Castaways (19 page)

"So they've been here all along?"

"Maybe. I don't know for sure. But if they have been, then they're regressing. The ones on Flores had primitive weapons and tools. The ones that attacked us didn't use weapons. No stone-tipped spears or arrows, or flint knives. Nothing like that. You'd think, after all this time, they'd have evolved some."

"You sure about that?"

"No. Like I said, it's just a hobby. And some researchers think the fossils on Flores were just regular humans who'd suffered from dwarfism. So I might be wrong about all of this. Who knows?"

"Well, it makes sense to me. Better than thinking we got our asses kicked by a bunch of fucking monkeys."

The two fell silent for a while, listening to the churning floodwaters. The jungle was eerily quiet. Eventually, Jerry worked up enough nerve to sneak out of their hiding spot and clamber up the embankment. He peeked over the side and searched the terrain. Thin, pale moonlight illuminated the

scene. Nothing moved. If the creatures were still there, then they were hidden. He ducked back down into the crevice.

"Looks like the coast is clear," he panted. "And the storm is pretty much over, too. I think we should chance it."

"Okay," Troy agreed, "but we need a fucking plan, man. We can't just go rushing off into the forest and shit."

"Think you can remember how to get back to the camp from here?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It was dark, and I wasn't paying attention to where the hell we were going, you know? Especially after I fucking fell. But I can try to find it. I remember some of the landmarks."

"I say we retrace our steps and make it back to the base camp before we go after Becka and Pauline. We don't know for sure if the others are dead or not. We may find some help."

"Raul and Jeff looked pretty fucking dead, dude."

Jerry grimaced, remembering the sounds he'd heard during the slaughter of his fellow contestants.

"Yeah," he said, "but Stefan might have made it. He was hiding when we left. And Stuart and all the others weren't in camp when we were attacked. Now that the storm is over, they may have come back. If so, Stuart can radio the ship and get help."

"And if not?"

"Then we're on our own here." Troy sighed. "I'd kill for a fucking smoke. I wish I had one of Raul's." "What are you talking about?"

"Stefan said Raul brought cigarettes as his luxury item."

Jerry shook his head. "Raul doesn't smoke. Stefan was just messing with you. Raul brought a tube of lip balm as his luxury item."

"That motherfucking British cocksucker."

"Welsh."

"Same fucking thing."

"Well," Jerry said, "if it's any consolation, right now I could use a smoke, too. You help me get Becka back safe and sound, man, and I'll buy you a truckload of cigarettes."

"Shit. You ain't got to do that. If we rescue them both, and Becka's hanging on you, then Pauline will have no fucking choice but to reward me for saving her. It ain't like Stefan tried to help her ass."

Jerry was stunned. "You're still playing the game?"

"I never stopped. Life's a game, Jerry. I played it before I came here, and I'll play it long after— provided we fucking live, of course."

It took them a while to find the base camp. Twice they walked in a circle, and once, their progress was cut off by a massive crevice. Eroded soil had been washed out to sea, leaving a wide trench that they had to go around. When they finally found the camp again, they almost didn't recognize it. The shelter was barely standing, and all the other crude structures had been torn down by either the storm or the creatures. The fire pit was in shambles, with most of the stones missing, and the remaining firewood was scattered and wet. The muddy ground was covered with footprints—both human and otherwise,

but it was impossible to tell which way the abductors had gone. Tracks crisscrossed each other repeatedly, obscuring any real direction. There was no sign of Raul, Jeff, or Stefan. Apparently, Raul's and Jeff's bodies had been carried away, along with the missing women.

"Let's split up," Jerry said. "Look for anything we can use. Anything."

Troy knelt and crawled inside the leaning shelter while Jerry searched the outskirts of the camp. He flipped some fallen branches over with his toe and recoiled. A human finger lay in the dirt. The end was bloody and appeared gnawed on. A gold wedding band, still affixed to the finger, glinted in the moonlight.

"Raul's," he muttered, fighting down his rising bile. "Where's the rest of him?"

There was a muffled shout from the direction of the shelter. Jerry turned to see Troy emerge from the ruins, cursing. The mechanic was bent low to the ground, studying something.

"What's wrong?"

Troy pointed over his shoulder at the shelter. "Come take a look. You ain't gonna believe this fucking shit."

Curious, Jerry hurried toward him. Troy held up his hand.

"Careful," he warned. "Watch where you step." "What is it?"

Troy led him inside the shelter and pointed to the rear corner. There, almost hidden in the shadows, was a deep, man-shaped impression in the mud where Stefan had hidden.

"Think they found him?" Jerry asked.

"Nope. There's no blood, and the impression is pretty damned clear. If that Welsh fuck had struggled, I'd think the mud would be more . . . strewn about? You know?"

Jerry nodded. "Then what were you looking at?"

"His footprints. The motherfucker got up and walked out of here. I figured that much out. But then I fucking lose them out in the camp. The ground is too torn up to follow them."

"You think there's a chance he went after the girls?" Jerry's tone was hopeful.

"Not a fucking chance. This is Stefan we're talking about. That cocksucker is only looking out for himself."

Jerry glanced around the deserted camp. "Then where is he?"

"Who knows? Probably fucking hiding somewhere. Forget about him. I hope those things ate his stupid ass. He'll give them a wicked case of indigestion."

Jerry stepped outside the shelter and cupped his hands over his mouth. He drew in a lungful of air and began yelling.

"HELLO?"

His voice echoed.

"IS THERE—"

Troy snuck up behind him and clamped a hand over Jerry's mouth, stifling his shouts. Jerry struggled, but Troy hissed in his ear. His breath reeked.

"The fuck are you doing, man? You want to tell those fucking things where we are?"

Jerry shook his head.

"Then shut the fuck up. Now."

