Castways
By Brian Keene

Chapter One

Becka knew she was going to drown. Gasping, she filled her lungs as another massive wave forced her below the churning turquoise waters. As she plunged downward, all sound ceased, except her heartbeat pounding in her ears. The saltwater irritated her eyes. The light dimmed. Her muscles ached and her lungs burned as she sank lower. Despite the pain, she kicked and thrashed. Bubbles ringed her body like a halo. Becka’s headache, which had tormented her for the last few days, throbbed in steady time with her pulse. She’d spent the last two weeks with very little food or water. Now exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger were taking their toll on her.

She should have never applied for Castaways. Watching it on TV every week was very different from actually competing in the show. Watching it didn’t require pain or sacrifice or pushing your body to its limits.

What was she doing here, drowning in the waters off an uninhabited South Pacific island? Was being on television or a chance at the million-dollar prize worth all this? It was insane. She couldn’t do this. She’d applied on a whim, never believing she’d actually make the final cut. She’d filled out the online application, but so had a million and a half other people. There was no way she should have been picked. Yet here she was, one of the twenty who’d been selected—a twenty- two- year- old Penn State graduate who still lived with her parents because she couldn’t find a job. A month ago, she’d been at home, attending employment fairs and desperately trying to find herself. Find anything. Now she was here, in the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, and Becka was so tired and demoralized that she couldn’t even enjoy it.

She was tempted to just close her eyes, exhale, and slowly drift to the bottom of the sea. The other people on the island craved fame or notoriety or wealth. Let them have it. She didn’t want those anymore. Maybe she had at one point, even if it was just a whim. Otherwise she wouldn’t be  here. Now all Becka wanted was oblivion—the blessed bliss of unconsciousness. The smothering kiss of death. A very long sleep.

The water felt like a blanket, snuggly and comforting.

Becka closed her eyes and let the blanket engulf her.

. . . sleep.

No, fuck that.

Her depressed futility gave way to a sense of frustration and competitiveness. Screw it. She hadn’t come all this way just to give up now. She was in this to win. No matter how much she hurt, there was no retreat, no surrender. Not yet. Her family and some of her friends would understand if she quit, but they weren’t the only people Becka had to worry about. There were  others—the countless, faceless millions on the Internet, eager to log on and share their opinions and critiques on countless trivial pop culture icons, including her. A month ago, she’d been nobody, with a grand total of eight subscribers to her blog. After this aired, her face and name would be recognized by everyone in America who owned a television or read the newspapers. She was a reality television star—or would be, once this aired.

In just a short time, Becka had learned what other public figures before her had known, as well—fame or infamy (because the two were often synonymous) sucked in equal measure. You craved them until you got them, and then you didn’t want them anymore.

And she didn’t even have them yet.

But there was no going back.

Spurred by anger, Becka gritted her teeth and kicked hard for the surface. A vibrant rainbow of tropical fish darted around her, chased by a grayish white sea snake with prominent dark bands encircling its body. Becka paused. Eyeing the serpent’s paddle- shaped tail, she tried to remember if this particular type of sea snake was venomous. Before her arrival, she’d studied the Pacific Islands as best she could, memorizing the flora and fauna. Despite all her preparation, she couldn’t recall whether this one was poisonous. Becka gave the sea snake a wide berth, just to be safe. Ignoring her, the serpent continued pursuing the fish. A stingray glided by, oblivious to both Becka and the other marine life, or perhaps indifferent. She stared at it, carefully avoiding the barbed tail.

The aching in her oxygen-starved lungs grew stronger. Above her, Becka saw the wiggling legs of the other castaways. She swam toward them. Her head broke the surface. Coughing, she spat saltwater and gasped for air. Her throat was sore. The sun was blinding. Waves buffeted her about. Another big one almost sank her, but she fought to stay afloat. Blinking the water from her eyes, she glanced around.

A television camera stared back at her.

Ignore it , she thought. It doesn’t exist. Remember that. I’m supposed to pretend it isn’t there.

Becka treaded water next to a small boat. On board were four men—a camera operator, a sound engineer, a field producer, and a pilot—all network employees. As Becka coughed, they merely glanced at her, impassive. They didn’t speak or even nod in ac know ledgment. Becka drifted away from the craft, debating whether she should break the rules and ask for assistance. Contestants weren’t supposed to talk to or interact with the crew unless it was a dire emergency—or unless the crew initiated the contact.

“Think they’ll give us a ride?”

