Castaways (9 page)

"You do. I can see it inside you."

"I don't feel very strong."

"But you are. I think that before this thing is over, you'll find out just how much." "I hope so."

Jerry nudged her. "I know so. And I'll help you out. We're in this together now, remember?" "You promise?" "I promise."

"And what about when it's over, and we're off the island and back home again. What then?"

Jerry stood up and began gathering the firewood again. "Let's just concentrate on winning first. We'll worry about what happens later . . . later."

"I guess you're right. A lot could happen between now and then."

Jerry nodded, grunting as he lifted a particularly large branch.

She watched him work and marveled at how much her attitude toward him had changed—and how quickly. Earlier today, she'd been cautious of him, not trusting any of her fellow contestants. Now he was the closest thing she had to a friend here on the island.

Becka got to her feet and winced. Her tailbone hurt. She rubbed it.

"You okay?"

"Sure," Becka said. "My rump hurts. That's all." Jerry laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Rump. Not a word you hear very often. You struck me as more of a 'butt' kind of girl." "And you struck me as an ass." "Hey!"

Giggling, she walked over to help him. Becka noticed an olive-colored tree snake slithering past them. She eyed the serpent's slender body, relatively large head and eyes, and conspicuous dorsal stripe. She was fairly certain it wasn't poisonous, but waited until it had disappeared into the undergrowth before picking up the dead branches.

"Come on," Jerry urged. "We'd better catch up with the others. We don't want to piss them off."

Becka shivered.

"The temperature's dropping," she said.

"Yeah." Jerry glanced up at the sky again. "Won't be long now. Tropical Cyclone Ivan is on his way."

His words seemed to hang in the air like heavy storm clouds.

Chapter Seven

"Hey." With a big grin, Richard held up a thrashing fish. Its lips puckered and its gills flexed as it gasped in the suffocating air. "This one's got a real nice mouth on it. Reminds me of this one girl back home."

"Why don't you stick your dick in it?" Sal's voice carried over the crashing waves. "Maybe I will." "I dare you."

"How much will you give me if I do?"

"I don't have to pay you to do it. You're so horny, you'd fuck the crack of dawn."

"Who's Dawn? Is she pretty?"

"You'd fuck a garden hose if there was enough pressure behind it."

Richard appeared doubtful. "I don't know if I could fit inside a garden hose. I'm pretty big."

"I bet that fish would be the best-looking piece of ass you've ever had."

"Maybe. It's definitely prettier than my prom date."

Laughing, Richard tossed the wriggling fish into

a crude basket that the castaways had woven together from reeds and branches. Then he wiped his hands on his lime-green shorts. The fish flopped on top of the rest of their catch—four other fish of varying sizes. Seabirds circled ravenously overhead, daring to dart lower each time any of the men walked away from the basket, and then squawking angrily when Sal or Richard returned.

"I never fucked a fish before. I wonder how it would feel."

Sal strolled across the wet sand toward him. The surf lapped at his bare feet. Since their arrival on the beach, the tide had crept steadily closer, rising as the sky grew darker and the winds increased.

"You say that like you've fucked other animals."

Richard shrugged.

"Oh my God." Sal snickered. "You have, you sick fuck! What was it?"

"When I was about fourteen, I fucked a chicken. All my friends did. One after another. It was sort of a dare."

"You fucked a chicken?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"We were bored."

"You couldn't find anything better to do than to have sex with a chicken?"

Richard shrugged again. "It was Kansas, after all."

"You are one sick puppy, my friend."

"Oh, like you never fucked something disgusting?"

"Well," Sal admitted, "I fucked a fat chick once. I was shit-faced at the time. It was back in the eighties, after the KISS
Asylum
tour. Does that count?"

"I don't know. How big was she?" "Well over three hundred pounds. I had to roll her around in flour just to find the wet spot." "I'd say that qualifies."

"Maybe so," Sal said, "but at least I've never fucked a chicken."

"I may have admitted to fucking a chicken, but I'd never admit to seeing KISS on their
Asylum
tour."

"What, you don't like KISS?"

"They're okay, but that era was terrible. Give me the band in full makeup any day."

"You don't know what you're talking about. When they got rid of the theatrics, they were able to just focus on the music. That was a great era."

"I don't know about that."

"Just because you play drums, that doesn't make you an expert, Richard."

"I'm enough of an expert not to fuck a fat girl after the show."

They fell silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.

"I wonder how a fish would feel," Richard asked again. "Probably cold and slimy."

"Go ahead and try it," Sal said. "Seriously, I won't tell anybody. You're stuck on this island without any pussy—who could blame you?"

"That's not exactly true. We've got pussy here."

"Not any that you're getting."

"I think Pauline's pretty hot."

"She is," Sal agreed, "and she's way out of our fucking league, dude. So was Sheila and that other chick we exiled a few days ago."

"Why is that?" Richard asked. "Have you ever noticed that on every season of
Castaways,
the hot girls get exiled first? I always said that if I ever made it onto the show, I wouldn't do that, and yet I helped get rid of her. Why?"

"I don't know. But I did, too, so we're just as guilty as those previous contestants. And now all the nice-looking ones are gone. Except Pauline. But she's in tight with Stefan's group. That's why Jerry's plan better work, or our asses are next, right after they exile Troy."

"Do you really think we should join forces with Jerry?"

