by Brian Keene
He shrugged. "I don't know dick. All I know is that we're in a world of fucking shit here, man. But Jerry and Becka will fucking be here. You can trust me op that."
Quinn turned to Kerry. "Get him stabilized. I'll be back in fifteen minutes with more help."
Troy shoved Kerry aside and grabbed the pilot's arm. "You ain't fucking going anywhere, flyboy."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You're not leaving. Jerry and Becka will be here. I promised them we'd fucking wait. So sit your ass down."
Quinn yanked his arm free. "Now look here, buddy. I understand that you people have been through a lot, but you can't just—"
In the darkness, something howled. Quinn and Kerry jumped, startled. At the helicopter, Gerling turned the spotlight toward the jungle. The howl was answered by another, then three more.
"What the hell is that?" Kerry whispered.
"That," Troy said, "is why I want the fucking M-16 and a nuke strike. But never mind that. I've got a very important question for you both."
"What?"
"Either of you guys got a fucking cigarette I can bum?"
"I don't smoke," Kerry said. Troy turned to the pilot hopefully. Quinn shook his head.
"I quit six months ago."
Troy kicked the sand and sighed. "Just my fucking luck. I'll tell ya, man, just when I think this night can't get any worse ..."
The howls continued from the jungle, growing louder and closer.
* * *
"She had kids," Becka muttered. "What?"
"Shonette. She had two kids. We shouldn't have left her."
Jerry's lungs and throat burned, and the muscles in his legs ached. His feet felt like balls of flame, and a blister popped on his heel.
"Just keep running," he panted. "Conserve .. . your breath."
"I can't help it," Becka sobbed. "It isn't right. She was our friend, and we just left her there. After everything she's been through. It's not right."
Jerry started to reply, but suddenly, Becka went limp and collapsed in the middle of the trail. Her eyes fluttered twice, then closed.
"Becka!"
He ran to her side and knelt, relieved to see that she was still breathing—if shallowly. He checked her pulse and found it was steady. When he shook her gently, Becka moaned in response, and lay still.
Snapping twigs and padding footfalls alerted him that their pursuers were catching up again. Jerry tossed his spear aside, picked Becka up and slung her over his shoulders. Then, clenching his jaw, he plodded on. The added weight combined with his weariness slowed him down, and he struggled to find his footing on the slippery terrain. Taking a risk, Jerry darted off the muddy path and into the jungle, still heading for the beach. He heard creatures all around them. The tribe had spread out, trying to flank him.
Becka stirred, muttering something unintelligible.
"I told you we had an alliance," Jerry whispered.
"Me and you all the way to the end. Wasn't that the deal?"
She murmured a response. "You awake?" "Mmm-hmm."
"Hang on. We're almost there."
The jungle suddenly gave way to sun-bleached sand. Beyond it, the ocean spread out in both directions, swallowing the world. The sun was just starting to climb over the horizon, and the black sky was streaked with orange, red, and yellow slashes. Jerry spied the network ship, stark against the kaleidoscope of colors.
Holding Becka tightly, he summoned his last bit of strength and ran. He ignored his screaming muscles and joints, ignored the raw feeling on burning heels, ignored the pain in his lungs and throat and how hard his heart was beating. He spotted the stage, and beyond it, the helicopter, sitting in the field. The craft's spotlights bathed the beach in an eerie false dawn. The whirling blades kicked up a swirling cloud of sand.
"Over here," an amplified voice called to them over a bullhorn. "This way!"
Jerry didn't recognize it, but he didn't care. He did as commanded, running for all that he was worth.
"Hang on, Becka. We're going to make it. We're going to—"
The tribe leapt from the jungle on both sides of him and dashed across the sand, seeking to cut him off. Screaming, Jerry lowered his head and barreled through them, shoving them aside with his shoulders. One of the cryptids snatched at Becka's flowing hair,
but Jerry jerked her away, leaving the creature clutching loose strands.
Another amplified voice shouted to them. This time, Jerry recognized it.
