Castaways (22 page)

"Stefan? This is Brett Heffron. I'm a communications specialist assigned to the network's freighter. Is Mr. Schiff available?"

"No, he's gone. They're all gone. I found his phone lying here in the mud. Had I not had the good fortune to be walking by while you were talking, I might not have noticed it at all."

"What do you mean 'gone'?"

"I'm afraid there's been an incident."

"What's happened. Is everyone okay?"

"Sadly, I'm afraid not. There's been . . . well, we've had some trouble."

"Shit. That's what we were afraid of. Does anyone require medical assistance?"

Stefan paused. "Well, that's hard to say. I don't, personally, but I don't know about the others. My best guess is yes. There have been a few fatalities."

There was silence from the other end, and for a moment, Stefan feared the signal had been interrupted. But then Heffron spoke again.

"Stefan, hang on a minute, okay?"

"Oh, yes. Quite."

"I'll be right back. Just stand by."

He waited as told. The wind picked up, rustling

the trees. Clouds obscured the moon again, and the darkness seemed to press closer. The fog wound around the trees. Something cried out in the shadows, shrill and frenzied.

"Just a bird," he muttered. "Just a bird, expressing its contempt for this situation."

When the moon appeared again, Stefan breathed a sigh of relief. Then his attention was drawn to something on the path, glinting in the moonlight. He walked toward it. The mist parted, and he saw a big depression in the mud, as if something heavy had been lying there during the storm. He looked back the way he'd come, remembering the signs of some heavy burden being dragged along the path. Then he glanced back down at the depression. Next to it was a muddy pocketknife with the blade extended.

"Hello. What's this?"

Kneeling, he plucked the knife from the mud and wiped away the grime. The initials M. H. were engraved on the side. The stainless-steel blade was crusted with brownish red blood—sticky and congealed, but not quite dry. Before he could examine it further, Heffron came back on the line.

"Stefan? Is there anyone else with you?"

"No, I'm afraid we're scattered all over the island."

"And you don't know the current whereabouts of any of our crew members or your fellow contestants?"

"Raul and Jeff are dead." "You're positive about that?"

"Of course I am. I don't know about anyone else. I haven't seen anyone."

"Jesus . . . Okay, can you make it to the meeting area?"

"Actually, I was already on my way there when you called."

"Good! Go there, and if you find any of the others, tell them to do the same. We're sending help right away. The EMTs should be there shortly."

"Tell them to bring along some guns."

"W-what?" Heffron sounded surprised. "Say again?"

"I said, tell them to bring guns. Lots of guns. They'll need them. It seems that we're not alone on this island."

"Are you saying the island is inhabited? That there are other people there?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. But they're not people. They're . . .
things."

He heard Heffron mutter something to someone else, but the sound was too muffled to make out clearly what was said.

"Stefan, are you sure you're not injured?"

"I'm fine. I'm not hallucinating, and I'm not delusional. Just get here and you'll see for yourself."

"Okay. Just hang in there. Make your way to the landing zone. Be advised that the team is on the way."

"Tell them I'll be waiting in the circle of protection, Mr. Heffron."

"Keep the satellite phone with you, okay?"

"Will do. Shall I turn it off to conserve the battery?"

"Yeah, you might want to do that. But I'll be standing by here, and if you need to reach me, just dial one. That will put you through directly to me. Okay?"

"Dial one. Cheers."

"Just hang tight. They're on the way." Heffron terminated the connection.

Stefan stared at the phone. It felt empowering somehow, to be holding this piece of technology now, after weeks of sleeping on the ground and building fires with flint. The phone made him feel safe and filled him with renewed confidence. He briefly considered trying to call someone in the United States, but decided against it. He had no family, other than an ex-wife and two kids he hadn't seen in five years, and he didn't really have a desire to speak with any of his friends. They were more like acquaintances, really, and after what he'd just been through, their petty concerns and drama seemed more trivial than ever. Besides, they'd hear from him soon enough. They all would. He was the sole survivor, after all—the last one left on the island. He was about to be famous.

He turned off the phone and put it in his pocket. Then he wiped the blood off the blade of the pocketknife and put that in his pocket, too. As he did, he caught sight of his waistline, and it occurred to him just how much weight he'd lost during his short time here.

The reality-television diet,
he thought.
That has quite the ring to it. I should write a self-help book about it. I could be rich.

He started down the path again, his step a little

lighter and his shoulders not quite as slumped. The air seemed warmer, and the mist dissipated. Even the wildlife seemed to be affected by his mood. He heard bird calls throughout the jungle. His senses seemed hyperaware, and he was almost convinced that he could feel the sun dragging itself toward the horizon to chase the moon away.

But then again, why bother with writing a book? I'm going to be rich anyway.

Throwing aside caution, Stefan laughed out loud. The sound echoed through the darkness. He was still chuckling to himself as he rounded a turn, slipped in the mud, and fell face-first into a puddle. Cold, brackish water rushed up his nose and down his throat, choking him. Sputtering, Stefan tried to push himself up, but his hands kept skittering through the mud, and he couldn't find purchase. He rolled over instead, blinking water from his eyes, and tried to stand. Instead, he fell over again. This time, he heard a wet snap. It sounded very near. For a second, he thought it was a tree branch, but then he felt the pain.

"Oh, no. Oh Jesus bloody fucking Christ..."

He glanced down at his foot. His ankle was already swollen, and in the moonlight, he saw an ugly, dark purple bruise spreading beneath the skin. Stefan pulled himself up and stood on his uninjured foot. Then, carefully, he tried to put his weight on the other leg. The resulting pain made him cry out harshly. He toppled over again and lay there, writhing and moaning.

"This is not good. This is not good at all."