Sal shrugged. "I don't see why not. It makes sense for now. Maybe when it's just Pauline left out of their group, we can offer her immunity in exchange for some of that ass. I mean, she likes sticking her tits in everyone else's face. Why not stick them in mine for a while?"

"You wouldn't really do her."

"Are you crazy? Try me. I'd do her in a heartbeat."

"No," Richard insisted. "You wouldn't. Not with the cameras around all the time. You've got a wife and kids back home. There's no way you'd let them see that on television. You'd end up divorced."

"Shit. I don't get laid at home either. I might as well take advantage of it here if the opportunity presents itself."

"What about Shonette? Would you do her?"

"Yeah, in a pinch. She's not all that, but she's better than your fish. Becka, too."

"Becka's cute," Richard agreed, "but I think she likes Jerry."

"Even if she didn't like him, she wouldn't do you, man. She'd sooner fuck that worm snake we found today. You're better off sticking to the fish."

Richard laughed, then shivered as a particularly fierce gust of wind blasted across the beach. The skin on his arms prickled.

"It's getting pretty chilly," he said. "Maybe we should head back to camp."

Sal glanced up at the foreboding sky. It was growing darker by the minute. The sun had almost completely vanished behind a mass of thick, roiling clouds.

"If it's gonna rain," he muttered, "then I wish it would start already."

"I can't believe how cold it's getting."

"It's not," Sal said. "We've just gotten so used to the heat that as soon as the temperature drops a little bit, it feels like we're in Antarctica or something."

Richard gathered their equipment—netting, lines, and hooks that they'd won during a challenge, and two bamboo spears they'd fashioned in camp— while Sal continued studying the sky.

"Come on," he urged. "Let's head back."

Nodding, Sal picked up the bundle of fish. "Don't forget about your girlfriends."

"Hey, listen." Richard glanced around, making sure they were alone. The beach was deserted. "You're not going to tell anybody about the chicken, are you?"

"That depends. How much is it worth to you?"

"Oh, come on, Sal. That's not right."

"You shouldn't have said anything. You're just lucky we don't have a camera crew following us around."

"Well, even so, I'd appreciate it if you kept it between us."

"I will—for half your prize money if you win."

"Half?"

"Half."

"How about I just wait till we get back to camp, and then look in the camera and tell America all about the fat chick you banged."

"I've changed my mind," Sal said. "The chicken will be our little secret."

They walked along the beach, heading back toward the island's interior. They didn't hurry, but they didn't lag either. Neither man wanted to get caught in the jungle during the storm. As they crossed the beach, their discussion changed from women and fish to music. Both of them were metalheads, but while Sal was a fervent KISS fan, Richard was into more esoteric bands like Iced Earth and Death. He was telling Sal about his current favorite group, Co-heed and Cambria, when something in the sand caught his attention. He paused, cupping his hand over his eyes, and stared.

"What's wrong?" Sal asked.

"Look over there."

A few yards away from them were a series of footprints. They led from the jungle to the beach, stopped, and then went inland again in a U-shaped pattern.

"Big deal," Sal said. "They're ours."

"No, they're not." Richard pointed. "Ours are over there. See? That's where we came down, over near the path."

"Then they're our tracks from yesterday."

"They can't be. The tide would have washed those away last night. These are fresh. It looks like whoever made them sneaked onto the beach while we were fishing, stood here looking at us, then went back into the jungle."

"Maybe Mark or Stuart shot some footage of us."

Richard didn't respond. He continued staring, fascinated by the tracks.

"I'm telling you," Sal said, growing impatient, "they're our footprints."

Richard put down the fishing equipment and stepped closer, studying the tracks. They were human in shape, but child sized. The five toes were longer than a human's, and the heel seemed rounder. At the tip of each toe there was a long impression that designated a claw or talon. He reached out and ran his hand over them. The wet sand shifted and collapsed, partially filling the depressions.

"This isn't us," Richard insisted. "I'm pretty sure of it."

"Maybe it's one of the girls, then. Roberta has small feet."

"She hasn't been down here since she got that bad sunburn. And look at them. They look more like a monkey's prints than they do a person's."

"There aren't any monkeys on this island," Sal said. "They're not indignant."

Richard chuckled. "You mean indigenous."

"Whatever. There aren't any monkeys here. If there were, you'd probably try to fuck them."

Richard ignored the taunt. "Maybe it's some other kind of animal. I guess that could be possible. There's been a lot of rain lately. Some wild animal could have left them, and then the prints got distorted or something."

Sal knelt next to his friend and studied the tracks closer. "Except there aren't any wild animals on the island. Just snakes and turtles and stuff. And these definitely aren't turtle tracks."

"So now you agree with me?"

"I didn't say that. I just said there aren't any wild animals on the island that could make tracks like this. The only thing that was ever here were wild pigs, left over from shipwrecks, and Roland said they died off years ago."

"Well, then what are they if it wasn't us and it wasn't an animal?"

"I think that's obvious. The producers faked it."

"That's no special effect!" Richard jabbed a finger at the prints.

"Sure it is." Sal's knees popped as he stood again. "This has got to be part of the show. Think about it, Richard. When we first got here, Roland told us that bullshit story about how the natives in this region thought this island was haunted by a bunch of little hairy people. So now they scare us with some phony footprints and film our reactions. It makes for great drama back home. They probably had one of the crew strap on some fake feet and stomp around out here, like one of those Bigfoot hoaxes. Then they just waited for us to go fishing, and now we'll look