffled by, muttering to each other in a series of garbled grunts and snorts. Their attention was focused on the path, and for one alarming moment, Stefan thought that they might be tracking him. But no, they were going the

  wrong way, heading farther into the jungle. Perhaps they were hunting someone else, or maybe they'd been positioned as sentries on the beach and were rushing off to report the arrival of the helicopter.

  After he was sure they were gone, Stefan exhaled a rush of breath and moaned softly. He thought again to call the ship, but decided to wait a few moments until the pain had settled down again to a more manageable level.

  Stefan closed his eyes and waited, while all around him, the jungle began to rustle with life.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Becka, Shonette, and Jerry bolted from the cave into the forest. Shonette had developed a limp during their race through the tunnel. Jerry was ready to drop from exhaustion. Becka still had the flashlight, but in her panic, she'd forgotten that she was holding it, and the beam uselessly bounced off the treetops.

  "Which way?" she shouted.

  Jerry pointed, gasping for breath. "Straight ahead. Don't stop for anything. Just follow me and stick close."

  Behind them, the sounds of pursuit echoed from the tunnel mouth. The creatures were close behind. There weren't as many now as there had been at the beginning of the chase. Many of the females had lagged behind or returned to the warren, presumably to guard the young and the frail. But at least a dozen still gave chase, and it sounded as if they would emerge from the cave at any moment.

  The three of them dashed into the tree line and crashed through the undergrowth. Now that the storm was over, the mosquitoes had returned in force, but they barely noticed them. Jerry took the

  lead, snatching the flashlight from Becka's hand, and directing them back toward the base camp. He made an effort not to stare at either woman's breasts, but it was hard to do, even while being chased by marauding humanoids.

  Jesus, he thought. Here I am on a tropical island with two naked women. That's every heterosexual man's dream. Too bad I'm running for my life.

  As they fled, he looked for familiar landmarks and signs of his and Troy's earlier passage through the area. Each time he found one, his confidence and hope grew. Maybe, just maybe, they'd escape. If they could reach the camp, they'd be able to increase their speed on the trail, rather than bounding through the thick vegetation as they were now.

  "So Troy is alive?" Becka asked. "And Stefan, too?"

  Jerry nodded. "As far as I know, they were before. I don't know about now, though." "I hope Troy's okay." "Me too."

  "I. .. I've got to rest," Shonette panted. Her limp had grown more pronounced, and she was slowing down. "Please, y'all. I can't. .. catch my breath."

  "Just a little farther," Jerry urged.

  "I can't. . . make it any farther . . ."

  Jerry grabbed her arm and helped her along. Becka took her other arm and assisted. Although they could no longer see the cave, they heard the creatures emerge from it. Their howls and shrieks filled the night.

  And then those terrifying cries were answered.

  From straight ahead of Jerry, Becka, and Shonette's position.

  "Oh shit," Jerry whispered.

  Becka halted. "How did they get in front of us?"

  Moving quickly
, Jerry directed Shonette and Becka into a thick cluster of leafy bushes that were slowly being choked by ivy and overgrown vines. They crawled on their hands and knees to the center of the cluster, and the foliage closed behind them, concealing their location. They peered between the branches and vines, holding their breath and waiting. Seconds later, the now-familiar stench hit them.

  A group of male tribe members emerged from the greenery. They appeared tired and haggard. Their shoulders slumped dejectedly, and their heads lolled. When they heard their females' cries, they became alert again and ran to the cave.

  Shonette shifted from one knee to the other. She started to whisper something, but Jerry put a finger to his lips. She fell silent again.

  When the creatures had passed from sight, Jerry hurried the girls out of their hiding place, still insisting on silence. They crept on, mindful of where they stepped, lest a branch or twig snap under their feet and alert the tribe to their presence. They could hear the things conversing in their guttural language. They sounded pissed off. Jerry couldn't blame them.

