Survival

by Gordon Korman

  The castaways still hadn’t found a freshwater stream or spring on the island. There probably wasn’t one — they were rare on small cays like this. That meant they would have to survive on what fell out of the sky.

  He walked over to the spot on the beach where they had stuck twenty-eight coconut shells in the sand to serve as rain-catchers. Along with them was a yellow rubber rain hat, which Ian had rescued from the burning Phoenix. Full marks to TV for that. The hat had been their only source of water on the raft.

  “Aw — ”

  Each shell held maybe a couple of inches of water — less in the hat, which was wider. It was another example of how TV and reality were two different things. Yes, setting out receptacles would gather rain. But not much rain. The storms here were heavy but quick. For a good supply of water they’d need a lot more shells — or Noah’s flood. With a sad shrug, he picked up the rain hat and drained it. Then he downed three coconut shells in rapid succession. It wasn’t enough — not nearly enough. But this was all they had, and he wouldn’t dream of drinking more than his share.

  When he finished, he was even thirstier than before. It was a different kind of thirst than they had experienced during those awful days on the raft. That had been a burning, paralyzing feeling of parched desperation — you knew that if you didn’t drink, you’d be dead very soon. Here there was always some water — a pint when they needed a quart; a quart when they needed a gallon. Enough to save their lives, but not to satisfy their constant craving. This was a kind of thirst that could go on for weeks, months, maybe even years. It wouldn’t kill them, but it was sure to do something even scarier. It would wear them down and drive them mad.

  Angrily, Ian took one of the empty shells and hurled it with all his might. It hit the sand and rolled, disappearing over the shelf where the beach angled down toward the water.

  The guilty feeling came immediately. Who was he to throw away one of their precious rain-catchers? He ran over to retrieve it.

  And froze.

  His heart pounded like a drum solo in his chest. The effort to keep from passing out claimed every ounce of strength he had.

  A body lay limp and motionless in the sand. Its lifeless outstretched arms framed a single word from his sign partially erased by the tide: ALIVE. Another bad joke in the long cruel comedy routine that had delivered them all here.

  He couldn’t bring himself to move any closer. If this was J.J. or Lyssa —

  No, it was a grown man. The captain … ?

  “Luke! Luke!”

  The sound of his own voice, thin and high-pitched, terrified him. It must have terrified the others too, because they came running. All three fixed their eyes on the huddled shape and moved slowly toward it as though wading through molasses.

  It was Luke who mustered the courage to reach down and roll the body over. Pasty gray skin and wild staring eyes. The face looked unreal, like a wax figure.

  A collective moaning sigh escaped them. This was not the body of Captain Cascadden.

  “It’s the guy,” gasped Luke. “The fourth man from the plane.” He pointed to a neat bullet hole, dead center in the victim’s forehead. “We were right. They killed him.”

  “But that happened all the way on the other side of the island,” Charla said weakly. “What’s he doing here?”

  “The current must swing around this way,” Ian decided.

  He couldn’t take his eyes from the fatal wound. Whatever blood had been there had been washed clean by the hours in the ocean. Now the bullet hole was exactly that, a hole — an empty space.

  In the past two weeks, they had all come to know death. Captain Cascadden of the Phoenix had been swept overboard. Their shipmates Lyssa and J.J. had been lost at sea. They had all seen Will descend into unconsciousness, and then a fevered amnesia that could cost him his life. But this was the first time any of the castaways had ever been face-to-face with a real dead body. It was stunning, gut-wrenching, horrifying, yet oddly mesmerizing. None of them could take their eyes away. But it also presented an awkward problem.

  Charla was the first to bring it up. “Uh — what are we going to do with him?”

  “We can’t just leave him there,” Ian put in. “His body will decompose. And birds and animals will …” His voice trailed off. When would he ever learn to shut up? No one wanted to hear it!

  “We’ll give him a decent burial,” Luke said suddenly. “I know people who never got funerals no matter how much they deserved them. We’ve got the chance to bury one guy. Let’s take it.”

  As soon as the words were out of Luke’s mouth, Ian knew it was the right choice.

