Castaways

by Brian Keene

  Her mind swam, and it was hard to focus on anything but continued flight. She considered hiding, but decided against it. The creatures were obviously familiar with the jungle—they must be native to the island, after all—and they displayed at least a rudimentary intelligence. They'd know the terrain better than she did. What were they? She'd never seen anything like them before. The savagery they'd displayed with their attack, and worse, the sheer glee they seemed to express. Roberta grew nauseous just thinking about it. The adrenaline coursing through her body didn't help matters. She collapsed to her knees and vomited in a puddle. Her stomach heaved, but there wasn't much. Her diet had consisted of small portions of fish, rice, and fruit, with the exception of one slice of pizza she'd won during a contest several days ago. Her stomach didn't seem to care. She gagged and sputtered until the muscles in her abdomen ached. Roberta waited for her dizziness to pass. Then she grasped a limb, pulled herself back to her feet, and continued fleeing through the dark. While her allergies had subsided, Roberta was feeling every bit of her fifty-four years.

  Wet, cold, exhausted, and bleeding, she stumbled out onto the trail by accident. She glanced around, terrified, and tried to get her bearings. The ground was a slippery, sodden mess. Her feet sank into the mud. It took Roberta a moment to realize where she was. Between the blinding rain and her own fear, she couldn't see anything clearly. The edges of her vision were blurry, and once-familiar landmarks now seemed nonexistent or strange and permuted. The tangled hanging vines became creeping

  tentacles and serpents. The looming, swaying trees transformed into giant fingers, thrusting up from the earth. The howling wind mimicked a fire siren. Still struggling to breathe, Roberta closed her eyes for a moment and reminded herself that it was just her imagination.

  But the hand that fell on her shoulder and squeezed was not. It was very real. Fingers pressed tightly into her flesh.

  Roberta screamed, lashing out blindly and striking something solid. She heard a grunt from behind her and the grip on her shoulder slackened, then disappeared. Her attacker moaned in pain. Without glancing backward, she fled, shrieking.

  "Roberta!"

  She ignored the voice. It sounded familiar, but she knew that it was just more of her imagination— the storm playing auditory tricks on her.

  "Roberta, come back."

  "Help," she shrieked. "Somebody help me, please!"

  "Roberta, it's me. It's Matthew!"

  She paused, nearly tripping. Slowly, she turned around. A shadowy figure stood in the center of the path. She couldn't make out any of his features, but he certainly seemed taller and skinnier than the creatures were. She sniffed the air but did not detect the beasts' sour, musky scent. The figure carried something bulky on its shoulder. The other hand gripped a spear or walking stick.

  "Roberta, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

  "M-Matthew?"

  "Yeah, it's me. What's going on?"

  She had to strain to hear him over the howling winds. The lightning lit up the jungle and confirmed his identity. His expression was calm but concerned. She noticed his familiar bamboo spear but didn't recognize the bulkier object before the lightning vanished again. The light faded, and they were both cast back into darkness.

  "Matthew! Oh m-my God ..."

  She stumbled toward him. He bent over and sat the spear and the bulky object on the ground. Then he held out his arms. She collapsed against him, burying her head in his chest. His clothing was soaked and he smelled like sweat and mildew, but Roberta didn't care. At that moment, she welcomed the odor, if only to confirm that she was still alive and—for the moment—safe. Warmth radiated from his body.

  "It's terrible," she sobbed into his shirt. "They're all dead. Shonette . . . Ryan . . . those things got them. And Richard's h-hand . . . and the rest of him w-wasn't there."

  Matthew's body tensed, but then she felt him relax. He stroked her wet hair. His hands felt sticky, but Roberta didn't care.

  "It's okay," he whispered, trying to sopthe her. "Whatever happened, it doesn't matter anymore. It's all going to be fine."

  "But they're d-dead! Don't you understand that? They're dead."

  She felt him stiffen again, and his hands returned to his sides. His chest swelled as he took a deep breath. Thunder reverberated across the sky, and nearby another tree crashed to the ground.