  Although he didn't speak of it, Jerry was more concerned about Troy now. The mechanic had led the males of the tribe away with his crazed stunt. He'd begun to believe that Troy might possibly survive the

  chase. That some of the creatures had now returned did not bode well for his friend, though.

  They reached the clearing that he and Troy had passed through earlier, when they were tracking the cryptid that had been dragging Roberta's corpse. They increased their pace again. Shonette kept up with them, but she was dragging one leg behind her now. As they crossed through it, they heard a familiar sound—the staccato beat of a helicopter overhead. Their spirits soared and they quickened their pace.

  "They're here," Becka said. "Will they land in the usual spot?"

  Jerry nodded. "Troy and I thought so. That's where we'd planned to meet up. If he or Stefan are still alive, I'm sure they'll make for it."

  Shonette rubbed her arms and shivered. "I hope they've got some clothes for us. Or at least a frigging blanket."

  "I'm not looking." Jerry's cheeks turned red. "Just so you know."

  Shonette waved her hand dismissively. "Right now, Jerry, I don't really give a shit. Help yourself to an eyeful if it will get us to the helicopter."

  The roars of the tribe grew louder. They were clearly upset by the helicopter's arrival. As the three of them reached the far end of the clearing, they heard crashing sounds from behind them, as the creatures gave chase again.

  "Go," Jerry shouted. "They're coming back."

  Jerry turned the flashlight off so that the monsters wouldn't see it, trusting his instincts and night vision to get them safely back to camp and from there, onto the path to the beach. He grabbed

  Becka's hand and pulled her along. Shonette struggled to keep pace beside them. Jerry ducked under a branch, and it snapped back, catching Becka across the chin. She cried out in pain, and their pursuers presumably heard the noise, because, with a triumphant shout, they charged into the clearing.

  "Are you okay?" Jerry stared in concern at the red welt on Becka's chin.

  Wincing, Becka nodded. "I'm fine. Just go!"

  "After everything we've been through tonight," Shonette gasped, "that little knock on the chin is the least of her worries."

  Jerry frowned. What, exactly, had the creatures done to them during their captivity? Had his worst fears been realized? Had Becka been raped? He opened his mouth to ask, but then decided against it.

  "What?" Becka noticed his expression.

  "Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad you're alive."

  Despite their situation, she smiled. "Me too."

  Jerry's heart beat faster. Then he noticed that Shonette was starting to lag behind.

  "Is it broken or sprained?"

  "I don't know," she said. "It just hurts like a son of a bitch. Maybe it's just a charley horse. Don't worry about me."

  "Do you want me to carry you?"

  "No," she insisted. "That will just slow us down more. I'll be okay."

  They kept running. Behind them, the sounds of pursuit drew closer. Jerry thought about making a stand, fending off the marauding creatures while the girls got away. But he knew just how foolish that would be. He wasn't Troy. Yes, he might kill a few

  of them, but there was only one way the battle would end—with him being torn to bits like Pauline, and the rest of the tribe hunting down Becka and Shonette.

  The steady thrum of the helicopter's rotors faded, and Jerry felt his spirits sink. Surely they couldn't be leaving already?

  "Sounds like they landed," Becka gasped. Her voice was hoarse.

  "I hope so," Shonette said. "Otherwise, we're in a lot of trouble."

  Jerry leaped over a fallen tree. "You mean more than we are now?"

  "Hell," Shonette replied. "I'm just pretending that this is another exile challenge."

  The suffocating darkness started to lessen. The sky was slowly turning from black to blue. The moon and stars looked faded. Washed out. Jerry pushed past a tangle of vines, and they emerged suddenly into the ruins of the base camp. Becka and Shonette's eyes widened as they took in the destruction. Jerry, already familiar with the magnitude of the devastation, didn't pause. He snatched up two more splintered lengths of bamboo, and handed one to each of the girls.

  "Here. The ends are pointy, so jab or poke with them."

  Becka eyed the spear dubiously.