Deciding to call for help, Stefan reached for the

satellite phone, but it was gone. He patted his pocket frantically. The knife was still there, but the phone had slipped out during his tumble. He clawed through the mud, searching for it. The fog returned, swirling around him. His cold fingers closed over the hard plastic phone casing. Breathing a sigh of relief, Stefan called the ship.

"Are you okay?" Heffron asked when Stefan reported what had happened.

"I don't know if it's broken or just sprained, but don't you worry about that. I'll be at the landing zone. You just tell them to wait for me."

"Maybe you should just stay put until help arrives."

"Nonsense. I'll be there."

He hung up and returned the phone to his pocket. Then he began to crawl forward, pulling himself through the mud, inch by inch.

"Wait for me, mates," he whispered. "You'd just better bloody well fucking wait for me. I'll be along shortly. And then, we're bloody well going home."

Chapter Twenty-one

Mercifully, Pauline's screams stopped once she passed out from shock.

Becka's screams, however, were just beginning.

"Get back," she shrieked as the three creatures entered the alcove and closed in on her. "Get away from me!"

If they understood her tearful pleas, they gave no indication. They filed into the alcove, one after the other, and the tight space suddenly felt even smaller. Despite their short stature, they seemed to loom like giants. Their stench filled the limestone cranny, and Pauline's blood still shined on their half-erect organs. The beasts leered at her prone form. Becka scrambled backward. The monsters' approach never slowed. The expressions on their snarling faces made their intent all too clear.

They can't rape me,
she thought.
They just got done with Pauline. They can't get it up again that quickly. No male can, no matter what the species.

Biology—or fate—proved her wrong. As if aroused by her panicked terror, all three of the beasts began to swell again. Thick ropes of drool

dripped from their slavering, oversized jaws. Their hands clenched and unclenched in anticipation.

Becka backed against the cave wall and cowered in fear. She wanted to be strong, but couldn't summon the courage now that they were here. She hated them even more for that. Not only were they about to rape her, but they'd taken away her strength and dignity. Becka's mind flashed back to the last contest, the race—swimming to shore for a chance to win a place in the circle of protection, and thus, extending her stay on the island. It had only been yesterday, but it seemed like years ago. So much had happened between then and now. But the one thing she remembered clearly as the monsters closed in on her, was how she'd almost given up during the competition. She recalled the resignation that had overwhelmed her—and then, the sudden burst of resolve and competitiveness that had followed.

No, fuck this.

Once more, her depressed futility gave way to a sense of frustration and anger. She hadn't come all this way and lived through the storm and the attack just to give up now. She was in this to win. No matter how much she hurt, no matter what they did to her, there was no retreat and no surrender. Not yet. She glared at the monsters. They could rape her if they wanted, but Becka swore it would cost them.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Shonette. The black woman had curled into a fetal ball and wedged herself as far behind the boulder as she could, almost completely hidden in the shadows. She made no movement or sound.

"Shonette," Becka shouted. "Help me! We've got to fight back."

"Be quiet," Shonette whispered. "I told you. If you don't resist, they'll go easier on you."

"Shonette!"

"Hush now. Don't fight it. Just go along. Think of another place. A happy place. I'm in my kitchen with my kids and there are Fruity Pebbles."

The creatures' shadows fell over Becka. Her tear-stained face was level with their engorged members. Their combined stench assaulted her senses. Becka gagged, and her throat burned with sour bile. Her resolve shattered with their proximity.

"Shonette," she sobbed hoarsely. "Please ..."

"Don't ask me to watch, Becka. Please don't ask me to do that. I can't look. I can't hold your hand. See, I'm with my children and they need me right now. You have to do this by yourself."

Attracted by Shonette's ramblings, one of the creatures turned to her and grunted. Shonette immediately fell quiet. Becka saw her quivering uncontrollably. The curious monster stepped toward her.

"All the Fruity Pebbles you want, Monika," Shonette muttered. "All that you want."

The creature shook its head rapidly, like a dog, spraying spittle all over the women and the cavern walls. Then it reached into the cranny and grabbed Shonette's arm. She squealed, but put up no resistance. Slowly, it began to drag her out of the shadows. Shonette's eyes were squeezed tightly shut.

"All that you want," Shonette repeated. "Come here, Darnell. All the cereal you want. All that you want... all that you want... just let me get off

this island
. . .all you want. . . please no not again no more please no no nononono nooooo ..."

"Leave her alone," Becka yelled. "Get your fucking hands off of her, you bast—"

With a sharp grunt, one of the creatures slapped her across the face with the back of its furred hand. Becka's head struck the stone wall, and immediately, she saw stars. Until now, she'd always assumed it was just a saying, but there they were, floating in her vision—bright pinpoints of sheer white light. The attacker struck her again, knocking her head in the opposite direction. Her cheeks felt flushed and hot, and she tasted warm blood squirting through her mouth. Becka felt something hard and sharp slide down the back of her throat and realized with alarm that it was a tooth. She coughed, but it was too late. She'd swallowed it. More blood dribbled out from between her swollen lips. She spat on the cave floor and groaned.

Rough hands seized her shoulders and pushed her to the floor. Screaming, Becka beat at the creature with flailing hands. She grabbed two fistfuls of hair and pulled, earning herself another hammering blow. She clawed its back, tugged out fistfuls of wiry hair, and yanked hard on its ears, but it pushed her away and shoved her the rest of the way down to the floor. She tried to get a knee between herself and her attacker, but the second monster grabbed her legs and pulled them apart. Becka screamed as the first held her arms against her side. She felt its slick, hot erection slide against the bare flesh of her arm. Repulsed, Becka turned her head and vomited. There wasn't much in her stomach