Castaways (7 page)

Troy was the wild card.

Stuart gripped the camera and waited for all hell to break loose. And eventually it did.

Chapter Five

Mark led the way through the jungle, followed by Jesse and then Matthew. They walked along a small service trail used primarily by the show's crew members, rather than the contestants. It wasn't as heavily traveled as the main path, nor did it appear on camera. As a result, it was choked in places with vines, logs, tree limbs and roots, and harder to navigate than the main path. They trudged along, panting for breath. Low-hanging branches smacked their skin. All three men had dark circles under their shirtsleeves. Both Mark and Jesse had turned their equipment off during the trek. The air was damp and heavy. Sweat ran down their foreheads and into their eyes. Mark's blond mullet lay flat and lifeless, plastered to his head. Mosquitoes darted around them in clouds. Both men slapped incessantly at the buzzing insects.

"This sucks," Mark said. "I wish that storm would hurry up and hit us, if only to cool things down a bit."

"It would get rid of the bugs, too." Jesse glanced behind him at Matthew. "How you holding up?"

"Fine."

Jesse turned around and focused on the trail. He reflected again on how weird Matthew was. Most of the crew had commented on it over the last few weeks. None of them was sure how Matthew had passed the application process, let alone the extensive array of psychological, physical, and personality tests the network required of all potential contestants. He certainly wasn't photogenic or interesting. Nor was he funny or charismatic. One crew member had compared him to wallpaper; he was just
there.
But while Matthew's behavior wasn't overly eccentric or confrontational, the guy gave off odd vibes. Maybe that was why the producers had picked him.

Jesse glanced backward again. Matthew stared at him, unblinking. Jesse smiled, trying to appear polite and nonpartial.

"Sure is hot, isn't it?"

Matthew winked. "I've been in worse."

Matthew did not seem to be bothered by the oppressive, cloying heat or the annoying bugs. He didn't complain or sweat or breathe hard. He simply walked along behind them in silence, using his bamboo spear as a staff.

Jesse turned around again, as Mark pushed a low tree branch out of the way and hummed Molly Hatchet's "Flirting with Disaster" under his breath. The thin branch snapped backward and smacked Jesse in the face. Crying out, he touched his cheek. It felt hot. He looked at his fingers and was relieved to see there was no blood.

"What happened?" Mark asked.

"You nearly put my eye out with that branch, man! Watch where you're going." "Jesus, I'm sorry." "It frigging hurts."

"You've got a welt. I'm really sorry about..." Mark trailed off, noticing that Matthew was smirking.

"What's up?" he asked the contestant. "You think this is funny?"

Matthew shrugged, but didn't reply. His smile vanished again, and his expression became stone.

"Come on," Jesse said. "I'll be okay. Let's just get this over with so we can be done with it and move on to more important things."

He heard the contempt in his own voice, but was no longer concerned whether Matthew picked up on it. It was too hot to care.

Mark walked on and commenced with his humming. Jesse followed him. He'd gone about five steps when something sharp and pointed pressed against his lower back, right between his spine and left kidney.

"That's far enough," Matthew said. "Move and you'll be pissing into a bag for the rest of your life."

Confused and angry, Jesse started to spin around. The pain and pressure in his back increased. The point—it had to be Matthew's bamboo spear— pierced his flesh. Jesse gasped, wincing in pain.

"I mean it," Matthew said. "Don't you fucking move."

Mark turned. "What's going on?" He froze, staring at them. Had circumstances been different, Jesse might have been amused by the

expression on his friend's face. Mark's jaw grew slack. He gaped, mouth open like a cartoon character. Whatever was happening, it was enough to shock the usually unflappable Mark. Seeing that, Jesse felt the first twinge of real fear. Dropping his equipment, he put his hands up in the air.

"Quit messing around, now," he said. "You don—"

Matthew prodded him with the spear again. The pain grew worse. Jesse moaned.

"Shut up, and stand real still. Mark, you turn on that fucking camera and start filming."

Mark licked his lips and started to speak, but Matthew jabbed Jesse again. This time, the pain was enough to make him cry out.

"Do it. I won't tell you again."

Hands trembling, Mark fumbled with the camera.

"T-take it easy," he stammered. "You're the boss. What's the p-plan?"

Matthew put a hand on Jesse's shoulder and forced him down. "Kneel."

Jesse obeyed. His eyes locked with Mark's. Pebbles and branches dug into his knees and mosquitoes whirled around his face, but he ignored them all. He tried to pray and realized that he'd forgotten how.

Please,
he thought.
Please . . . please . . . please.

The pressure in his back vanished. Jesse sighed. He sensed movement behind him and saw Mark flinch. A second later, Matthew grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. Before Jesse could resist, the point of the spear returned. This

time it was pressed against his neck. Jesse's breath caught in his throat.

"Now," Matthew said, "I want you both to listen to me very carefully. I've been working on this piece of bamboo since the night we arrived. It is very, very sharp. Yes, I'd prefer a knife or a handgun, but since we weren't allowed to bring those along as our luxury items, this will have to do—and it can, if you force me to use it. Believe it."

"What do you want?" Jesse wheezed. "Is this about winning?"

Matthew laughed. "No, this is about something more important."

"What?" The pain in his throat grew worse.

"Mark is going to film me, and you're going to play the part of the good little hostage. If either one of you does anything stupid—anything at all—I will shove this thing into your throat and bleed you like a stuck pig. It means nothing to me. I slaughtered pigs back home when I was a boy, and I've got no qualms about doing it now. Do you both understand?"

"Y-yes," Mark whispered. His eyes were wet.