"Run, you bald fuck! Run your fucking ass off, goddamn it!"
That's Troy, he thought. That crazy son of a bitch actually did it. He's alive!
Grinning, Jerry found his second wind. He reached the helicopter, ducking low to avoid the spinning rotors. The hydraulics whined as the pilot powered up. Troy jumped from the chopper, head low, brandishing a battery-powered, handheld bullhorn. He was bare-chested, except for bandages that had been wrapped around him. Blood seeped through them from a dozen wounds. Several of his tattoos were missing sections of flesh.
"Glad you guys could fucking make it," Troy yelled.
They climbed aboard the chopper, and Troy shouted at the pilot to take off. The hydraulics grew louder. Jerry glanced around the interior as he lay Becka on the floor. In addition to Troy and the pilot, there were two EMTs. One of them stared out at the cryptids in shocked disbelief. The other one, keeping his wits about him, bent over Becka and examined her.
"You okay?" Jerry asked Troy.
"I'll live. You look like shit, though."
"I'll be fine."
Troy nodded at Becka. "How is she?" "Alive."
"What's happening?" the medic examining Becka
asked as the helicopter lifted off the ground. "Where are the others?"
"They're dead," Jerry gasped. "Those things got them."
"Things? What things? What are you talking about?"
"I think they mean those things, Kerry," the pilot hollered, pointing toward the beach.
An army of beasts flooded out of the jungle and dashed across the beach and field. The chopper rose higher. Enraged, the monsters howled at the sky, gnashing their teeth and furiously shaking their fists. One wielded a human arm, waving it like a club. With a pang of guilt, Jerry realized that the arm was Shonette's.
He pulled Becka to him, buried his face in her hair, and cried.
"Everybody strap in," the pilot hollered.
"My God." Kerry stared at the scene below. "If the media gets hold of this before the network has had a chance to put a spin on it—we're screwed."
"Fuck that," Troy shouted. "Put a spin on it? What kind of yuppie corporate bullshit is that? People are fucking dead, man! I ought to toss your ass out the fucking door."
"Are you sure they're all dead?"
Troy glanced at Jerry and Becka, but neither of them were paying attention. He turned back to Kerry and nodded.
"I'm fucking positive, man."
"Our communications technician was in touch with another survivor—Stefan. He was supposed to meet us at the landing zone."
"He's dead, too." "How do you know?"
"Because I just fucking do, goddamn it. Stefan's dead. So are the others. We go back now, and we'll be fucking dead, too."
"Well, even still, I've got some calls to make. The network executives will need to be advised right away. I'm calling my supervisor. We'll check on Stefan, too."
He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a satellite phone. Troy sprang forward, grabbed it from him, and flung it out the open door. It plummeted into the midst of the rampaging creatures.
"Hey," Kerry yelled, "what are you doing?"
"Game fucking over, man. Game fucking over."
"You asshole."
Grinning, Troy shrugged. He leaned back against the seat and sighed. He glanced over at Jerry and Becka, but they were sharing a private moment. Troy decided not to interrupt. He'd noticed when they arrived that Becka was naked. It was kind of hard to miss. His gaze strayed to the curve of her lower
back, but then he turned his eyes away.
They better send me a fucking wedding invitation. Shit, I'd better be the best man.
Troy patted his head, reassuring himself that his beloved hat was still there, safe and sound. Then he turned his attention back to the medic.
"Hey, Kerry? Let me ask you something."
"What?"
"Is there anybody on board the fucking ship who can give me a fucking cigarette?"
The helicopter soared into the dawn, leaving the island in darkness.
Chapter Twenty-five
Stefan awoke to the sounds of birds. He felt warmth on his face and wondered if it was sunlight. Groaning, he opened his eyes, squinting. The small bird that had been perched on his cheek squawked and took flight. Stefan struggled to sit up.
At first, he didn't know where he was or why. Then his ankle throbbed, and it all came back to him—his injury, crawling along the path, and taking cover here in the thicket. The last thing he remembered was wanting to call the ship. He must have passed out from the pain and exhaustion.
