Castaways (27 page)

"We're doing good," Shonette muttered. "Just a little bit more to go. Just a—"

With a sudden cry, Pauline bolted for the open tunnel, abandoning them. She cut right through the middle of the startled creatures.

"Oh shit." Shonette slipped out from underneath the corpse. "Run, Becka! Run."

Jerry echoed her sentiments and began backing toward the exit. Shonette and Becka dashed toward him, trying to keep the wall to their backs. Several of the creatures rushed to their fallen leader and

wailed over his corpse. More of them raced after the fleeing culprits. A bloated, pregnant female with one good eye, who stood near the sputtering fire, snatched a rock from the ground and flung it at Pauline. It struck her in the back of the head and she stumbled. Another creature flung itself onto her back, crushing her to the floor.

In an instant, a dozen females and children had joined the fray, biting and slashing and pulling. Pauline's screams reached a frenzied peak, and then became one long, drawn-out moan. They tore her limb from limb, pulling her arms from their sockets and tossing severed fingers and her internal organs into the air with savage abandon. Her blood coated their fur, and their claws dripped with gore.

Becka and Shonette reached Jerry's side, but six more creatures were right behind them. Jerry spun the blind child around and shoved him forward. Crying out, the toddler tumbled to the cavern's floor. Jerry, Shonette, and Becka raced for the exit.

"Here!" Jerry handed Becka the flashlight.

"What are you—"

"Run, goddamn it! Don't worry about me. I'm right behind you. But I'm the only one with a weapon."

They fled down the tunnel. The flashlight beam bounced off the walls. Becka was in the lead, followed by Shonette. Jerry brought up the rear.

Howling furiously, the tribe members plunged into the darkness after them.

Chapter Twenty-three

Troy exploded from the jungle and ran out onto a high cliff. Panting, he took shelter behind a large boulder near the edge of the precipice and paused to catch his breath. His chest heaved. The sea sprawled below him like a black velvety blanket. The rippling water had a soothing effect. Far out on the horizon, he saw the blinking lights of the freighter. Closer to shore, the moon reflected off the waves. Then he realized that it wasn't moonlight, but lights of a different kind. He turned his attention upward, and spotted the chopper bulleting toward the beach. Spotlights swiveled, pouring over the land and sea below.

"Shit! It's about fucking time. Now all I gotta do is make it down there."

Behind him, the sounds of pursuit had finally faded. Troy had led the cryptids on a frantic chase across the island, killing three more of them in the process and injuring several others. He hadn't come out of the running battle unscathed. There were four deep gashes on his back where one of the creatures had raked him with its talons, and a

matching set on the calf of his left leg. He'd been poked by branches and jabbed with thorns, had tumbled down a hillside and fallen into a ravine, gashed his knee open on a sharp fragment of volcanic rock, gotten jabbed in the cheek by something in the dark, and wrenched his back (which had pained him intermittently since he'd originally injured it in an auto shop three years earlier). Both of his ears still rang from the constant barrage of roaring cries he'd been subjected to for the last half hour. The wounds on his back and leg cut swaths through his tattoos, and that hurt him in ways the pain couldn't.

Through it all, he'd somehow managed to hold on to his hat.

Troy listened to the waves crashing below and the birds shrieking at one another above, and beneath it all, the rhythmic thrum of the helicopter's rotors. Exhausted as he was, he could have happily stayed there, hunched behind the boulder and clinging to the cliff's edge all night long. Instead, he grabbed some broad leaves from a nearby bush and dabbed at his wounds. His blood hadn't clotted yet, but at least the flow had turned into a trickle. He turned his head, trying to peer over his shoulder at the gashes in his back, but the movement brought a fresh burst of agony. Moaning, Troy gritted his teeth and closed his eyes until the pain had passed. He wondered how he'd ever get the tattoos fixed. Could an artist put fresh ink over scar tissue?