Jerry treaded water beside her, droplets rolling off his shaved head and chest. Like Becka, he was in his early twenties and in impressive physical shape. He was cute, and she’d noticed him checking her out several times since they’d arrived on the island two weeks ago. She didn’t know much about him—just that he owned a video store in Santa Monica, California. Under different circumstances, Becka might have considered getting to know him better, but there was no time for that out here. It was every man or woman for themselves. Confiding in the wrong person or trusting someone just a little too much led to disaster. After twelve seasons of Castaways, even a novice knew that.

“Give us a ride?” She struggled to catch her breath. “You know the rules. Initiating contact with the crew means immediate disqualification from the—”

Jerry held his hands up. “I know, I know. Jesus, Becka, I was just kidding.”

Another wave crashed over them. Becka fought to keep from swallowing more water. This wave was smaller than the last, and she managed to stay afloat. The two of them bobbed up on its crest and then back down again as it rolled past.

Three times a week, Becka and the other castaways had to compete against one another in a series of contests and challenges. Sometimes they were physical. Other times the puzzles focused on intelligence and wits, or trivia based on the region where the current game was being played. The winner of the challenge gained temporary access to the circle of protection and was safe until the next challenge. The other castaways would then select someone to exile—meaning the chosen person was ejected from the game. Any contestant was eligible for exile, with the exception of whoever had won the circle of protection.

For today’s challenge, they’d been brought offshore by boat and then told that they had to race to shore. Now that Becka had surfaced, the other castaways were swimming away again, leaving just her, Jerry, and the camera crew on the small boat.

Becka frowned. “Shouldn’t you be trying to finish the race?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Jerry shrugged. “Stefan already won this round.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Pompous Brit bastard. Jeff and Richard were right on his ass the whole way. All three made it to shore at the same time, but Stefan crossed the finish line first. He’s got his place in the circle of protection now, so somebody else will have to go home tonight.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. Any ideas who you’d like to see gone?”

Becka’s response was cut off by another bout of coughing.

“You okay?”

Jerry sounded genuinely concerned. Becka eyed him carefully.

“I don’t like the water.”

She immediately regretted revealing her weakness to him. Now, if he wanted to, Jerry could exploit it to advance his own standing in the game.

“This?” He grinned, dog- paddling. “This is nothing. Just some minor swells.”

“I thought there was a storm coming. That’s what one of the crew—Mark, the guy with the mullet— said earlier.”

“Maybe.” Jerry glanced up at the sky. “But the sun is out and there ain’t a cloud in the sky. These aren’t storm waves. The sea is choppy, sure, but it’s nothing to worry about. I surf waves bigger than this all the time back in Santa Monica. Hang on to me and I’ll get us both to shore.”

“I’ll be okay. It’s just... I had a bad experience in a swimming pool when I was little. My brother pushed me in the deep end when I was like four years old. The water scares me a little bit, but I’ll make it.”

The boat’s engine throttled up, and the small craft raced ahead. The camera crew’s lenses were now trained on Pauline and Roberta. Coughing, Becka watched the two women swimming toward shore and felt a twinge of jealousy. Even Roberta, a middle-aged librarian, was doing better than she was.

“Come on,” Jerry insisted. “Let me give you a lift.”

Becka hesitated, still not trusting him.

Jerry’s grin vanished. “Look, that million dollars isn’t going to do you much good if you drown before reaching the island. You’re coughing and hacking and obviously worn out. Use your head. The challenge is over, anyway. Stefan already won.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”

He held out his arm. Becka paused, then took it. His muscles were hard as stone beneath his slippery skin. She shivered and felt a warmness in her belly. If Jerry noticed, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he propelled them forward with strong, confident strokes. They rose and fell on the crests of the waves. Seabirds circled overhead, riding the breeze and squawking incessantly.

The boat slowed, engine idling softly, as it reached Roberta and Pauline. The two women were quite a pair. Roberta,  fifty- four, was a librarian at the Ulster County Community College in Poughkeepsie, New York. Pauline, forty- one, was a dancer, model, and former NFL cheerleader from Tampa. Roberta was kind, soft- spoken, and sedate. Pauline was gregarious, manic, and possibly the biggest airhead on the planet—at least, that was what her fellow castaways believed. Still, despite their differences, the two had formed an alliance within their first day on the island. They swam next to Troy, a skinny, tattooed, foul- mouthed auto mechanic from Seattle.

Jerry didn’t speak as he guided them toward the beach.

“Are you okay?” Becka asked. “Am I too heavy?”

“No, you’re fine. Light as a feather.”