  He was full of admiration. That’s what it takes, he guessed, to be a leader.

  * * *

  In his own mind, Luke wasn’t so sure. Burying a fully grown man was going to be a huge job — especially without shovels or any kind of digging equipment. They were probably still weak from the raft. They had eaten nothing but fruit in over a week; they were getting water, but not much. Yes, this was the right thing to do. But did it make sense?

  No one wanted to touch the body any more than absolutely necessary. They rolled the dead man over onto the blackened cabin top and carried it like a stretcher into the jungle.

  “Let’s take it far in,” Charla suggested.

  Luke understood instantly and agreed. This man could not hurt them now. But a grave was a reminder of death. If they buried him in the nearby woods where they foraged for food and firewood, they would be inviting death into their daily lives.

  The body was heavy, the going rough. Some groves of trees were so dense that the raft wouldn’t fit between the trunks, so they were forced to change direction. On they trudged. They kept going mostly because they didn’t know where to stop. They were kids on a boat trip. How could they have been ready for all that had happened? Shipwrecked. Adrift at sea. Marooned. And now this.

  Crazy, Luke thought. The guy was dead. He wasn’t exactly going to be enjoying the view. What difference did it make where they buried him?

  He stopped. “Right here,” he decided.

  Then came the digging. They had no tools, so they used their bare hands. A crisscrossing lattice of thick vines had to be torn away. It was filthy work. The three were soon covered in dirt, which mixed with dripping sweat to form a layer of slimy mud. Was this how Will was living in the middle of the jungle? Bugs everywhere. Worms the size of garter snakes, huge winged cockroaches, giant slugs, strange fat caterpillars — bagworms, Ian called them.

  Was it crazy to think that Will was alive somewhere in this never-ending wilderness? They hadn’t seen so much as a trace of him in three whole days. Maybe his memory had come back and he was trying to find them, but he was lost in the vast sameness of the jungle. There were so many ways to get hurt out here. An unseen vine, a bad fall or broken ankle — he’d be at the mercy of the snakes; no way to get food or water …

  Don’t think. Dig.

  The hole took over an hour. Finally, they lifted the body off the raft, dropped it inside the grave, and filled in the dirt. For Luke, even the burning and sinking of the Phoenix had been easier to stomach than this terrible task.

  The others felt it too, an overpowering desire to put this gruesome experience behind them.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Ian panted when the last handful of dirt was in place.

  “No,” Luke said simply.

  “Come on,” urged Charla. “This is creepy. We buried the guy; let’s beat it.”

  “Not yet,” Luke insisted. “Somebody should say something.”

  “We don’t even know his name,” she complained.

  “He’s probably got a driver’s license or passport or something like that,” Ian put in. “We never checked.”

  Charla was impatient. “You want to go digging for it?”

  “Let’s just get it over with,” said Luke. He had only been to one funeral in his life — his great-uncle’s. His parents had gotten him all decked out in his best suit. He look
ed around. He and his fellow castaways were clothed in ragged shorts and T-shirts, ripped, faded, salt-encrusted, and filthy with mud. Their sneakers were battered and full of holes. They weren’t exactly dressed to deliver a eulogy.

  Not knowing what to do, Luke stood at attention, as if they were playing the national anthem at a ball game. Ian put a hand on his heart.

  “For all we know, you were a bad guy and you got exactly what you deserved,” Luke began. “But maybe somebody somewhere is going to miss you the way our families miss us. They won’t know where you are, or why you don’t come home, or what’s happened to you. And that’s got to feel pretty sad.”

  A muffled sob escaped Ian. Charla put an arm around his shoulders.

  “Or maybe that person misses you the way we miss Lyssa and J.J., who never got any funeral, not even a lame one like this. Or maybe it’s more like Will — we know he’s out here, but — ”

  His voice broke. All three of them were crying now. Even at the times of greatest desperation on the raft, they had never wept like this. The sun was high in the sky — more than half the day, wasted ….