  "Who's dead? Who are you talking about? Did you see something? Find someone?" He squeezed her tighter.

  "I told you. Shonette and Ryan. And maybe Richard and Sal. Those things killed them. Back there." She pointed into the undergrowth. "They came out of the jungle and attacked us while we were picking fruit. Shonette found Richard's hand. At least, we think it was his. They were definitely his shorts. Those ugly shorts . . . there was blood on them and they were all ripped up."

  "Slow down. You're not making any sense. Was there an accident?"

  "No! I'm telling you, we were attacked."

  "What are you talking about? By what?"

  His arms felt like a vise now. Roberta winced in pain.

  "Matthew, you're hurting me." "What attacked you?"

  "These things . . . these monsters. I didn't get a good look at them. They're sort of like a cross between a human and a chimpanzee. Haven't you seen them?"

  Matthew relaxed, exhaling. His chest flattened again. Incredibly, he began to laugh. Roberta slowly pulled away from him, confused.

  "Monsters? Jesus Christ, Roberta, you had me worried there for a second."

  "I'm telling the truth."

  "Oh, really?" His voice dripped with derision.

  Frowning, Roberta touched her face. The cheek that had been resting against Matthew's chest felt slick and sticky. Then another burst of lightning lit

  their surroundings and she saw why. Matthew was covered in blood—his clothes, hands, arms, and face were crimson. Some of it had rubbed off on her face while he held her. Roberta gasped. Despite the amount of blood, she didn't see any injuries.

  "Matthew! What happened to you? Are you okay?"

  Smiling, he shrugged. "I'm fine. I have been reborn."

  Roberta wondered if he'd hurt his head or was perhaps in shock. His behavior was definitely bizarre.

  "We've got to go," she said.

  "There's no hurry. I told you that everything was going to be okay. What's the rush?"

  "Matthew, you're injured. You're not thinking clearly."

  "My mind has never been clearer."

  "I'm telling you the truth. We can't stay out here in the open. Those things are still out there. We've got to make it back to camp and warn the others. Can you run?"

  "Of course I can run. Why wouldn't I be able to?"

  "Because you're hurt!"

  "No, I'm not. I told you. In fact, I've never felt better. My mind and body are liberated. I'm no longer a slave to the system. You only wish you could feel this free."

  "You're not making any sense. Matthew, we're in danger."

  He laughed again. "Well, you're partially right." He stepped closer, and this time, the stench wafting off him was anything but comforting. Still grinning,

  Matthew reached into his pocket. Still confused and in shock, Roberta took a tentative step backward and tried to return his smile. It felt more like a grimace. She glanced down at the ground and finally realized what the object he'd been carrying was—a video camera. It occurred to her that the two crew members, Mark and Jesse, weren't with him. "Where's—"

  "You asked me if I could run," Matthew interrupted. "I think the real question, Roberta, is whether you can run."

  "Please," she begged, without knowing why. Her stomach fluttered. She suddenly felt very afraid— even more than when the creatures had attacked. "We have to get out of here, Matthew."

  Lightning flashed again. Matthew brought his hand out of his pocket and Roberta saw something shiny clenched in his fist. It glinted momentarily in the temporary light. Then the lightning faded, and she couldn't see it anymore.

  But she felt it.


  Matthew raked the object across her throat in a wide, sweeping arc. Roberta felt no pain, but her skin suddenly felt very cold. Her fingers fluttered to her throat. It was wet and warm. Roberta's eyes widened in shock. The object glittered. A pock-etknife. She wondered if that had been his luxury item. Then she realized what had just happened. The pain kicked in. Her neck burned. Matthew's smile never faded. He stabbed her, thrusting the knife into her stomach. It felt like he'd pinched her. Then he stabbed her in the side, just above her left kidney. Then just below her left breast. When he

  tried to pull the pocketknife out, the blade remained stuck fast. He grunted in surprise. "Must have hit a bone."

  Roberta tried to speak, but only managed to wheeze. Clamping one hand over her throat, she turned to run. Matthew pushed her down from behind. She landed in the mud and tried to scramble away from him, scuttling through the slop.