  "It's better than nothing," Jerry said. "Let's go."

  Becka paused, remembering her diary. There was no telling where it was amidst the wreckage, but a part of her regretted leaving it behind. Then the pursuing creatures hooted and she decided there were no

  memories of the island that she wanted to take home with her. Better to leave them buried with the diary.

  Jerry and Becka sprinted for the path to the beach. Groaning, Shonette limped along behind them, dragging her injured leg through the mud. She halted, leaning against a tree trunk with one hand, and rubbed her thigh with the other. Jerry and Becka stopped and turned. The sounds of the tribe drew closer.

  "I'm okay," Shonette said. "Don't stop for me. Get going."

  "Come on," Jerry whispered.

  Shonette waved him away. "I told you, I'm fi—"

  A scrawny cryptid leaped from the greenery on the other side of the tree Shonette was leaning against and slammed into her. They both tumbled to the ground. Shonette sprawled on her back, and the creature straddled her chest. Before she could even muster a scream, it slashed her face with its talons, clawing out her eyes. With its other hand, it plunged its fingers into her mouth and seized her tongue.

  Becka started to run to Shonette's aid, but Jerry grabbed her arm and pulled her back. He shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

  "B-but..."

  He shook his head again, more insistent.

  "We can't help her," he whispered. "And if we don't take advantage of the distraction, we're dead, too. Here come the others."

  As if on cue, the rest of the tribe erupted from the vegetation on the far side of the camp. Shonette uttered a strangled cry, and then her attacker ripped her tongue out by the roots. Dark blood welled up

  from her ruined mouth. The creature shoved her tongue into its mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Almost as an afterthought, it raked one curved talon across her throat.

  Jerry and Becka fled down the path, not waiting to see her die.

  Both of them wept.

  The first few rays of light were just cresting the horizon when Troy spotted the helicopter. He waved his arms over his head. "Hey! Over here!"

  The powerful spotlight swiveled toward him, and Troy flinched, blinded by the beam. He flung his hands in front of his eyes and cursed. The beam turned away, and he gave the helicopter the finger. Then he limped toward the landing zone. Two shadowed figures ran toward him. A third figure remained at the helicopter, peering out at the jungle through a pair of binoculars. As they approached, Troy got a glimpse of thei
r faces. He didn't know either of their names, but he recognized one as the pilot. He'd seen him before, ferrying Roland Thompson back and forth from the island to the freighter. The other man carried a plastic case with a big red cross on it. Troy guessed that he was an EMT. They rushed to his side.

  "I'm Kerry," the medic said, "and this is Quinn, our pilot. Gerling, our other EMT, is up there by the chopper."

  "Good day," the pilot said, nodding.

  Troy spat blood onto the sand. "What's so fucking good about it?"

  Kerry gently put his arms on Troy's shoulders. "Quinn is Canadian. Don't hold it against him."

  "Ain't nothing wrong with that," Troy said. "Fucking Canada gave us Rush, after all. But then, on second thought, you gave us Celine fucking Dion, too."

  Ignoring the comment, the medic focused on Troy's body. "Are you injured?"

  "See this fucking blood? What do you think?" "I'd say you're hurt."

  "Ding, ding, ding! You get the fucking prize."

  Kerry shined a small flashlight into Troy's eyes and frowned in concern.

  "Get that fucking light out of my eyes, goddamn it."

  "Troy, maybe you'd better lie down until I've finished examining you. You might have a concussion."

  "I don't need to fucking lie down," Troy said. "What I need is a motherfucking M-16 or a goddamn Uzi. And then I need to get the fuck off this island and call in a tactical nuke strike."

  "We'll leave soon enough," Quinn told him. "I was just getting ready to head back for more people. Our initial load was just me, Gerling and Kerry here, in case we needed to immediately transport anyone back to the ship. I'm bringing more crew members with the next run. Where's your friends?"

  Troy waved at the jungle. "Out there."

  "Do you know their status?"