Castaways (12 page)

She heard the sounds of pursuit behind her and

swerved off the trail, plunging headfirst into the jungle. A shrill, mournful cry rang out. It sounded like a cross between a human and a hyena. Heedless of the grasping vines and prickly thorns that tore her skin, Roberta charged through the undergrowth, seeking to lose her pursuers. She concentrated on her breathing and tried to ignore the crashing sounds throughout the jungle—snapping tree limbs, rustling ferns, padded feet running along in time with the rain. She thought of her husband, Stephen, and her best friend, Sherry. Her thoughts turned to her three cats: Nike, Tinkerbelle, and Jack Byron. In many ways, they were like her children. She had to make it out of here alive. Who would take care of them if she didn't?

Roberta risked a glance over her shoulder, and saw two brown forms darting between the trees. She quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her chest. She considered climbing a tree, but she was deathly afraid of heights. Instead, she plowed straight ahead, half blinded by the rain. With some distance between herself and the creatures, her allergy symptoms lessened, but now her breathing was impeded by sheer terror.

As she fled, she wondered where the others were. She was supposed to be getting interviewed by Mark and Jesse soon. They should have finished up with that weirdo, Matthew, by now. Surely they'd be looking for her soon.

Wouldn't they?

Gasping for breath, she stumbled onward.

Chapter Ten

Matthew stood in a broad clearing along the utility path. All around him, trees bent against the wind, threatening to snap, but he did not seek shelter. His arms were outstretched and his face upturned. He smiled at the storm, and when a bolt of lightning split the clouds asunder, he imagined that the sky smiled back at him. For a moment, the jungle looked stark, like a black-and-white photo negative, flash frozen in time. Then his eyesight returned to normal. When the thunder followed the lightning a moment later, he felt it rumble in his chest. The wind howled through the jungle, sounding very much like a speeding train. Fat raindrops pelted his face like pellets from the BB gun the neighborhood bully had shot him with when they were kids. Matthew welcomed the shower. The baptismal metaphor was not lost on him.

Here, on this primal, remote island, he'd rediscovered a part of himself that he'd never known was lost. He'd been happy all along that he was able to fool the network screeners and pass his background check, physical exam, and mental

evaluation, but now he was ecstatic. This was so worth it.

He was reinvigorated. Recharged. Gone was the old Matthew, the guy who'd plotted and schemed and complained, who'd issued missives and propaganda and calls for action on various blogs and message boards but had never actually shed blood for the cause. That had changed. Blood had been shed—and then some. Not only could he die for the cause; he could kill for it, too. He was someone different now. A loaded gun, ready to fire. A kettle set to boil. With each drop, the rain washed away the old Matthew, scrubbing him layer by layer, stripping off the fat and getting down to the meat of things. He was Matthew version 2.0, and he had never felt more alive.

He glanced behind him as another bolt of lightning slashed the sky. Mark's and Jesse's bodies still lay where he'd hidden them, just off the path. Matthew grinned.

It was a good start.

Two down. Many to go.

The original idea—infiltrating a network reality show and then using it as an opportunity to further the cause and disseminate the truth—had been Matthew's. He'd expected his cell leader to laugh at him, but instead, he'd offered to help Matthew take it up the chain of command. When they'd approached Barnes, the Sons of the Constitution's leader, with the proposal, Matthew had assumed he would assign it to someone else, another member of the brotherhood more suited for such a mission— or else Barnes would disregard it totally. After all, Matthew was a nobody—a mere foot soldier for the

revolution, one of dozens scattered throughout various cells whose duties involved using the Internet to spread discontent regarding the current state of American affairs to the nation's sleepy, disaffected millions, thus gaining new recruits or at the very least, sympathizers to the cause. And although he was good at it, that was the extent of his abilities. He wasn't a demolitions expert or proficient with firearms. As far as his neighbors were concerned, Matthew was a faceless nobody. When he wasn't hiding his tracks online, he was careful to fit in with what society deemed as normal. The organization made a big point of insisting that members not draw attention to themselves. Matthew went to work, paid his taxes and utility bills on time, drove the speed limit, and kept his head down. He was nobody, just another drone slaving—or pretending to slave—for The Man. He had no illusions. He wasn't a hero. He wouldn't be infamous. He was just a means to an end. A cog in a much bigger machine. His mission wouldn't save the world. It would only help further the cause. Saving the world was for greater men than he.

So it came as a surprise when Barnes not only agreed, but also decided that Matthew himself would undertake the assignment.

"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 the 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.