He struggled to his feet again and studied the tree line. Nothing moved. Either the creatures were hiding, waiting for him to come out, or they'd given up the chase and returned to their den. He sniffed the

air and found no trace of their repugnant stench. Chances were good that they'd gone back to the cave. If so, he hoped that he'd bought Jerry enough time to rescue the others and get the hell out of there.

Wincing, Troy limped along the edge of the cliff and searched for a way down to the beach. The helicopter had passed from sight, and although he could still hear the rumbling of the rotors and the high-pitched whine of the hydraulics, it sounded like the craft was powering down, which probably meant that it had landed. All he had to do was get there before they left again.

Or before the cryptids got them, too.

He readjusted his grip on the spear and sighed. His rock knife had been lost during the chase, after he'd used it to knock out the teeth of an attacking monster.

"All in all," he groaned, "I wish I were back in fucking Seattle. A million dollars ain't worth this shit. Hope you got your girl, Jerry."

He threaded his way carefully along the edge, sticking close to cover in case any of the beasts emerged from the jungle. He still wasn't entirely convinced that they'd given up the hunt altogether.

Troy's stomach grumbled. Clutching it, he tried to remember how long it had been since he'd eaten. Well before the storm, at least. Breakfast had been rice and a few scraps of dried fish, washed down with flat-tasting boiled water. He'd had nothing since then. Upon realizing that, he suddenly felt famished. Dawn was just a few hours away. All he had to do was make it to the landing zone, get

on board the helicopter and in a few hours, he could be eating blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and big, long strips of crispy fucking bacon on board the network's freighter.

And then top it off with a cigarette.

He reached a section of cliff where the sheer drop faded. The ground sloped gradually downward. It looked like water had rushed through here at some point, piling debris along the cliff side. Large boulders, dirt, dead trees and other flotsam and jetsam provided a definitive, if treacherous, path down to the beach. Troy studied it carefully. The landslide was his quickest bet. He didn't know how much farther he'd have to walk to find an easier descent— if one even existed. His thoughts turned again to Jerry and Becka. He hoped that they were okay.

Moving carefully, he started down the slope. Soil and pebbles slid out from beneath his feet and rustled in the darkness. The angle hurt his back, but Troy kept going. Better a bad back than ending up as dinner for one of those things. A steady breeze battered him. He looked down once and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Growing dizzy, he leaned backward and grabbed onto a jutting rock.

"Jesus fucking Christ, that's a long way to fucking fall."

He navigated around deadfalls and jumbled boulders, slipping several times in the loose dirt but maintaining his balance. Each time he did, Troy bit his lip to keep from crying out. He grabbed a jutting branch to support himself, and invoked the wrath of a mother seabird protecting her nest. She darted forward, angrily pecking at his hand.

"Knock it off, goddamn it! I ain't gonna hurt you or your babies."

Squawking, the bird jabbed at him again. This time, she drew blood. Troy yanked his hand away and dropped his spear. It tumbled down the slope, crashing far below. The bird shrieked louder.

"Oww, bitch! Stop it. Get the fuck off of me."

His curses were answered by a low growl from above. With one mournful cry, the frantic bird took flight, abandoning her eggs. On top of the cliff, the growl changed to a yipping bark. Slowly, Troy looked up. There, at the top of the slope, silhouetted in the moonlight, was a lone cryptid. Grinning, it started down the hill and stalked toward him in broad, loping strides. Troy backed away as the beast crept forward. It stepped into the light again, and he could see that it was a mutant. A pale, pronged penis dangled between its legs. Troy guessed the organ was probably useless. The moonlight cast a sickly pallor over it. The thing's dark hair was matted with dirt and insects, but there were also patches on its body where the hair had fallen out. In the bare spots, misshapen lumps pushed out from beneath its skin. Tumors of some kind, Troy guessed.

"Your prick looks like one of those split sausages you get at the fucking diner for breakfast. I bet you have trouble keeping your old lady around, huh? How the fuck do you even get it up?"