He removed his hand. Jerry spat on the ground.

"Sorry. I'm just worried about Becka—and the others, too."

"Well then, let's quit fucking around and go find them. Sooner we do, the sooner we can get the fuck off this island."

"We need weapons," Jerry said. "Anything to defend ourselves. Maybe we can make some spears like the one Matthew had."

They searched through the wreckage. Jerry came across Becka's sodden diary, and a lump formed in his throat.

"We'll find you," he whispered.

They began gathering sturdier lengths of wood. Troy stumbled across the flashlight Jerry had cast aside. Both were relieved to discover that it still functioned.

"I wonder why Stefan didn't take this?"

"Because he's a stupid shit," Troy said.

"Or maybe he just overlooked it."

Troy shrugged. "Could be. His loss, our fucking gain."

Working quickly, they manufactured two crude spears by snapping the longer branches in half, leaving a jagged, pointed edge at one end. Troy found a rectangular, smooth-edged rock. He gripped it in his hand like a knife.

"Ain't neither one of us motherfucking Mac-Gyver, I guess, but it will have to do."

"Let's hope so."

"Here." Troy tossed Jerry the flashlight. "You hold on to this. I'll keep the other spear and the rock. Let's go get your girl."

"You sure that rock's gonna be enough?"

"Fuck yeah. I mean, I'd prefer a fucking AK-47, but beggars can't be fucking choosers, you know? Long as I still got my hat, I'm good to fucking go."

Jerry shook his head. "You are one weird sidekick, dude."

"Damn straight. Those monkey-looking fucks don't stand a chance against us."

They searched the camp's perimeter, shining the flashlight beam along the ground, until they found a series of footprints leading away. It was impossible to tell how many of the creatures had passed in that direction, but when they examined the vegetation, they noticed it was crushed and trampled.

"The storm didn't do that," Troy said. "Looks like we found a fucking trail."

Jerry didn't respond. Gripping the flashlight in one hand and the spear in the other, he followed in their wake. Troy followed along behind him. As they walked, Jerry's thoughts turned to Becka's unexpected kiss.

You make me feel safe,
she'd said,
and I know nothing will happen as long as you're here.

"Hold on, Becka," Jerry whispered. "We're coming to get you. Just hang on."

Chapter Eighteen

Becka awoke to whimpering cries, and she wondered for a moment if they were hers. They sounded odd, garbled and muted, as if they were echoing off something. She tried to speak, but her tongue and mouth were dry. Groaning, Becka touched her face and winced. A sharp jolt of pain ran through her body. Her muscles ached, and her face felt hot and swollen. Her cheek and lips were puffy.

Memories came rushing back to her. During the trek through the darkness, she'd tried to escape several times, and their abductors had beaten her for it. She vividly remembered one of the creatures savagely backhanding her while Pauline simply watched, hanging limply over one of their shoulders. Becka had shouted at her to help—to join her and fight back, but Pauline had closed her eyes and turned her head away as Becka was pummeled into unconsciousness.

Her thoughts turned to Jerry. She hoped he was okay.

Becka lay still, closed her eyes, and waited for the pain to subside to a tolerable level again. One by

one, her senses slowly returned. She was lying on her back on a hard, bumpy surface. Stone, judging by the texture. The cries—whoever they belonged to—increased in pitch and intensity. She tuned them out and listened instead to the other sounds— grunts, snuffling, growls, and a sort of rapid-fire series of rumbles that resembled a crude form of speech. She also heard the unmistakable crackle of flames and the small pops of damp wood on a fire. Beneath these were the wet, smacking sounds of feasting.

She sniffed the air and gagged. It was a heady, noxious mix of wood smoke, mildew, dampness, and the horrible, fetid stench of her captors. Their reek seemed more powerful now than it had at the camp, as if it had permeated her surroundings.

She opened her eyes carefully. Immediately, they began to water and sting. Doing her best to ignore it, she glanced around and saw that she was in a cave. It was dark, but a flickering glow chased the shadows into the nooks and crannies. As far as she could tell, none of the creatures was nearby. She carefully raised her head a bit and looked around.

She was lying in an open alcove connected to a large antechamber. Several tunnels led off from the cavernous space. Some sloped downward, twisting and coiling deeper into the earth. Others traveled upward, presumably toward the surface. Stalactites and stalagmites—she couldn't remember which one was which—dotted the underground landscape. Some of them were nothing more than broken stumps, apparently snapped off during some past struggle or upheaval. Others looked thousands of years old. A

few of the walls were decorated with some kind of drawings, but she couldn't make out what they depicted. The roof of the chamber was at least twenty feet high, and at the center, it peaked into a small natural chimney. She stared at the aperture, hoping for a glimpse of the moon or the stars, but saw only blackness. Smoke drifted through the hole. She followed the smoke back down. In the center of the cavern was a large stone pit. A fire burned inside it, fed regularly from a stack of nearby firewood. Her abductors sat around the fire.

She counted thirty-two of the creatures and assumed that there were more she couldn't see, perhaps elsewhere in the caverns. Their stink was pervasive. They filled the chamber, young and old, male and female, weak and strong, participating in some sort of feast. The females sat apart from the males. One creature in particular seemed to hold a place of honor. It sat closest to the crackling blaze, and the flames cast flickering reflections off the silver fur that covered its lean body. Its chest was crisscrossed with pale, ragged scars. The rest of the tribe members deferred to the elder in their gestures and their proximity to him. They brought him his food and did not meet his eyes.

She noticed that many of the younger creatures had obvious birth defects—stunted limbs, malformed eyes or ears, bulbous snouts, or misshapen hands and heads. Becka felt a momentary pang of pity for them. The emotion vanished a moment later when she realized what they were eating. At first, Becka's mind refused to accept what she was seeing. But then she recognized the tattered scraps