Castaways (16 page)

And then, incredibly, for an instant, something that sounded like a wild animal, which was, of

course, impossible, since there were no mammals indigenous to the island. It squealed and roared. Then the static returned.

"That," he muttered to himself, "is some weird-ass feedback."

The ship rolled, and his stomach lurched. Brett wasn't given to seasickness, but the swells from the storm were bigger than anything he'd ever encountered.

"Hello? Stuart, do you copy? I say again, press the buttons on your keypad if you can hear me."

Another squeal, then more static.

Brett wore a headset with a microphone, and his ears were starting to sweat beneath the foam-covered earpieces. Despite the other technician's insistence that the equipment should be kept in a cool environment, Brett had cranked the heat up when the storm hit. Now it was hot inside the radio shack. He made a mental note to turn the heat down next time he got up.

He tried adjusting the equipment one more time, and then said, "Stuart or whoever this is, I don't know if you can hear me, but I'm not copying you. Suggest you try calling from another location. I say again, the meteorologists say that the storm is almost over. Ivan is on its way out. Just hang in there a little bit longer. Freighter out."

He flicked a switch, breaking the connection, and removed his headset. He tossed it onto the console and then dug in each ear with his pinkie finger, removing the sweat and wax buildup. The computer monitor in front of him flashed from his unfinished game of solitaire to the screen saver. He clicked the

mouse, bringing the game back up again, and then took another sip of coffee. "Ugh . . . shit."

He grimaced. The coffee had been lukewarm to begin with, but now it had turned cold and the artificial creamer he'd dumped into the cup earlier was now a partially dissolved mound of sludge.

He tried checking his e-mail, to see if there were any messages from his friends back in Los Angeles, but the wireless network was down, as well.

"No coffee. No communications. Pulling a stupid night shift. Shit, I'd be better off on the island with those other saps."

Brett was twenty-six years old, and would turn twenty-seven in another week and a half. This wasn't the first time he'd spent a birthday onboard a ship, anchored in some remote part of the world rather than at home with friends and family. Sometimes it seemed like much of his adult life had been spent at sea, rather than on land. After graduating high school, Brett had served four years in the navy as a radioman. When he got out, he'd gone to college courtesy of the G.I. Bill, but after two semesters, decided that more school wasn't for him. For a year, he'd worked for a satellite radio company, but when a corporate merger was held up by the federal government and the company started hemorrhaging money, Brett had been let go. He'd landed on his feet, responding to a note on
craigslist.com
, and got a job as a communications specialist on the network freighter. Until then, he'd never watched a single episode of
Castaways,
and now, after working on the show, he avoided episodes like the plague.

The hatch to the compartment opened with a metallic clang and Gina Tremblay, the other communications specialist, stepped into the room. She smiled at him, then waggled the two cups of coffee that were perched precariously in one hand. Brett's gaze drifted to her long, slender legs, but then he noticed that she'd caught him looking. Her smile faltered just a bit. Quickly, he focused instead on her face.

"Coffee for two? You read my mind, Gina."

Her smile returned. "Well, if you want a cup, how about giving me a hand with the door?"

Brett slid out of his chair and closed the hatch behind her, locking the lever in place. Then he gratefully accepted one of the two cups and turned the heat down before returning to his seat. Gina took the chair beside him.

"What are you doing up?" he asked. "You're not supposed to be on until tomorrow morning."

"I couldn't sleep. The storm is tossing the ship around so much, and I had to hang on to my rack just to keep from falling out of it. I gobbled half a dozen packs of crackers to keep from getting sick."

"Yeah," Brett agreed, "it's been bad. It's passing, though. Things should settle down soon."

"Anything from the island?"

"Yeah, actually, I received a transmission just a few minutes ago. It came from Stuart's phone."

"Duh. He's the only one on the island
with
a phone right now."

"Smart-ass."

"Is everything all right? How are they holding up?"

"I don't know. There was too much interference, and I couldn't hear shit. Just a few fragments here and there." He paused. "There was one weird thing, though."

"What?"

Brett shrugged. "I don't know. A sound. This strange growling, snuffling sort of noise. Like an animal of some kind."

"There aren't any animals on the island."

"I know. That's why it was weird. Wish I knew what it was."

Gina kicked off her shoes and propped her feet up on the console, stretching her legs. Brett tried very hard not to notice, and made a point of turning his attention back to the game of solitaire on the computer monitor.

"It was probably just a bird," Gina said. "A parrot or a cockatiel or something. My mother used to have a cockatiel. They can sound pretty strange when they get going. Maybe it was scared of the storm and was acting spastic."

"It wasn't a bird. At least, not like any I've ever heard before."

"Maybe some kind of weird feedback from the storm?"

"No. This definitely sounded more like an animal. I keep wondering if maybe it was one of those wild pigs that used to live there. You know, the ones that originally came from the shipwrecks? They were all supposed to have died off, but maybe we were wrong."

Gina grinned.

"What?" Brett asked.

"The only pig in the vicinity of this island is you— checking out my ass every time I turn around. I swear to God, Brett, you're worse than Mr. Thompson."

His ears burned, but then he realized that she was just teasing him.

"What can I say? It's a much better view than anything else on this hunk of junk."

She winked. "Damn straight it is. And I'll tell you the same thing that I told Roland last time he copped a feel—you can look, but you'd better not touch."

"Where is Mr. Thompson anyway? I haven't seen him all night."

"He's getting cozy in his cabin with one of the new interns."

"That figures. Is it a guy or girl this time?"

