Castaways (29 page)

"I'm Kerry," the medic said, "and this is Quinn, our pilot. Gerling, our other EMT, is up there by the chopper."

"Good day," the pilot said, nodding.

Troy spat blood onto the sand. "What's so fucking good about it?"

Kerry gently put his arms on Troy's shoulders. "Quinn is Canadian. Don't hold it against him."

"Ain't nothing wrong with that," Troy said. "Fucking Canada gave us Rush, after all. But then, on second thought, you gave us Celine fucking Dion, too."

Ignoring the comment, the medic focused on Troy's body. "Are you injured?"

"See this fucking blood? What do you think?" "I'd say you're hurt."

"Ding, ding, ding! You get the fucking prize."

Kerry shined a small flashlight into Troy's eyes and frowned in concern.

"Get that fucking light out of my eyes, goddamn it."

"Troy, maybe you'd better lie down until I've finished examining you. You might have a concussion."

"I don't need to fucking lie down," Troy said. "What I need is a motherfucking M-16 or a goddamn Uzi. And then I need to get the fuck off this island and call in a tactical nuke strike."

"We'll leave soon enough," Quinn told him. "I was just getting ready to head back for more people. Our initial load was just me, Gerling and Kerry here, in case we needed to immediately transport anyone back to the ship. I'm bringing more crew members with the next run. Where's your friends?"

Troy waved at the jungle. "Out there."

"Do you know their status?"

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."