  "I don't know what you were babbling about," Matthew said, staring down at her, "but if there's been an accident and Shonette and the others are hurt, then that just makes things easier. It vindicates me. I mean, it's got to be a sign, right? That somebody upstairs is looking down on my work and finds it good?"

  Roberta was suddenly very sleepy. The air around her grew colder, even though she could no longer feel the rain or wind. Shivering, she rolled over onto her stomach and closed her eyes.

  The last thing she felt was Matthew's foot on the back of her head, pressing her face deeper into the mud. The pressure increased. Roberta struggled to draw one last breath—

  —and couldn't.

  The wind howled.

  Deep in the jungle, something answered it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Shonette regained consciousness, she was disappointed. She'd been dreaming about her children, Monika and Darnell. The three of them had been sitting around the little breakfast nook in her apartment's kitchenette. Alicia Keys was playing on the radio and the television blared in the background; the weatherman promised nothing but sunshine. Shonette was getting dressed for work and urging the kids to hurry up or they'd be late for school. Monika and Darnell were complaining because she'd bought generic cereal rather than Fruity Pebbles, and she'd told them that when she won a million dollars on Castaways, they could eat Fruity Pebbles every day for the rest of their lives, if they wanted to. When she won, there would be no more generic brands and double shifts and coupon clipping. The kids had cheered. Then they'd given her a hug and left for school. In the dream, they'd felt warm and soft, and she could smell their familiar scent. She'd sighed, feeling comforted and strong.

  It had been a good dream.

  Safe.

  Stirring slowly, she opened her eyes, trying to remember what had happened. Rain streamed into her eyes, and her limbs felt numb. Blinking, she glanced around in confusion. The world was dark and cold—and upside down. Lightning and roiling, black clouds raced across the ground, and mud and tree roots covered the sky. She sensed that she was moving, but her legs didn't seem to be working. Indeed, something was gripping her ankles tightly, holding her feet and legs together. Before she could react, she was jostled roughly, and her head banged against something wet and furry. She tried to cry out, and then the stench hit her—a sour, musky smell, like marinated roadkill. She turned her head away and gagged.

  In the darkness, something growled.

  The bottom fell out of Shonette's stomach. She realized that she was being carried through the jungle, lugged over someone's—some thing's—hairy shoulder. She began to struggle, and her captor growled again—deep and guttural. Sharp talons dug into her leg.

  Then the memories came rushing back, and Shonette screamed.

  She remembered the shredded scraps of raw meat that had once belonged to Richard, and the torn and bloodied remnants of his shorts. She remembered a band of monsters erupting from the jungle and encircling them, shrieking and growling, attacking with sharp claws and tremendous blows. She recalled the stench and the sound. She remembered Ryan, screaming with only half a face left, squirming as one of the beasts straddled him and

  tore open his stomach with its black talons. Then it had burrowed around inside his stomach with its hairy, elongated hands, pulling his insides out of the gaping wound and devouring them with obvious relish, while poor Ryan thrashed soundlessly, his eyes rolling to white, his cries wheezing through the hole in his face while his blood bubbled out around him. The last thing she remembered was seeing Roberta fleeing into the night, swallowed up by the downpour and pursued by several of the howling, hooting creatures, even as one of them had thrown Shonette to the ground and jumped atop her. She remembered its weight, pressing against her.

  Then everything had gone black and she'd been back home with her kids.

  And now she wasn't.

  Shonette's head bounced against a rock. She realized just how close to the ground she was, and then remembered how short the creatures had been. Her hair was muddy and covered with leaves and twigs. Apparently, it had been dragging on the ground while she'd been unconscious. She tried to twist around. Her struggles increased, and in response, the talons dug deep into her skin. Gritting her teeth, Shonette swung her head back and forth. Her hair slapped the ground with wet, smacking sounds. She beat at her captor's furry back with her fists.

  "Let me go, motherfucker!"

  The creature stopped, grunting at her blows.

  "That's right. You don't want any of this. Let me go, you son of a bitch."