"I don't know and I don't care. Long as he keeps his disgusting hands off me, he can sleep with whomever he wants. It's not like there's a shortage. The network execs keep providing him with new conquests."

"Ever think about tipping off one of the gossip magazines or celebrity websites? I bet one of those places would pay good money for pictures of some of his shenanigans."

"No way," Gina said. "I need this job."

"Yeah, me too."

"Well, aren't we quite the pair?"

The ship lurched to starboard suddenly, and Brett's cup of coffee fell to the floor. Gina managed to grab hers before it fell, but the hot liquid splashed out, burning her thumb and index finger.

"Ouch!"

"Goddamn it." Brett picked up the crumpled paper cup and tossed it in the overflowing trash can. Then he grabbed a roll of paper towels from the supply closet and mopped up the mess.

Gina sucked her fingers. "You want what's left of mine?"

"No, that's okay. I'll go get more. We really do need a coffeepot in here, though. With the amount of money the sponsors are paying for a thirty-second spot, you'd think the network would spring for one."

The freighter rolled again, tossed by a massive swell. Brett and Gina heard something crash out in the passageway and roll down the hall.

"Whatever that was," Gina said, "they should have tied it down. Don't people read their memos?"

"I thought the worst of the storm was supposed to be over. This sure as hell doesn't feel like it."

"It is," Gina replied. "This is just the last vestiges. I stopped by the weather shack on the way up here. Ivan is supposed to pass over completely in another hour or so. We didn't even get the worst of it. The center was about one hundred miles north of our position."

"Any damage that you know of?"

"The Globe Corporation lost an oil rig about two hundred miles to the northwest. And I heard some of the others talking about a distress call from an Indonesian fishing boat. But other than that, I haven't heard anything."

"Well, I just hope the folks on the island are okay."

"Yeah." Gina nodded. "I hope so, too. Imagine— risking your life just for a chance to be on television."

"But to be fair, they didn't know there was going to be a cyclone."

"Maybe not. But they signed up, didn't they? This show has been on for enough seasons, they should know to expect anything. They give it all up—their families, their home lives, their careers—put everything on hold for a chance to win a million dollars. But it's not about the money, is it? It's about being famous. Being on television. It's the hope that they might get recognized in their hometown or get an offer to pitch cold medicine in a commercial. That's a pretty shallow world view, if you ask me."

"Wow." Brett was stunned. "I've never heard you talk like that. I had no idea you felt this strongly."

Gina shrugged. "All I'm saying is, they signed up for the show of their own free will, so they can't complain when the island throws its worst at them. Whatever happens, it's their own fault because they're the ones who put themselves in the situation in the first place."

Nodding, Brett mulled it over. They sat in silence for a while. The freighter creaked and groaned, rocking back and forth. Gina pulled a Sherrilyn Kenyon paperback out of a desk drawer, turned to a folded-over page, and began reading. Brett returned to his game of solitaire, but he had trouble concentrating on it.

They waited for the storm to pass.

Chapter Sixteen

Jerry stared out into the darkness and said, "I think it's starting to let up."

Becka pressed closer against him. "Do you really think so?"

"Yeah, I do. It's not raining as hard anymore, and the wind seems to have died down."

As if in disagreement, they heard a loud crack from the jungle as another tree toppled over. Thunder rumbled overhead almost as an afterthought.

Jerry ran a hand over his stubbly head. "Or maybe not."

"This is just the eye passing over," Stefan said.

Jerry was surprised by the comment. Like the rest of his fellow contestants, he'd assumed that Stefan was asleep. He'd sat through most of the storm with his eyes closed, not moving or speaking, his breathing shallow.

"Take advantage of the quiet while you can," Stefan continued. "It will begin again soon enough."

"This ain't the eye," Troy said. "Hurricanes have eyes. This is a fucking cyclone."

"They are the same thing," Stefan corrected him. "And this is most certainly the eye."

"The fuck do you know?"

"Obviously, quite a bit more than you."

"Jesus fucking Christ, I need a fucking cigarette if I'm gonna be trapped in this shit with you, Stefan."

Pauline held her hands out in front of her and examined them.

"Oh," she said through chattering teeth, "my fingers look like prunes."

"All of our fingers do," Becka said. "But I don't think you'll be getting a manicure anytime soon."

Pauline rolled her eyes and looked away.

Jeff disentangled himself from the others and walked to the damaged shelter's entrance. He ran a hand through his wet, jet-black hair and peered up at the sky. Then he turned back to the group.

"You know, I think Jerry might be right. You guys can all hear me now, correct?"

They nodded.

"Yeah," Raul said. "So?"

"Earlier, we were sitting on top of each other and we couldn't hear shit. We had to shout into each other's ears."

"You're mistaken, I'm afraid." Stefan stood and stretched. "I'm quite certain this is just a temporary lull. The rest of the storm system will return soon enough."

Troy stirred. "If we're lucky, when it does, maybe it'll fucking take you with it."

Stefan grinned. "You should follow my example and reserve your energy, wrench-bender."

"Oh yeah? Why's that, asshole?"

"Because you're going to need it."

Pauline frowned. "Why don't you guys save the conflict for the cameras?"

"Maybe we're practicing," Troy said. "Or maybe I just don't like the fucker."

Raul walked over and joined Jeff at the entrance. "You're right. The rain is slowing. Look at it. It's just drizzling now. Eye of the storm or not, we should take advantage of it. Maybe we can get the fire started again."

"I doubt it," Jerry said. "Everything is soaked."