Castaways (5 page)

Tired, hungry, thirsty, and pestered by mosquitoes, they plodded along the trail, making their way back to the base camp.

As she walked, Becka got that weird feeling of being watched again. She tried to ignore it. Although she'd never admit it to the other contestants, the island was pretty spooky at night, and even during the day, if she happened to be off by herself. As a result, she tried to stay close to the others—or at least near the base camp. Maybe it was just her imagination, or perhaps it was the island's local lore. Upon their arrival, Roland had filled them in

on its history. Tradition held that the island was haunted. The region had been populated for over seven thousand years, but in all that time, the island had remained uninhabited because the natives from the surrounding islands avoided it at all costs. Legends were passed on from each generation to the next that many of the caves scattered across the island were actually mouths leading into the underworld. A tribe of small, inhuman creatures were said to emerge from these caves to rape or devour anything in their path. Unlike the Indonesian folktales of the little people of Flores—cave-dwelling South Seas leprechauns who accepted gourds full of food that the Floresians set out for them as offerings—the diminutive creatures on this island were said to be savage and demonic.

Over the years, various traders, explorers, and adventurers from as far away as Europe and America had vanished in the region. There was also the legend of the
Martinique,
a merchant vessel that had anchored on the island in the early 1900s. The crew had supposedly stayed one night on the beach and then fled, swearing never to return. And a Japanese squadron had disappeared in the vicinity during World War II. According to several television documentaries, they crashed on or near the island and were never heard from again. Supposedly their spirits still haunted the jungle.

Becka knew that Roland had told them this as part of the show—a bit of local color to enthrall the viewers—but that didn't make her feel any better late at night when she was lying in the darkness, listening to the jungle.

And it didn't make her feel better now.

Jerry tapped her shoulder. "Earth to Becka. Penny for your thoughts?"

"Sorry. I was just thinking about our first day here—all the stuff Roland told us."

"I liked that part," Jerry said. "The celebration they threw for us onboard the freighter? That was cool."

Becka nodded, remembering. Before they'd been transported to the island, the network had treated them to a welcoming party on the ship. Natives from neighboring islands were brought in to share their culture and traditions. There was a great feast and live music, and the contestants were treated to displays of dancing, tattooing, wood carving, and other regional pastimes. She'd especially been enamored of the women's colorful tribal garb.

"Yeah," she said, not telling Jerry that hadn't been what she was thinking about, "it was pretty cool, wasn't it?"

"It was," Jerry agreed. "Even if I don't win, I'll never forget that. I mean, how often do you get to experience something like that? We're very lucky to have been picked. Good thing we fit the stereotypes."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. Think about it. You've seen past seasons, haven't you? Each of us is here because we fit a certain profile the producers were looking for. We've got a black guy, a black girl, an older woman, a hick, a handsome stud, the bad boy, a yuppie, a gay guy, a hot chick, and you—the pretty, nice girl next door."

Becka blushed. "And you're the handsome stud?"

"Me?" Now it was Jerry's turn to blush. "No, I'm just the regular dude."

"Goddamn," Troy muttered behind them. "I really need a fucking smoke. You two are so fucking sweet, you're gonna send me into a diabetic coma."

They turned to glare at him, but then realized that Troy was laughing. He winked conspiratorially and after a moment, they laughed, too. The noise disturbed a roosting parrot, who voiced its displeasure.

They walked on.

Once more, Becka felt eyes on her, but when she glanced around, it was just the camera, filming everything they did.

Chapter Four

The base camp offered few luxuries. Rustic and simple, it consisted of a large structure built of bamboo, rocks, and leaves—basically a roof held up by poles, with walls manufactured from branches and palm fronds. It had two open-air doors. There was a similar construction that served as a latrine, a hole in the ground to catch rainwater, and a fire pit made of stones. The contestants had built it all themselves during their first few days on the island. When not competing in contests, exploring their surroundings, or lying on the beach, they spent their time at the camp, as did the camera crew.

But while the castaways had to remain on the island, the crew was allowed to return to the relative comforts aboard the ship when off duty. They worked in eight-hour shifts, covering the contestants twenty-four hours a day, even when the castaways were sleeping. There were nine, three-person camera crews, consisting of a "shooter," sound technician, and field producer. Three of the crews were on the island at a time, along with at least two emergency medical technicians. There were also crew

members the contestants never saw or had little interaction with—construction workers and various people from the production office. The audience would never realize these people had been involved with the production, because the producers did such a good job of presenting the
Castaway
contestants as being on a remote island by themselves.

The network helicopter shuttled the crew members back and forth. When not working, they had a wide variety of amenities aboard the freighter, ranging from video games and first-run movies to a swimming pool and full-service spa. While they dined on lobster, steak, and pasta each night in the ship's galley, those left on the island made do with rice— the only food provided by the show's producers. While the crew slept in comfortable, two-person cabins, the contestants huddled together, shivering in the darkness. The ship was equipped with a state-of-the-art communications center and wireless internet, so that network employees could stay in touch with their loved ones. It also had a laundry, medical staff, counselor, and even a nondenominational clergyman who held services every Sunday.

The contestants who had already been exiled from the game were also allowed to enjoy these luxuries—a small comfort after losing their chance at a million dollars.