She blushed. “That’s because we’ve had nothing to eat at base camp except rice and fish for the last five days.”

“Yeah,” Jerry agreed. “Lucky for us that Raul and Ryan have been so good at catching fish.”

“Lucky for them, too. Keeps them from getting exiled.”

“Even so, I’d kill for a pizza right about now.”

Becka started to pull away from him. “I think I’m okay now. I’ve got my breath back, and I don’t feel like I’m going to pass out anymore.”

“Well, maybe you’d better hold on to me a little longer, just to be safe. You can let go when we reach the boat. That way, they don’t capture this on camera.  Wouldn’t want your boyfriend back home to see this when it airs and get jealous.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am,” he admitted. “I figured you’d be fighting guys off with a stick.”

Becka blushed again. Before she could respond, they neared the camera boat. One of the crew members had noticed their approach and was beginning to swing the camera back around on them. Becka felt a twinge of regret as she let go of Jerry’s arm and began to swim on her own. They drew alongside Roberta, Pauline, and Troy. The rest of the castaways were already on the beach.

“Hey.” Roberta waved her hand in greeting. “Looks like Stefan won again.”

“We saw,” Jerry said. “Which sort of screws up our whole plan. Anyone have any ideas on who to exile from the island instead?”

“We were talking about Jeff,” Roberta said. “Thoughts?”

Jerry nodded. “Good choice. He’s physically fit, and kicking ass in the challenges. He’s definitely a threat.”

“But he’s so nice,” Pauline said, treading water. “Can’t we pick someone else? I hate voting to exile the nice guys.”

The cameraman leaned over the side of the boat, focusing on their conversation.

“Nice?” Troy smirked. “You mean you think he’s hot. Ain’t that right?”

Pauline shrugged. “Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Troy said, “except that Jeff’s got you and every other chick on this fucking island not voting to exile him because he’s a goddamned pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget Ryan,” Becka teased. “He thinks Jeff’s pretty cute, too.”

Troy poked his cheek out with his tongue and mimed fellatio.

Jerry rolled his eyes. “With your sparkling personality, Troy, I bet you never get exiled.”

“Fuck you, baldy.”

“Great retort, tough guy.”

Scowling, Troy swam ahead of them, muttering a string of curses that grew louder when a strong wave knocked his battered Seahawks cap off his head. Arms flailing, he surged after it. The hat drifted back to Pauline, who plucked it from the water and waved it over her head. Her breasts bounced up and down as she did, and the camera zoomed in on them.

Becka frowned, noticing the leering expression on the crew’s faces. No doubt this footage would make it through the editing process and end up on the air.

Pauline held the hat out to Troy.

“Thanks.” He reached for it.

Laughing, she jerked the hat back and swam away.

“Hey,” Troy shouted. “You’re playing with your fucking life, sweetheart!”

He chased after Pauline, and the camera crew followed them, forgetting about the others to remain focused on Pauline’s attributes. Somehow her ass stayed above the surface as she swam, and her thong bikini, threadbare from all this time spent outdoors, left little to the imagination. It certainly kept the interest of the four men on the boat. Becka was certain that Pauline was aware of it. So far, her strategy for winning had been to use her sexuality—flirting with the men and playing the helpless damsel in distress, or worse, sucking up to the other women when the men weren’t around.

“She’s certainly got no problem staying afloat,” Becka said. “Wonder how much she paid for those things?”

Jerry laughed. “Remember, all of America might hear you say that.”

“No, they won’t. The camera crew went chasing off after her.”

But even if they didn’t hear me , Becka thought, Roberta did. She and Pauline are pretty tight. If she tells Pauline what I said, and Pauline gets offended, it could be me who gets exiled to night. Shit! What was I thinking?

Roberta swam ahead. Frowning, Jerry watched her go. Becka noticed the worried lines on his face.

“What’s wrong?”

“We may have just screwed up really bad.”

“Why?”

“Pauline and Roberta are part of Stefan’s clique. So is Jeff. And we just told them we thought Jeff was a threat and that maybe we should vote to exile him tonight.”

“Yes, but they were the ones who brought him up in the first place.”

“True. But why? Why would they do that, unless maybe they were testing us? Find out our plans and then report them back to the rest of their alliance.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

A heli cop ter roared overhead, filming aerial footage of the race. Becka watched it swoop toward land.