Jesse started to respond, but found that talking made the spear point sink deeper into his skin. He tried to stay as motionless as possible.

"Tell me when you're ready," Matthew said.

Mark nodded. "Y-you can go ahead. Just stay cool, okay?"

"Don't you have to give me a countdown or something?"

"I-I can if you want me to."

"I'd like that. Keeps things professional. And

Mark, you'd better be filming. No fucking around here. Not unless you want to help paint this jungle red."

Jesse closed his eyes and tried to keep from shaking. He listened to Mark count down from three and heard the fear in his friend's voice.

"Two ... one . . ."

"Hello, America." Matthew's voice was calm and measured. "Your regularly scheduled broadcast of mind-numbing shit has been interrupted tonight by the Sons of the Constitution."

Jesse shuddered. Like most Americans, he was familiar with the name, and it filled him with dread. The Sons of the Constitution was a militant group dedicated to bringing about a second American revolution and overthrowing the current political system through a campaign of bombings, assassinations, and other terrorist acts. They'd been active in the '90s and had since slipped from the public radar, replaced with the more current specter of Islamic radicals and other religious fanatics. Their most notorious acts were the bombing of the FBI's database and crime lab buildings in Quantico, and the assassination of several political and corporate figures.

"For too long now," Matthew continued, "you have sat back and done nothing while our country has been taken over by corporations and special interest groups. You've cheered for the Republicans and Democrats like they were your favorite football team, blindly echoing their talking points without daring to think for yourself, swallowing whatever propaganda the corporate-funded media groups fed you.

Our reporters no longer report the news. They simply parrot whatever the government tells them. The war, our economy, our social mores—all of these are reported on as a series of press releases, read to us by empty-headed, good-looking news readers.

"Our young men and women are dying in far-off lands. Our jobs are going overseas. Our country is being overrun by foreigners who don't respect our culture or language or ideals. Our courts are a joke. Our children are illiterate. Our economy is in the gutter, and while most of us work two or three shit jobs to feed our families, a select and powerful few carve this country up a little bit more among themselves, and get rich from our sorrow.

"Political correctness is the new racism. Our culture and beliefs are under attack. A war has been waged against them for decades now. It was slow and insidious, and you did not care because you were taught not to. You were kept silent—fat and pacified—on a diet of movies and television and pop music. Instead of showing you footage from Iraq or our inner city neighborhoods, the media shows you pop starlets and celebrity marriages. Instead of voting in our elections, you vote for reality-show contestants. You can't name the Bill of Rights, but you can name all of the members of the latest boy band. You demonize us for our tactics, but then allow your children to idolize musicians who glamorize drug dealing and murder and promiscuity. You watch the Grammy Awards and the Oscars and the Golden Globes but don't take an interest in your government."

Matthew paused and took a deep breath. Jesse

opened his eyes. The pressure on his neck increased slightly and the point sank deeper, almost piercing the flesh. When Matthew spoke again, his voice was louder, his pace more frantic.

"Wake up, America! The world thinks you are a joke. God has abandoned you, and who can blame him. You are spoon-fed daily government-approved sound bites from CNN and Fox News, and think yourself informed, but you are not. The media is nothing but their mouthpiece.

"Your rights are being eradicated daily by the FBI, CIA, Department of Homeland Security, Wall Street, the oil companies, and Hollywood—and you don't care. You can no longer be bothered to get out of your chair and run out into the street and protest. Where is that radical spirit this country was founded on? Where is that urgency for change that defined a generation in the sixties? Why are you so content to allow your civil rights to be trampled on? Why do you let them treat your children and your elders this way? Are you really so jaded that you no longer mind your bondage? Why do you allow them to strip you of your inalienable human rights? Where is your anger? Where is your outrage? Why have you not marched on Washington with torches and pitchforks and dragged these criminals out into the street? Why have you not hanged them for their crimes?

"It's because you're asleep. Indifferent. Depressed. You swallow your antidepressants and turn the television up louder and shrug, because you've been conditioned to believe that you can't do anything about it. You can't change anything."

His voice grew softer again, but still forceful.

"Well, we can. We can and we will. We are the Sons of the Constitution. They say we are criminals and terrorists, but that is simply more propaganda. The truth is that we are freedom fighters—fighting for your freedom and ours and our children's. Our political system is in shambles. The two parties are the same coin. We will enact change by whatever means necessary, and we will not stop until things are different. This is your wake-up call, America. You want reality television? Well, by God, we will show you reality. We will show you how the world really is. This is your fault."

Jesse felt Matthew shift his weight. The bamboo was pressed harder against his neck. He started to speak, but then there was a sharp, burning sensation, and suddenly, his neck and chest felt hot. The pain vanished. He heard a hissing, sputtering sound, like a leaky garden hose. Something wet trickled down his arm and soaked his shirt. His eyes darted to the right, and he saw blood splattered all over a fern.

Blood. His blood.

Jesse tried to scream, but found he couldn't breathe.

The jungle grew blurry and red. "Jesse!"

Mark lowered the camera and ran to his friend. Jesse slumped over onto the trail, blood jetting from the deep, ragged wound in his throat. It pulsed in time with his heart, and bubbles formed around the gash each time Jesse tried to breathe.

"Jesse, hang on, man ..."

Straddling Jesse's body, Matthew thrust the spear at Mark. Blood dripped from the tip. Mark backed away.

"Freeze."

Mark stopped, his face aghast.

"Keep filming," Matthew ordered. "I'm not done yet. You keep filming, or I'll kill you, too."

Mark paused. His gaze flickered from the spear to Jesse to Matthew. Then he dropped the camera, turned, and fled.

"Help," he shouted. "He's fucking crazy! Somebody help."