by Brian Keene
Raul started to speak, but thunder rumbled in the distance and he fell silent. The jungle turned dark. The breeze increased, hissing through the trees.
"Oh shit," Troy cursed. "I didn't finish building the barrier. Hope we don't get flooded out."
"Here it comes," Jeff said. "Say hello to Ivan."
It began to rain.
Chapter Nine
"Oh shit." Ryan gaped at the tumultuous sky. "It's starting already. We'd better head back before it gets worse."
"A little rain ain't gonna hurt us," Shonette said. "In fact, some of those men back at camp could use a shower." She fanned her nose.
Ryan's nervous laughter echoed through the trees. "Yeah, but this is more than just 'a little rain.' This is a hurricane."
"Cyclone," she corrected.
"Whatever."
"It ain't even started yet. This is just the beginning."
"The calm before the storm?"
Shonette nodded. "Something like that."
Ryan picked some more plump berries, placing them on a wide, sturdy piece of tree bark that served as a makeshift basket. Pausing, he brushed a twig from his blond-brown hair and frowned, looking again at the sky.
"You're right, though," Shonette said. "Ivan is coming in a lot quicker than they said it would."
Ryan was about to respond when Roberta stepped out of the foliage.
"Found some good ones," she announced, holding up two large coconuts. "These are a lot bigger than the ones at the grocery store back home."
"Bigger than Pauline's coconuts, too," Shonette said.
All three laughed.
Shonette pointed at the coconuts. "Those will go good with the fish—if Richard and Sal catch any, that is."
"Doesn't matter to me," Roberta said. "I'm pretty much a vegetarian for health reasons."
"But I saw you eat fish before."
"Sometimes I do. I just hope we don't have to eat maggots at some point, like they did in previous seasons. Only way I can do that is if they're fried in olive oil because I'm watching my trans fats."
Shonette shivered. "If they make us eat maggots or fish eyes or any of that nasty stuff, it's game over for me."
Roberta noticed that rather than joining the conversation, Ryan kept looking at the sky.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked.
"He's afraid he's gonna melt," Shonette told her. "Afraid the storm might blow his skinny self away."
A blast of thunder rocked the sky. All three of them jumped. Startled, Ryan dropped his berries.
"Great." He knelt, retrieving the spilled fruit. "Instead of winning, I'll be famous for being the first-reality show contestant to die during filming."
"No," Shonette said. "You're right. We should get going."
"That thunder change your mind?"
She nodded, grinning sheepishly. "Can't win a million dollars if a tree falls on us or if lightning comes down and strikes us all dead."
"I bet you wouldn't admit that if the cameras were here," Roberta teased.
"No," Shonette said, "I wouldn't. But they ain't, so yeah, I'm a little spooked. Let's head back. If the others want more fruit, they can go look for it themselves."
"It's kind of weird, isn't it?" Roberta asked. "Having the cameras follow us around everywhere?"
"I've gotten used to it," Ryan said. "Sometimes I forget that they're there."
They starred down the trail, walking single file. Shonette was in the lead, followed by Ryan. Roberta brought up the rear. The rain hissed through the trees, pattering against the leafy canopy above them. The trees bent and swayed as the wind increased. A limb crashed to the ground behind them. They threaded their way through a fallen tangle of vines, pressing slowly onward and becoming more and more soaked as the rain fell harder.
"This sucks." Shonette wiped water from her eyes. "All this just to get some dinner."
"Yeah," Roberta agreed, "but it beats having to lug back firewood. We'll let Stefan and the other men do that."
"Excuse me?" Ryan pointed to himself. "Man right here."
"Sorry," Roberta apologized. "Present company excepted."
"All I know," Shonette said, "is that I'd let Raul
do a lot more than lug my firewood. That man is Fine with a capital F."
"Jerry isn't bad either," Roberta said. "And he's so nice. Too bad he's young enough to be my son."
Ryan blinked raindrops from his eyes. "I think he's got a crush on Becka."
"True that," Shonette said. "Any fool can see it."