The beast stopped, snarling at him in confusion— and perhaps, just a twinge of fear. Troy had learned quickly enough that if he hid his apprehension and confronted them directly, the creatures were slow to act. Years of being the biggest predator on the island

had left them ill equipped to confront prey who talked back. Still growling, the cryptid raised its snout and sniffed the air.

"The fuck are you looking at, you broke-dick motherfucker? Get the fuck back up that hill before I do to you what I did to your fucking buddies."

The thing hooted in response.

A mosquito buzzed in Troy's ear, but he ignored it, refusing to turn his gaze away from his antagonist. They stared at each other, neither one of them blinking, engaged in a primal game of chicken. The creature's chest heaved. Troy's back ached. Dislodged gravel and debris continued to slide past them both. Troy took another step backward, and his foe matched him with one simultaneous step forward. They repeated the process again and again. The wind increased, howling up the cliff side, ruffling the beast's fur, and battering against Troy's back. He weaved unsteadily and then, before he could act, the wind tore his hat from his head and sent it hurtling back up the mound.

"Shit."

The hat landed a few feet away from the cryptid, who finally broke eye contact with Troy and stared at it curiously.

"Hey," Troy warned. "You just stay the fuck away from that. It doesn't fucking concern you."

The creature glanced at him, then back down at the hat again. Its expression was one of curiosity. Snuffling, it bent over and reached for it with one clawed hand.

"I'm fucking warning you, cocksucker. Get the fuck away from my hat."

Its rheumy eyes flicked up at him again, then back to the cap. The cryptid snatched the hat and smelled it. Its nose crinkled. Troy quaked with anger as he saw it leave a glistening trail of snot on the brim. Then followed the ultimate insult—the creature stretched out its black tongue and licked the garment. It hooted softly to itself and then glanced at Troy.

"That's it, goddamn you. You are fucking dead. Nobody—and I mean nobody—fucks with my hat, especially a fucking monkey-man like you."

Troy ducked down and picked up a football-sized chunk of volcanic rock. Then he stood again and faced the creature. With a rough, throaty chuckle, it stepped toward him again, still clutching the hat in one paw. Hefting the rock over his shoulder, Troy charged. The beast roared in challenge. Troy swung the rock, aiming for its face. He missed as his opponent sprang backward. It swiped at him with its free hand, but Troy managed to dodge the eviscerating blow. They squared off, facing each other again.

"You know how much pussy that hat's gotten me over the years? Now you want to do the same thing, huh? It ain't gonna work for you, though, shithead. You ain't had pussy since pussy had you."

The cryptid growled.

Troy gave it the finger. "Christ, you fucking stink. And you've got more back hair than a fur fucking coat. You got hair everywhere. I mean, just fucking look at you."

The creature narrowed it eyes and snarled. Troy winced at its breath.

"Don't get pissy with me, motherfucker. It's true.

You've even got hair on your fucking dick. My brother had a name for that. He called it 'carpet dick.' That's what the fuck you have."

The thing lowered its head and sprang. Troy had been hoping for just such a move. He'd goaded the creature in anticipation of it. As it closed in on him, he darted to the side and stuck out his foot. Momentum and gravity caught up with his opponent. The cryptid stumbled past him, arms windmilling. Troy slammed the rock into its back, and the monster fell. Troy snatched at his hat, but it was too late. With a cry, the cryptid rolled down the hill, arms and legs flopping helplessly as it crashed into rocks and bounced off them again like a pinball. His hat fluttered along in its wake. It took a very long time for the thing to reach the bottom, where it lay still.

Troy took his time descending the rest of the way to the beach choosing his footing carefully. When, at last, he reached the bottom and stepped out onto the white sand, shells crunched under his feet. He barely felt them. He approached the crumpled form. The creature had broken its neck in the fall, but he wasn't sure if that was before or after it had split its head open on the rocks. Blood and brains cooled in the sand. His hat lay a few inches away. He snatched it up before the gore could reach it. He brushed the sand from the brim and gave the hat a cursory check. It seemed no worse for the wear.