He smacked his lips together. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his head throbbed in time with his swollen ankle. Cautiously, he rolled his pant leg up, hissing in pain as he did. He blanched when he saw his injury. His ankle was swollen to twice its size, and the flesh around it was black and purple. It felt hot, and the skin turned white when he touched it.
"Not bloody good," he whispered. "Not bloody good at all."
He glanced up at the sky and was surprised to see
daylight. Through the treetops, he saw gulls circling. They seemed to hover in place, floating on the breeze. Their incessant cries set his teeth on edge.
He sniffed the air and noticed a faint but unpleasant odor. Before he could consider it further, he heard something else, in the distance. The sound was lower and deeper than the squawking birds. It took him a moment to recognize the sound. It was the helicopter, but to his bewilderment, it sounded like it was flying away, rather than coming closer. His stomach lurched in panic, and his heart hammered in his chest. Could the bastards really be leaving without him?
Moaning in fear, Stefan fumbled for the satellite phone. He pulled it free and flipped it open. It took a moment for the unit to power up.
"Mr. Heffron had better answer if he knows what is good for him. I demand an explanation for this."
Before he could dial, two things happened.
The phone rang in his hand, and all around him, the bushes rustled.
Stefan was overwhelmed with the now-familiar scent of the creatures. He took a breath and held it.
The phone rang again. The bushes rustled more violently. Twigs snapped. Something growled, low and menacing.
Exhaling, Stefan answered the phone. "Yes?"
"Stefan? It's Brett Heffron. They said you weren't at the landing zone."
"No, I wasn't."
"Well, are you okay? What's happening? What's that noise in the background?"
"Apparently, I'm not alone." "What? Stefan, I don't understand. What's going on?"
"It's quite simple, really." Stefan cackled as the stench grew overpowering. Despite his laughter, tears coursed down his muddy cheeks. "I win, Mr. Heffron. I win! I'm the last one left on the island."
"Ste—"
"I've got to go now. I have company."
"What are you—"
"Good-bye, Mr. Heffron."
He turned off the phone, tossed it into the underbrush, and hobbled to his feet. It felt like somebody was jabbing knives through his swollen ankle, but he welcomed the pain, because it meant that he was still alive—even if it was the last sensation he'd feel.
The growls increased.
"I win," he said. "I'm the last one left on the island. I'm the last man standing."
The bushes parted, and Stefan's laughter turned to screams.
The creatures fell upon him, crushing him to the ground.
Epilogue
Jerry awoke in a panic and bolted upright in bed. He clenched the satin sheets in his fists and gasped for breath. He heard the distant drone of traffic. Somewhere a dog barked.
Once again, he'd dreamed that he was back on the island. In the dream, he and Troy were creeping through the tunnel, but when he turned around, Troy was gone. Then he heard the cryptids racing toward him. Their cries and footfalls echoed off the walls. Unlike in real life, the creatures spoke English, and they shouted threats and promises of all the things they'd do to him when they finally caught him. Jerry crawled into a side tunnel and was confronted by a squiggly, black, cloud-shaped mass with malevolent red eyes glowing at its center. A furry hand fell on his shoulder. Talons dug into his flesh. That was when he'd woken up.
He took a few deep breaths and rubbed his face, waiting for the last vestiges of the nightmare to dissipate. He dreamed about the island at least once a week, but this had been the worst one in at least six months. He hadn't confided in anyone about the
nightmares, except for his psychiatrist. She said that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, but that in time, it might pass. Jerry wasn't so sure about that. His grandfather had served in Vietnam, and the old man had suffered from PTSD until the day he died after complications from early-onset Alzheimer's disease.
Until applying for Castaways, Jerry had thought that was the most horrible way to die imaginable.
He knew better now.
And he now understood how his grandfather had felt.
Sometimes, when he was at his lowest, Jerry wondered if maybe Richard, Sal, Ryan, Shonette, and all the others weren't the lucky ones. After all, it was over for them. They didn't have to live with the aftermath. They didn't have to experience things like guilt and depression and anger. They didn't have to suffer panic attacks every time they saw the ocean or turned on the television.