"Well," Ryan said, "you both know who I think is the supreme hottie."
"Jeff," Shonette and Roberta said in unison.
Grinning, Ryan nodded enthusiastically.
"You should go for it," Shonette said. "Make a play for him."
"No," Ryan said. "He's hopelessly straight. Never stops talking about his wife and kids back home."
Roberta stepped over a fallen tree limb. "Poor Ryan. Came to the tropics on a wonderful vacation and can't get laid."
Ryan frowned. "I wouldn't exactly call this a vacation."
"Maybe," Roberta said, "but still. . ."
"That Troy guy is cute, too," Ryan admitted, "but in a bad boy, psycho kind of way."
"Psycho?" Roberta pushed her wet hair out of her eyes. "I think Matthew qualifies for that."
"Oh, definitely," Ryan agreed. "He gives everyone the creeps—even the crew. You have to wonder how he ever made the final cut. The Castaways application form on the website says that contestants must be in excellent physical and mental health, and he must have undergone the same evaluation we did. So how did he pass?"
"Easy," Shonette said. "The examination was in
Los Angeles, and the medical personnel were selected by the producers. He could have easily faked it."
"And besides," Roberta said, "the application also says that contestants will be selected based on their ability to be outgoing, adventurous, adaptable to new environments, and that they must have interesting lifestyles, backgrounds, and personalities. I don't fit any of those criteria."
"Sure you do," Ryan said.
"No, I don't. I'm a librarian, for crying out loud!"
Shonette stopped so suddenly in the middle of the trail that Ryan almost ran into her before stumbling to a halt.
Roberta paused behind them. "What's wrong?"
Shonette held a finger to her lips.
All three grew silent, listening. Shonette tilted her head and cocked an ear. The wind howled through the trees, rustling the leaves. In the distance, they heard the surf crashing against the beach. Then, much closer, just off the path, came a droning buzz, almost lost beneath the storm's growing cacophony.
"What is that?" Shonette stepped off the trail, lashing at the foliage with a stick. Ryan and Roberta glanced at each other, shrugged, then followed her. Roberta's nose wrinkled as she sniffed the air.
"Do you guys smell that?"
"All I smell is the storm," Ryan said. "You know, that electric smell?"
"Not that. Something else."
"What?"
Roberta shrugged. "I don't know. It's sort of familiar, but I can't place it."
Shonette pushed farther into the undergrowth,
and they reluctantly followed her. The buzzing sound grew louder. A stand of fern fronds parted, revealing a splash of red. Then more. Crimson spattered the leaves and the ground. A sour stench, faint but noticeable despite the rain, hung over the area.
"Oh Jesus," Shonette gasped.
Richard's swim trunks lay at the base of a tree. All three contestants recognized the lime-green garment immediately. The shorts were torn and bloody. Flies crawled over the shredded cloth, ignoring the inclement weather. Another squirming mass of flies scurried over something nearby. Shonette poked at it with her stick and the insects took flight, revealing part of a human hand. It had been severed at the wrist and cut in half. Only the ring and pinkie fingers remained, along with a ragged flap of palm. Sinew and bone jutted from the
meat.
Cringing, Shonette recoiled in disgust. Ryan turned away and collapsed to his knees, dropping his berries again. He vomited onto the spilled fruit. Roberta closed her eyes and kept her breath measured and controlled, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth.
"That smell," she wheezed. "What's that smell?"
Ryan tried to answer, but his stomach convulsed and he threw up again.
"Blood," Shonette gasped. "It's the blood."
Backing away from the grisly discovery, Roberta shook her head. "No, it's not the blood. It's something else. Sour and musty. Like wet fur. I'm allergic to dogs, and this smells like that. And my allergies are acting up all of the sudden. I'm supposed to take antihistamines and use nasal spray, but I don't. I use
a lot of Kleenex. Or a sleeve. I'm not particular; I could use anybody's sleeve."
"Calm down," Ryan gasped, and then bent back over as another convulsion shot through him.
Shonette didn't respond. She continued to gape at the gory scene.