  The thing's grip shifted, and Shonette felt both its hands encircle her ankles and squeeze tightly. She

  screamed again, so loudly that she felt something tear inside her throat. Her cry turned into a weak rasp.

  Unbelievably, the abomination laughed.

  She tried to break free, but before she could, the monster slung her off its shoulder and swung her through the air in a wide arc, still holding on to her ankles. Her hair fluttered out behind her and her hands flailed helplessly. Shonette's scream was cut short as her head slammed against a massive, gnarled tree trunk.

  The upside-down world turned black again.

  Shonette returned to her dream, but this time, she found herself alone.

  In her dreams, she could still scream.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Muttering curses and oaths under his breath, Stuart plodded along the trail. His feet squelched in the mud, and with each step, cold water seeped into his shoes. The wind whipped at him, pushing him backward and impeding his progress. He had to keep blinking the rain away, and flicking his wet hair out of his face, but neither helped. Visibility was almost nonexistent, except during the brief flashes of lightning, and he made his way carefully, all too aware of what could happen to him if he stepped off the trail. As dangerous—and foolish (he admitted that to himself now)—as this rescue mission was, straying off into the jungle would be even worse.

  "Not my finest hour. What the hell was I thinking?"

  The thunder mocked him—deep, booming laughter that echoed across the island, shaking the very ground. Stuart paused and gave the sky the finger.

  "Screw you, Ivan."

  He trudged on. Occasionally, he cupped his hands over his mouth and called out for Mark and Jesse and the missing contestants, but he had little

  hope that they would actually be able to hear him. He wished for a flashlight or a bullhorn or even a flare gun—anything that would enable him to make his presence known, but all he had on him was the satellite phone. Everything else was back in his cabin aboard the freighter.

  The freighter ... He snorted, shaking his head. Why was he out here wandering around in the middle of a fucking cyclone while that pompous prick Roland and everyone else who worked for the show got to stay safe and secure onboard the ship? He had seniority, goddamn it. Somebody else should be out here—a grip or an EMT or a fucking intern. Not him. He should be sitting in the editing room right now, warm and dry, drinking endless cups of hot coffee while sorting through hours and hours of raw footage and pieci
ng together something usable, something that would keep viewers tuned in and the ratings high. That was his job. Not this. This was bullshit, and when this storm was over, somebody was going to hear about it.

  One thing he was glad he hadn't brought with him was the camera. He'd left it back at the base camp, and as far as Stuart was concerned, the damned thing could float away and out to sea.

  He was still fuming when he came across the fallen tree. It had snapped in half, and the upper portion lay across the path, effectively blocking him. Rather than walking around it and wading through the tangled undergrowth, Stuart climbed over the trunk, straddling it with one leg, then the other. As he descended to the other side, he slipped and fell, sprawling on his rear. Cold water and mud rushed beneath his clothes

  and between his butt cheeks. Stuart groaned. It was the single most unpleasant thing he had ever felt.

  "Shit." He gripped the tree and pulled himself to his feet. Then he shuffled around, lifting one leg and then the other, trying to dislodge the mud. He felt it running down his legs in thick rivulets. Something round and jagged—a pebble or shell or nut—was wedged up against his tailbone.

  To his left, something snapped loudly—probably another tree.

  "Hello," he shouted, not caring now if anyone could hear him or not. It felt good to shout, to rant, to unleash some of his pent up frustration. "Anybody there? Mark? Jesse? Anyone?"

  The only sound was the rain, hissing as it pelted the leaves.

  Ahead of him, Stuart spotted something lying in the middle of the trail. It was too small and misshapen to be a tree. When the sky lit up again, he caught a glimpse of pale skin.

  "Oh, no."

  Shivering, he hurried to the crumpled form and knelt beside it. Still unable to see, he fumbled out his satellite phone and flipped it open. The display screen's meager green light offered little illumination, but it was enough for him to recognize the body. Roberta, judging by her clothes and hair. She was lying on her belly, and her face was buried deep in the mud. Her side was bloody, as was the ground around her. She did not move.