  Suddenly, Luke’s sorrow transformed itself into a flare of anger. Anger at the judge for sentencing him. Anger at Mr. Radford, the mate of the Phoenix, for deserting them. Anger at himself for letting Will get away. Anger even at the man in the ground, for dying and putting them through this.

  The moment passed. He drew a deep breath. “Anyway, what do you care?” he finished to the mound of earth at their feet. “You’re already dead.”

  “Amen,” Ian barely whispered.

  “Rest in peace,” added Charla.

  The ocean, thought Luke. That was the only way to cleanse them of this horror. A good long swim. He bent down to pick up the raft.

  “Wait!” Ian exclaimed suddenly.

  The younger boy was pointing at a small gap in the underbrush not ten feet from the grave site. Right there in the soft ground — footprints.

  Will.

  “He’s alive!” Luke exclaimed with relief. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Will! Will!”

  Charla grabbed his arm. “Not so loud,” she warned. “There are killers on this island!”

  “That’s another reason we have to find him,” Luke retorted. “Before they do!”

  They listened breathlessly. Birdsong. Chirping of insects.

  “Come on, Will,” called Luke, a little lower this time. “We know you’re out here.”

  Nothing.

  And then, barely audible amid the sounds of the jungle … a far-off human voice.

  “It’s coming from over there!” chorused the three castaways.

  They regarded one another in dismay. They were pointing in three different directions.

  Luke checked the sneaker print. It was heading to their left. “This way!”

  He started off, leading the others. It was pure guesswork, Luke thought. Any other footprints were covered by heavy underbrush. In his mind, he kept an image of the direction of Will’s sneaker tread and tried to follow it like a compass needle. Not that it was possible to stay on course in this tangle of greenery.

  But when you have only one clue, you follow it.

  “Please, Will!” Charla tried to make her quiet voice carry.

  They trudged on, searching for any sign of human life — a broken branch, a trampled fern, a torn vine. But nothing stood out.

  And then Ian found another footprint.

  “You’re right!” exclaimed Charla. “Two of them!” She stared. “Uh-oh.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Luke.

  “If this is Will,” she said slowly, “he’s got two different-sized feet.”

  Ian knelt. “And two different shoes.” He looked up at Luke. “This is two people.”

  Luke drew in his breath sharply. “Are you sure?”

  Charla began to tremble. “The men from the plane!” she breathed. “It’s not Will, it’s them!”

  Ian frowned. “But what are they doing all the way over here?”

  “I don’t care if they’re on an Easter egg hunt,” put in Luke. “We’ve got to get out of here before they come back!”

  And then … just the tiniest crack.

  They froze and listened. It was the swishing and snapping of people walking through the jungle.

  Luke mouthed the words, Get down, and the three dropped, trying to disappear into the dense underbrush.

  The swishing was louder now. The men were close! Luke tried to catch a glimpse of them, but he didn’t dare move for fear of being spotted. Where were they? Since there was no trail, it was impossible to predict what path someone might take.

  Suddenly … a flash of red shirt! Luke’s breath caught in his throat. Just a few feet away! The killers were walking straight at them!

  It was too late to run. Luke rolled to his right in a desperate attempt to avoid the stepping foot. Horrified, he felt the sneaker catch him on the shoulder.

  “Hey!” came a voice above him.

  A split second later, the figure was tumbling into the underbrush behind him. The jig was up. They were caught.

  Luke didn’t think; he just reacted. In a single motion, he grabbed a rock and jumped upright, aiming at the back of the intruder’s blond head. “One move and you’re dead!” he hissed.

  Ian picked up the sunglasses that had fallen off the prisoner as he tripped. They were strangely familiar — sleek and silver, designer frames. He flashed Luke the earpiece. On it was engraved: JONATHAN LANE, THE TOAST OF LONDON — P.S.

  Luke’s eyes bulged. These glasses belonged to J.J. Lane, their shipmate from the Phoenix! There was no mistaking them! They were one-of-a-kind — originally given to J.J.’s father, movie star Jonathan Lane, by Paul Smith, the fashion designer!

  Luke dropped his rock. “J.J.?” he barely whispered.