"It's Richard's," she said. "I'd recognize those ugly green swim trunks anywhere. We've got to get back. Got to tell somebody! He's dead."
"We don't know that," Roberta wheezed. "There's no body."
"There's a goddamn hand. Part of one, at least."
"But we don't know that it's his hand, and we don't know that he's dead."
Groaning, Ryan clambered to his feet. "Does it matter? We still have to tell the producers. If he's hurt, they have to send help."
"How?" Roberta pointed at the sky. "They can't travel in this. They grounded all flights and boat operations."
The musky, cloying stench grew stronger. All three of them noticed it now. Roberta flung a hand over her mouth and sneezed. Her eyes began to water. Overhead, thunder boomed.
"Oh God ..." Shonette's attention was still focused on the severed hand. "What could have done this?"
As if in answer, something growled in the jungle. It was close, judging by the sound of it. An answering cry erupted from nearby.
"Go!" Ryan shouted. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
Before they could flee, the bushes in front of
them and on either side rustled. A second later, five shadowy figures emerged. They rushed through the rain toward the three hapless victims, and their features grew clearer as they bore down on them. They were about four feet tall and covered in brown hair. Their heads were small, but their jaws seemed oversized and jutted from their faces like stone outcrop-pings. The creatures had long fingers with curved, black talons.
"Monkeys!" Ryan pointed, screaming.
But he was wrong.
He turned to run but slipped in the mud. One of the brown-haired creatures flung itself at him, knocking him to the ground. The air rushed out of Ryan's lungs. The furry thing straddled his chest and bared its yellow-white teeth. Its breath was like an open sewer. It was naked, except for the thick hair covering its short form, and its thin, soiled penis and testicles rubbed against his abdomen. Despite his fear, Ryan noticed that the creature had no tail. Sucking in a lungful of air, Ryan started to shout for help. Then his attacker swiped at his face with one clawed hand and ripped Ryan's cheek open. It seized the loose flap of skin and tore it free, exposing pink meat and teeth on the right side of Ryan's face, from his lower jaw to his scalp. His shriek became a wet warble. The monster lowered its snout and snuffled the wound, licking the raw tissue. Ryan squirmed beneath it, kicking and thrashing but unable to dislodge the beast.
Two more of the creatures tackled Shonette, flinging her to the jungle floor. She landed in a thicket of ferns, near the severed hand. Shonette
screamed. Crawling on all fours, she tried to scramble away, but one of the attackers seized her long hair and jerked her back. It grunted with a sound that clearly indicated delight, and laughed as she screamed louder.
Another monster advanced on Roberta. It held its arms out wide, as if to embrace the terrified woman. To her surprise, it was grinning. Her allergic reaction grew worse in this close proximity. The thing crept closer. A liver-colored tongue slipped from between the beast's lips, as if tasting the air. Droplets of water dripped from its bushy fur. Roberta uttered a half scream, half sneeze. In response, the creature opened its broad mouth and hissed. Then it groped itself between the legs. Roberta's eyes flickered downward. The thing had an erection. Two kiwi-sized testicles dangled below the engorged organ, swaying with each step.
She glanced back up again. The creature's grin grew wider—
—and vanished a second later when she kicked it in the nuts.
Roberta felt the monster's testicles flatten beneath her toes, felt the hot, foul air rush from its lungs, heard its startled howl of pain and rage, but there was no time to relish the victory. She turned and fled back down the path. Her eyes watered uncontrollably and snot dripped from her nose, running down her upper lip. Her lungs burned as she gasped for breath. She prayed her throat wouldn't close up as it had in the past during her most severe allergic reactions.
She heard the sounds of pursuit behind her and
swerved off the trail, plunging headfirst into the jungle. A shrill, mournful cry rang out. It sounded like a cross between a human and a hyena. Heedless of the grasping vines and prickly thorns that tore her skin, Roberta charged through the undergrowth, seeking to lose her pursuers. She concentrated on her breathing and tried to ignore the crashing sounds throughout the jungle—snapping tree limbs, rustling ferns, padded feet running along in time with the rain. She thought of her husband, Stephen, and her best friend, Sherry. Her thoughts turned to her three cats: Nike, Tinkerbelle, and Jack Byron. In many ways, they were like her children. She had to make it out of here alive. Who would take care of them if she didn't?
