Castaways (13 page)

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.

Her mind swam, and it was hard to focus on anything but continued flight. She considered hiding, but decided against it. The creatures were obviously familiar with the jungle—they must be native to the island, after all—and they displayed at least a rudimentary intelligence. They'd know the terrain better than she did. What were they? She'd never seen anything like them before. The savagery they'd displayed with their attack, and worse, the sheer glee they seemed to express. Roberta grew nauseous just thinking about it. The adrenaline coursing through her body didn't help matters. She collapsed to her knees and vomited in a puddle. Her stomach heaved, but there wasn't much. Her diet had consisted of small portions of fish, rice, and fruit, with the exception of one slice of pizza she'd won during a contest several days ago. Her stomach didn't seem to care. She gagged and sputtered until the muscles in her abdomen ached. Roberta waited for her dizziness to pass. Then she grasped a limb, pulled herself back to her feet, and continued fleeing through the dark. While her allergies had subsided, Roberta was feeling every bit of her fifty-four years.

Wet, cold, exhausted, and bleeding, she stumbled out onto the trail by accident. She glanced around, terrified, and tried to get her bearings. The ground was a slippery, sodden mess. Her feet sank into the mud. It took Roberta a moment to realize where she was. Between the blinding rain and her own fear, she couldn't see anything clearly. The edges of her vision were blurry, and once-familiar landmarks now seemed nonexistent or strange and permuted. The tangled hanging vines became creeping

tentacles and serpents. The looming, swaying trees transformed into giant fingers, thrusting up from the earth. The howling wind mimicked a fire siren. Still struggling to breathe, Roberta closed her eyes for a moment and reminded herself that it was just her imagination.

But the hand that fell on her shoulder and squeezed was not. It was very real. Fingers pressed tightly into her flesh.

Roberta screamed, lashing out blindly and striking something solid. She heard a grunt from behind her and the grip on her shoulder slackened, then disappeared. Her attacker moaned in pain. Without glancing backward, she fled, shrieking.

"Roberta!"

She ignored the voice. It sounded familiar, but she knew that it was just more of her imagination— the storm playing auditory tricks on her.

"Roberta, come back."

"Help," she shrieked. "Somebody help me, please!"

"Roberta, it's me. It's Matthew!"

She paused, nearly tripping. Slowly, she turned around. A shadowy figure stood in the center of the path. She couldn't make out any of his features, but he certainly seemed taller and skinnier than the creatures were. She sniffed the air but did not detect the beasts' sour, musky scent. The figure carried something bulky on its shoulder. The other hand gripped a spear or walking stick.

"Roberta, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"M-Matthew?"