Mark Hickerson, Jesse Carroll, and Stuart Schiff were all reality television veterans, and they'd each been with
Castaways
since its first season. Mark, who hailed from Tennessee and whose blond hair frequently took first place in mullet contests, was a shooter, or camera operator. Jesse, the sound

engineer, was from Florida. He played guitar in a band and enjoyed collecting rare books in his spare time. Stuart split his time between his hometown of Binghamton, New York, and Los Angeles, and had worked his way up the ranks over the past few seasons to become a field producer. Network gossip pegged him as the next big thing—the future wun-derkind of reality programming and becoming executive producer of his own show. All agreed that he'd more than earned the opportunity.

While the other crew members hovered around the contestants, filming their every action and word, the three men huddled together in the undergrowth near a small, weatherproofed storage shed used by the crew to house tools and equipment. The shed was close to the base camp, but hidden in the trees so that it didn't appear in any footage, thus ruining the viewer's illusion.

Stuart was involved in a conversation with the ship via satellite phone. Mark and Jesse occupied themselves by discussing the technical aspects of other reality shows and how they compared to
Castaways.

"You ever watch the one where they compete to see who can lose the most weight?" Mark spoke quietly so as not to disrupt Stuart.

"Yeah," Jesse said. "The season finale was fucking painful, man. It should have been the biggest show of the season, but it was shit. Whoever the network has producing that show should be getting water-boarded at Guantanamo Bay right now and never be allowed to work in television again."

"Why's that?"

"Well, it's the season finale, right? And they announce the winner. They do it live, just like us. And when the big moment comes, instead of showing the winner's face, they pull back and do a wide pan of the audience. The poor guy who won is crying and showing all this emotion, and instead of zooming in on that, they cut to the host."

Mark shook his head. "That's pretty bad."

Jesse was about to respond when Stuart clipped his satellite phone back onto his belt and looked at them. His expression was worried.

"What's wrong?" Jesse asked.

"The meteorologist says the storm might change course, after all."

Mark and Jesse glanced at each other and simultaneously said, "Shit."

"Yeah," Stuart agreed. "And speaking of which, I really wish you hadn't let that slip to the contestants earlier, Mark."

"What else did they say?" Mark asked, ignoring the reprimand.

Stuart shrugged. "A lot of technical stuff about thermal currents interacting with the various jet streams and how that might produce hurricane-force winds."

"Just to be clear," Jesse said, "we're talking about a cyclone here, right?"

"Right. Its name is Ivan—I think that means 'a real pain in the ass.' "

Jesse frowned. "Not to put too fine of a point on this, but cyclones are air currents with a swirling pattern, right? Like what took Dorothy to Oz?"

"On land," Stuart said. "But this is on the water."

"Well, then why would they call it a cyclone? It's the air masses themselves, not the water currents and such, right? Seems to me like they'd call this Hurricane Ivan or Typhoon Ivan. Tropical Cyclone Ivan just doesn't have a ring to it."

"They should call it Bob," Mark suggested. "That's always a good name. If I ever get another dog, I'm gonna name him Bob. It sounds friendly."

Stuart rubbed his temples and sighed. "We're getting a little off track here, guys. I don't know why they call it what they do. I'm not a weatherman. All I know is what they tell me."

"Sorry," Mark apologized.

"Yeah," Jesse said. "Sorry about that, man. So what's the network want us to do?"

"Well, they're still not sure if the storm itself is gonna hit us or not. It may just skirt us and head farther north. It's moving quick and defying all their computer models. But at the very least, we'll have some killer winds tonight. Because of that, the pilots are refusing to fly, unless there's a medical emergency on the island or something like that. So the producers have decided to hold off on tonight's exile vote. We'll do it tomorrow night, once Ivan has passed on. The last chopper is leaving in twenty minutes."

"Well," Mark said, "let's get going, then, so we don't miss it."

"Yeah," Jesse agreed. "At least we won't have to be stuck here tonight."

"That's where you're wrong. Even though they're recalling all nonessential personnel back to the freighter, the producers want a skeleton crew to stay behind with the contestants."

Mark flinched. "They're leaving the castaways here?" "Yep."

"Is that even legal?"

Stuart nodded. "Apparently, the network lawyers seem to think so. And you've got to admit, if the storm
does
hit here, it will make for some great drama. Somebody needs to capture that footage— and the castaways' reactions to it all. That's why they want a skeleton crew on hand."

"How many?" Jesse asked.

Stuart held up three fingers. "Field producer, shooter, and sound tech. They're even sending the EMTs back to the freighter."

"One crew for everything," Jesse said. "That's a tall order."

Mark sighed. "Poor bastards."

Stuart didn't respond.

"Wait." Jesse groaned. "Let me guess. That skeleton crew is us?" "Bingo."

"But our shift is over this afternoon, Stuart."

"Yeah, but they're evacuating everyone now, and since we're already here at base camp, we drew the unlucky straws. I'm letting everyone else go, but you guys need to stay with me. I need professionals— people I trust to get the job done. And don't start quoting union regulations at me, either. You guys know basic first-aid, in case things get hairy. Plus, you've both been with the show long enough to know the drill. This is what you signed on for."

"Screw that," Mark said. "Getting bit by a snake

or stung by a scorpion is one thing. Sitting around waiting for a cyclone to hit is a whole other ball of wax."

"We'll be fine," Stuart insisted. "Believe me, I don't like it any more than you guys. But it is what it is. I know I can trust you both to get the job done. You're the most competent crew members we have. I'll make sure you guys get taken care of—some kind of recognition for your dedication above and beyond the call of duty and all that shit."

Jesse rotated his finger in a circle. "Whoopee."

Scowling, Mark stuck a twig in his mouth and stared at the horizon.

"And besides," Stuart said, "maybe Pauline will sleep in the nude again tonight. You guys weren't on duty last time she did that."