Roberta risked a glance over her shoulder, and saw two brown forms darting between the trees. She quickened her pace, ignoring the pain in her chest. She considered climbing a tree, but she was deathly afraid of heights. Instead, she plowed straight ahead, half blinded by the rain. With some distance between herself and the creatures, her allergy symptoms lessened, but now her breathing was impeded by sheer terror.
As she fled, she wondered where the others were. She was supposed to be getting interviewed by Mark and Jesse soon. They should have finished up with that weirdo, Matthew, by now. Surely they'd be looking for her soon.
Wouldn't they?
Gasping for breath, she stumbled onward.
Chapter Ten
Matthew stood in a broad clearing along the utility path. All around him, trees bent against the wind, threatening to snap, but he did not seek shelter. His arms were outstretched and his face upturned. He smiled at the storm, and when a bolt of lightning split the clouds asunder, he imagined that the sky smiled back at him. For a moment, the jungle looked stark, like a black-and-white photo negative, flash frozen in time. Then his eyesight returned to normal. When the thunder followed the lightning a moment later, he felt it rumble in his chest. The wind howled through the jungle, sounding very much like a speeding train. Fat raindrops pelted his face like pellets from the BB gun the neighborhood bully had shot him with when they were kids. Matthew welcomed the shower. The baptismal metaphor was not lost on him.
Here, on this primal, remote island, he'd rediscovered a part of himself that he'd never known was lost. He'd been happy all along that he was able to fool the network screeners and pass his background check, physical exam, and mental
evaluation, but now he was ecstatic. This was so worth it.
He was reinvigorated. Recharged. Gone was the old Matthew, the guy who'd plotted and schemed and complained, who'd issued missives and propaganda and calls for action on various blogs and message boards but had never actually shed blood for the cause. That had changed. Blood had been shed—and then some. Not only could he die for the cause; he could kill for it, too. He was someone different now. A loaded gun, ready to fire. A kettle set to boil. With each drop, the rain washed away the old Matthew, scrubbing him layer by layer,
stripping off the fat and getting down to the meat of things. He was Matthew version 2.0, and he had never felt more alive.
He glanced behind him as another bolt of lightning slashed the sky. Mark's and Jesse's bodies still lay where he'd hidden them, just off the path. Matthew grinned.
It was a good start.
Two down. Many to go.
The original idea—infiltrating a network reality show and then using it as an opportunity to further the cause and disseminate the truth—had been Matthew's. He'd expected his cell leader to laugh at him, but instead, he'd offered to help Matthew take it up the chain of command. When they'd approached Barnes, the Sons of the Constitution's leader, with the proposal, Matthew had assumed he would assign it to someone else, another member of the brotherhood more suited for such a mission— or else Barnes would disregard it totally. After all, Matthew was a nobody—a mere foot soldier for the
revolution, one of dozens scattered throughout various cells whose duties involved using the Internet to spread discontent regarding the current state of American affairs to the nation's sleepy, disaffected millions, thus gaining new recruits or at the very least, sympathizers to the cause. And although he was good at it, that was the extent of his abilities. He wasn't a demolitions expert or proficient with firearms. As far as his neighbors were concerned, Matthew was a faceless nobody. When he wasn't hiding his tracks online, he was careful to fit in with what society deemed as normal. The organization made a big point of insisting that members not draw attention to themselves. Matthew went to work, paid his taxes and utility bills on time, drove the speed limit, and kept his head down. He was nobody, just another drone slaving—or pretending to slave—for The Man. He had no illusions. He wasn't a hero. He wouldn't be infamous. He was just a means to an end. A cog in a much bigger machine. His mission wouldn't save the world. It would only help further the cause. Saving the world was for greater men than he.
So it came as a surprise when Barnes not only agreed, but also decided that Matthew himself would undertake the assignment.