Castaways (25 page)

"Hey, you hairy mother fucking cocksuckers! Come out and play."

Jerry nearly toppled out of the nook. Gasping, he clutched at the rocks and screamed at Troy.

"What the hell are you doing? You'll have every one of them on us in a second!"

"I know. That's my fucking plan."

Even though he couldn't see him, Jerry could tell by his tone that Troy was grinning.

"That's your plan? That's your fucking plan? Are you insane?"

"Didn't you ever see
The Warriors}
'Warriors, come out and playyyyyy'?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Ignoring him, Troy yelled again. His cries echoed down the tunnel, reverberating off the walls.

"Come on, you retarded fucking monkeys. What are you—pussies? Come and get some of this, you mongoloid douche bags! Let me show you how we do it in Seattle."

He tapped his spear on the floor and banged his stone knife against the wall, creating more noise.

"Oh, goddamn it." Jerry scrambled down from his perch, using his spear for balance and dislodging debris as he did so. Pebbles and stones clattered down the pile.

"Stay the fuck there," Troy warned him. "Just stay put, goddamn it. I'm gonna lead the fuckers outside and away from here. When I do, you sneak in and find the girls and get them out of here. I'll get these things to chase me toward the other end of the island, and then I'll circle around. We'll meet up at the circle of protection. That's where the chopper always lands. Hopefully, it'll fucking be there by the time we arrive."

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard! Are you crazy? What makes you think all of those things are going to come rushing out after you?"

"Because I'm gonna be a pain in their ass long enough that they'll fucking
have
to send everybody after me."

"Troy, this isn't going to work."

"You asked if I had a fucking plan. I said I did. I didn't say it was a good fucking plan. And I didn't exactly hear you making fucking decisions, Jerry. You want to save Becka? You said it yourself—we couldn't fight our way through all of them. I'm evening the fucking odds."

"Oh, you idiot. You goddamn unbelievable idiot."

Troy's tone turned dejected. "I'm tired, too, man. And it's too late now, in any fucking case. So, please, Jerry. Get the fuck back up there and hide!"

"Troy—"

"Goddamn it, I said please, motherfucker. Don't make me say it again."

Part of Jerry wanted to curl into a ball and cry. The other half wanted to slide down the rock pile and punch Troy in the face. He ignored both urges and scrambled back to the top, clinging to the rocks as a sick, emotional mix of fear and revulsion swept over him.

The roar that blasted up from below was deafening. It sounded like someone had bottled up all the thunder from the storm and set it off underground. Trembling, Jerry ducked his head and tried to block the noise by pushing his shoulders up over his ears. It didn't work. The roars continued, followed by the sound of pounding. He tried to figure out what it was, and after a second, it came to him.

Running footsteps.

Lots of them. It sounded like an army.

"Damn," Troy muttered. "Sounds like I fucking pissed them off good."

Jerry shook his head and closed his eyes. "Jesus Christ. . . oh, Jesus fucking Christ, this is not

happening. This is not happening at all. I'm sorry, Becka..."

"Come on, you stinky bastards," Troy called. "I can smell you coming. You all need a fucking shower."

"Stop it, Troy," Jerry pleaded. "Please stop. We can still get away."

"Come and get it! Step right up and don't be shy. I got something for you. The golden goddamn goose is on the motherfucking loose and never out of season. It's two minutes to midnight, bitches, so die with your boots on. Bring your daughters to the fucking slaughter, motherfuckers! Up the irons!"

He's snapped,
Jerry thought. /
mean, for God's sake—he's shouting Iron Maiden slogans at them now. What the hell is that about? His mind is gone. I shouldn't have pushed him so hard to come with me. It was obvious that he was terrified. Now he's over the edge and we're all screwed.

The clamor of onrushing feet grew louder.

"Jerry?"

"What?"

"Make sure you stay there until there's no more of those things in the tunnel, man. Hopefully, there won't be many left behind at wherever they're holding Becka."