When his pulse was back to normal and the dream was safely banished, he slid out of bed and put on his robe and slippers. The soft material felt luxuriant against his skin. The smell of fresh-cut flowers filled the room. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning. The first few rays of sunlight crept through the drapes. He considered going out onto the patio and having his morning coffee. Maybe make some mimosas and start the day right.
Becka stirred beneath the sheets and opened her eyes. Blinking, she glanced around the bedroom. She seemed stiff. Tense. Jerry smiled at her, and she
visibly relaxed. His smile grew bigger. When she returned the gesture, he forgot all about his bad dream. Even after all this time, she still made him feel giddy when she smiled. He hoped that feeling would never fade.
"Good morning, sunshine."
"Good morning yourself." Yawning, she stretched her arms over her head. The sheet slipped down, revealing her breasts. "How did you sleep?"
"Okay," he lied. "How about you?"
"Pretty good."
Jerry knew that Becka was lying, as well. A few hours before, he'd heard her moaning in her sleep, whimpering and crying out. He'd gently shaken her and whispered in her ear until she'd stopped.
"Troy's private jet lands at eleven this morning," Jerry said. "I'll send the car to pick him up."
"Isn't it funny?"
"What?"
"Troy, with his private jet and everything."
"No funnier than us, living in Beverly Hills and owning a line of successful, upscale graphic novel boutiques. You can't say we didn't put that money to good use. I just thought it was funny that the first thing Troy wanted to buy was a million-dollar mobile home."
"How about wanting to get a glass display case for his hat?"
Jerry snickered. "He's a weird dude, but I love him."
Becka stretched again. "Everyone must think the three of us are eccentric." "Why?"
"Pick a reason. Maybe because we all refuse to own televisions."
"Screw 'em. Who cares what they think?"
A few days after their rescue, while they were still recovering in the freighter's sick bay, the network officials met
with Jerry, Becka, and Troy. A videotape had been found on the island, the contents of which revealed that Matthew had been a member of the Sons of the Constitution and had killed Jesse in cold blood. It was assumed that he'd done the same to Mark. They showed the tape to the three of them and suggested that their fellow contestants might have met the same fate. Then they told Becka, Jerry, and Troy how financially lucrative it would be for them if they agreed. The executives had contracts with them, drawn up by lawyers just hours after the massacre's discovery. The offered amount was for a lot more than they'd have won by participating in the show. They held out for more—and got it. They also insisted that the other contestants' families be compensated, as well.
Federal investigators had echoed the terrorism angle. The three of them had often wondered just how the network had managed to get investigators to go along with it, but they never found out for sure. Had they sent somebody in to clean up the evidence before investigators arrived? Or were they in on the cover-up as well? He'd seen a few conspiracy theories floated online—how the government had actually killed all the contestants in a bungled operation to get Matthew, how the government had killed everyone so they could blame it on the Sons of the Constitution, how the island had really been an alien
base, how something or someone called Black Lodge had accidentally exterminated everyone on the island with some kind of top-secret weapons test. Each crackpot theory was more laughable than the next. None of it was close to the truth, although the truth was just as bizarre.
"I still think we should move somewhere in the Midwest," Becka said. "Someplace where we can't see the ocean. I could go the rest of my life without seeing it again."
"We can if you want to," Jerry agreed. "We can certainly afford it."
She smiled slyly. "We could move to Montana and hunt Bigfoots."
"Bigfeet," he corrected her. "And no thanks. You've had enough of the ocean. I've had enough of cryptozoology for a while."
"As long as we're together, Jerry, I don't care what we do. We've got a pretty strong alliance, after all."
He smiled, but didn't reply.
Becka frowned slightly. "What's wrong?"
"I keep asking myself if we did the right thing. Taking the money in exchange for our silence. Don't the other families have a right to know what happened to their loved ones? Did we do the right thing, Becka?"