  The actor’s son rolled over. “Luke?”

  “You’re alive!” cried Charla, throwing herself at J.J. in a joyous embrace. Ian piled on. Luke was slapping backs, shoulders — any surface he could get a hand on.

  All at once, he stopped celebrating and grabbed J.J. by the shirt. “Lyssa — ?”

  “Relax — ”

  And then a familiar voice said, “Do you think these are, like, you know, real bananas?” Lyssa Greenfield stepped into view, a bunch of finger bananas in her arms. She gaped at the four of them rolling around the underbrush. Dumbstruck, she grappled for words. “But you’re dead!” she gasped finally.

  “You’re dead,” Luke shot back, laughing with relief.

  “Man, what happened to you guys?” asked J.J. “You look like coal miners.”

  It took Lyssa a few seconds to do a head count and realize who was missing. “Where’s my brother?”

  “Don’t panic,” Charla said quickly. “He’s not dead — at least he wasn’t three days ago.”

  “Why isn’t he with you?” she demanded, her voice shrill.

  “He ran away from us,” Luke explained. “He doesn’t remember us; he doesn’t remember the trip — he thinks he’s lost on Guam and it’s all our fault.”

  She was shocked. “He’s gone crazy?”

  “Amnesia,” Ian supplied.

  “He’s lost his memory?”

  “Just the last couple of weeks of it,” Luke replied. “He remembers you — he kept asking us, ‘What have you done with my sister?’ Almost like we kidnapped you or something. He thinks the Phoenix is moored at a marina around here, and he has to get you and report for Charting a New Course.”

  “I saw a show about it once,” added Ian. “It’s called paranoid delusion.”

  “We’ve got to find him,” Lyssa said urgently. “I can make him remember.”

  Charla put a reassuring arm on her shoulder. “We’ll keep looking. But it’s hard to find someone who doesn’t want to be found.”

  Lyssa blinked back tears. “But you haven’t seen him for three days! He could be dead!”

  “Or he could be just avoiding us,” Luke pointed out. “
That would be good news — it means he’s alive and alert.”

  “Can he really survive all by himself on this island?” she asked dubiously.

  Luke spread his arms wide. “Can we? He has what we have — which is pretty much nothing.”

  “Except the supplies on the lifeboat,” put in J.J.

  “Lifeboat?” Charla repeated.

  “The inflatable raft,” J.J. explained. “That’s how we got away when the boat sank. It’s still in the little cove where we washed ashore. We’ve been living in it.”

  “How did you guys get here?” asked Lyssa.

  “On a piece of cabin top the size of a postage stamp,” Charla explained. “One of us had to hang over the side or we’d capsize. You were lucky.”

  “Hey,” the actor’s son interrupted sharply, “I could be in L.A. right now, surrounded by fast cars, hot tubs, and chicks, chicks, chicks. Don’t lecture me on how I haven’t suffered enough.”

  “No fighting,” ordered Luke. “We’re all in this together, right? We’re scared, we’re worried about Will — and we’re all sick of coconuts and bananas.”

  J.J. and Lyssa looked completely blank.

  “Maybe you’ve been eating durians,” put in Ian.

  “They’re hungry, not crazy,” Charla mumbled distastefully.

  “We’ve been eating what’s in the boat,” said Lyssa. “You know, the freeze-dried survival meals. Chicken and mashed potatoes. Beef stew. Chili.”

  Luke looked so genuinely ravenous that even Lyssa had to laugh. “Put your tongue back in your head. We’ve only got one left — mac and cheese. That’s why we’re out in the jungle — looking for food.”

  “I love mac and cheese,” piped up Ian. His face fell. “But I guess we should save it for a special occasion.”

  J.J. stared at him. “Special occasion? We’re in the middle of nowhere! Remember how no-where we were on the boat? Well, that was the Sunset Strip compared to here! What special occasions are we going to have? National Cockroach-the-Size-of-a-Volkswagen Day?”

  Luke was thoughtful. “How about Raft Moving Day? The lifeboat is too easy to spot out on a beach. We should move it to the cover of the trees.”