"Shut up, Troy. Just shut the hell up. Oh, Jesus . . ."

"And, Jerry? Good luck, man. You're an okay dude, as far as I'm concerned. You're both good people. Best I've met in a long fucking while. Just make sure you fucking save her."

Jerry's response was drowned out by a deafening, angry roar.

"Here we go," Troy shouted. "Fuck me running."

Jerry could only listen in horror, cowering against the wall and praying that he wouldn't be discovered, while what sounded like a veritable mob of cryptids bore down on his friend. Talons clicked on stone. Growls split the darkness. Teeth gnashed audibly.

Then a series of unexpected sounds echoed down the corridor. Troy grunted in exertion. Jerry heard a wet thud, and then something howled in pain. Then, instead of the cryptids, it was Troy who was growling.

"One down," Troy taunted. "Who's next, motherfuckers?"

One of the creatures yelped, and then shrieked. The cry ended abruptly. Several more of the cryptids roared again. The sound was loud enough to shake the debris Jerry was crouched among. Beneath the cacophony, he heard Troy laughing.

Then silence.

From the darkness, Troy muttered, "Oh shit."

Jerry heard the unmistakable sounds of Troy running away. His echoing footsteps raced back up the tunnel, heading toward the surface. The creatures rushed after him, screaming with rage. Jerry glimpsed their shadowed forms, black shapes that were darker than the darkness around them. Worse than that, he smelled them. Their stench filled the tunnel, making his eyes water and burning his nose. He held his breath as they dashed past his hiding place. Luckily for him, none of them paused long

enough to investigate. They were too enraged, too focused on their fleeing quarry to notice him. Jerry feared that they might catch his scent as they filed past, but if they did, they must have assumed it was Troy's. Perhaps they had trouble distinguishing the two. Maybe all humans smelled alike to them, or maybe their noses were no better than a person's nose. After all, they weren't evolutionary offshoots of dogs or cats.

Jerry wondered how far Troy could get before they inevitably caught him. He was vastly outnumbered, and his pursuers had the advantage of knowing the terrain. Plus, Jerry still had the flashlight, so Troy was running in the dark. Running blind. He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that the creatures had much better night vision than their human prey. There was nothing he could do. He wanted to help Troy, but if he revealed himself now, he'd be killed. If that happened, Troy's brave—if foolhardy—sacrifice would be in vain, and Becka would surely die.

If she wasn't dead already.

The sweat on Jerry's back suddenly felt like ice water. Until now, he hadn't even considered the possibility that Becka and Pauline might be dead. Now that the thought had occurred to him, he couldn't put it from his mind. Crippled with indecision and fear, he remained where he was and listened to the echoes fade.

When the cavern was silent again, Jerry took a deep breath and carefully maneuvered his way back to the bottom of the rock pile. He crept back out into the main tunnel and paused, listening. If any of

the creatures had remained behind and were lurking in the darkness, he couldn't hear them. He tiptoed forward and his foot collided with something soft but solid. Startled, he almost tripped. He struggled to keep his balance and bit down on his tongue. His spear slipped from his hand and clattered onto the stone floor. Wincing, Jerry knelt and patted the ground, searching for it. His fingers brushed up against fur, and he yanked his hand away, nearly crying out. The cave remained silent. Cautiously, he stretched his hands out and explored again. The fur was sticky and wet, and the body was still warm. His hands roamed over its face, and his finger slipped into a gaping hole. At first, he assumed it was a mouth or nostril, but with dawning horror, Jerry realized it was an empty eye-socket. Troy had put the creature's eye out—either with his spear or the jagged stone.

Jerry recoiled in disgust. His hands came away slick.

He fumbled with the flashlight and clicked it on, shining it over the floor. Jerry gasped. Somehow, Troy had managed to kill two of the creatures before he fled. Obviously, their murder had further enraged the rest of the tribe. No wonder they'd gone after him in such numbers. The second cryptid had been impaled through the throat. He noticed that this one had a genetic mutation—a webbed left hand. Pink flaps of membranous skin connected its fingers. Small red veins ran through the webs.

Jerry's dropped spear lay next to the corpse. After retrieving it, he turned the flashlight off again and immediately regretted it. The darkness seemed

to loom before his tired eyes, pressing in on him more than ever.

He proceeded, listening cautiously, ready to flee or fight at a moment's notice if he heard more of the tribe coming toward him. Despite his fears, there didn't seem to be. The tunnel was deserted—if not soundless. He still heard some of the creatures, but now the noise was muted. Gone were the shrieking howls and ferocious roars. They'd been replaced with meek, frightened mewling and hushed cries.

Jerry paused, readjusting his grip on the spear. A blister popped on his palm and he grimaced as he felt warmth gush between his fingers.

Damn it, Troy,
he thought.
What the hell were you thinking?

Still, he had to admit, as bizarre as the mechanic's plan had been—it had apparently worked. Jerry didn't know how to explain it, but the cavern
felt
emptier. His frayed nerves calmed somewhat, and he began to hope again. Despite the confusing, echo effect the stones had on sound, the noises seemed to be stationary. Even so, Jerry moved carefully. He took his time and was mindful of not stumbling or making any sound. The smell of wood smoke grew stronger and the noises grew progressively louder.

He rounded a slight curve and saw a yellow-orange glow ahead of him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The light flickered and danced.

Fire. That explains the smoke. It must be going out another exit, though. Otherwise, there would be more of it in this passageway.

As he drew closer, Jerry hunched over and stuck closer to the wall. The tunnel ended abruptly,

opening into a huge cavern with a high ceiling. He inched forward until he could see inside it. A large fire blazed in the center of the cave. The smoke from the fire drifted slowly toward a natural rock chimney located in the center of the roof. He spotted more cave art on the walls. The crude illustrations depicted several different scenes and figures. Some of them were simple caricatures of birds, lizards, and fish. Others were more complex. There was a group of spear-carrying tribe members hunting something that looked like a pig (a normal pig, rather than the swine-headed figures he'd seen in the previous artwork). Another picture portrayed the cryptids standing on the beach and greeting a group of humans in a boat. A third seemed indecipherable at first. It was just a series of dots and orbs. After a moment, Jerry realized that it was the night sky, as seen from the island. The final painting showed a towering figure that looked like a cross between a gorilla and a cat. It loomed menacingly over three prostate cryptids. Jerry was left with the impression that the figures were praying to it.

Clearly, the tribe was regressing. Their own artwork showed them using tools and weapons, and possibly represented a deity of some kind, and a form of worship, but the creatures they'd encountered so far didn't seem capable of such things.

Jerry's attention returned to the task at hand. The remaining tribe members were in various places throughout the warren. Most of them wore expressions of obvious distress and worry. As far as he could tell, most of the tribe's males had run off after Troy, leaving behind the females and the

children. A few toothless old males remained, but not many. Most of the young had mutations and deformities. One of them, barely a toddler, was gnawing on something. Alarmed, he realized it was a human leg bone. The flesh had been stripped from it, and the salivating child was sucking out the marrow. Roberta's corpse lay next to it. Jerry turned his head away and took deep breaths.

When he looked back again, he saw another young one crawling across the floor. Instead of legs, the poor creature had two short stubs. It bawled hungrily and was picked up and comforted by a young female with three breasts—two of them full and ponderous, while the third was stunted and shriveled. The child nuzzled at all three. Jerry's initial disgust was forgotten, and he almost felt sorry for their plight. Then he saw a bloodied scalp with blond-brown hair lying near the fire and recognized it as Ryan's; his pity vanished.

How many years have they been inbreeding?
he thought.
That's why they took the girls alive. They need to increase the gene pool.