Over the last two weeks, she’d come to hate the island, but despite the treacherous living conditions, she was still impressed and awed by its beauty. It loomed before them, a foreboding but picturesque mass of rocky hills, dark forest and thick jungle. Towering volcanic mountains descended into blue-green bays and white sandy beaches covered with seashells. Far above the mountain peaks were a few thin clouds, but otherwise the sky was clear. If there was a storm on the way, as Becka had been told, then it was still a long way off.

They swam for shore and caught up with Roberta. Becka continued staring at the island. Jerry and Roberta followed her gaze.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Roberta asked.

Becka nodded, watching the sunlight glint off the highest peaks.

“We don’t have anything like it back in Poughkeepsie,” Roberta said. “Even if I don’t win, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. Just seeing this place—just being here—has been worth it. Never in a million years would I have ever thought I’d get to do something like this.”

“It looks like something out of Jurassic Park,” Becka said, eyeing the lush, green tropical foliage.

“Yeah.” Jerry flicked water from his eyes. “But on this island, it’s not the raptors you have to watch out for. It’s our fellow castaways. They’re the predators. Everybody’s out to get paid. That’s why we should form an alliance. What do you say? I’ll watch your backs and you guys watch mine. Deal?”

Roberta shrugged. “I’ve already got an alliance with Pauline, so you’d have to bring her in.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Sure,” Roberta said. “I mean, she’s sort of flighty, but I don’t think she’s deceitful.”

“What about Stefan and Jeff and Raul? Aren’t you loyal to them?”

“It’s a game, right?”

“Okay,” Jerry said. “I’d be up for that. How about you, Becka?”

Becka tried to catch her breath. Exhaustion was creeping back into her muscles.

“Let’s focus on getting to shore first.”

They reached shallow water and found their footing. Then they waded toward the beach and joined the rest of the contestants, who were killing time while the crew put makeup on the show’s host, Roland Thompson. Becka sprawled in the white sand next to Shonette, a  twenty- five- year- old single mother of two from Detroit, Michigan, and Ryan, a strikingly handsome,  twenty- one- year- old hairstylist from Los Angeles. Jerry joined them after a moment, sitting cross- legged next to Becka. She wondered if he was being friendly, or just waiting for her decision on forming an alliance.

Farther up the beach, Roberta joined Pauline in a game of keep away with Troy’s hat. The feisty mechanic was frothing now, letting loose with one string of curse words after another. A few feet away, Sal, a stockbroker from Long Island, and Richard, a drummer from a small town in Kansas, were deeply involved in a hushed conversation. Becka wondered if they were scheming about tonight’s choice for exile. Both men were in their thirties, and unlike the other contestants, they seemed to have formed a real friendship during their time on the island, rather than just an acquaintance of con venience.

Beyond them were Stefan, Jeff, and Raul. Stefan was originally Welsh, but had moved to the United States several years ago and now worked as a music producer in Nashville. Jeff was an adventure tour guide from Estes Park, Colorado. Along with Jerry, the two  were the most physically fit contestants, and therefore among the most formidable in the challenges. Raul, who hailed from Philadelphia, worked in a machine shop.

And finally, standing apart from the rest of the group was Matthew, a lanky, dirty twenty- eight-year- old from the small town of Red Lion, Pennsylvania. The laconic loner didn’t interact much with the other castaways, and his rat-faced features seemed frozen in a perpetual scowl. In Becka’s opinion, the only reason he hadn’t been exiled yet was because he was so uninvolved with the other players that he was often forgotten when it came time to vote. Currently, he was drawing stick figures in the sand with a six- foot length of bamboo. He’d used the implement as a walking stick since their second day on the island, sharpening one end against the rocks to form a makeshift spear. He took it with him everywhere, even slept with it. Becka had to give him credit, though. Matthew’s spear had come in handy a few times. He’d used it to catch fish in some of the island’s shallower pools.

Missing was a girl named Sheila, who had forfeited her position in the game the day before due to a medical emergency. She’d fallen out of a tree while trying to pick coconuts and had broken her leg.

Unable to compete, she’d decided to quit and was now back on the ship with the other contestants who’d already been exiled. Becka grew maudlin, remembering Sheila. She’d liked her, and although they weren’t friends, the two had gotten along well.

All the contestants did their best to ignore the cameras flitting among them, filming their every word and action. More crew members worked on Roland Thompson’s hair and clothing, making sure the host looked his best before going back on camera again. He sat removed from the contestants, occupying a small pavilion above the high- tide line. As a longtime Castaways viewer, Becka was secretly disappointed with Roland. On television, he was charming and witty and handsome.  Here, in reality, he was haggard, cranky, and usually sipping a gin and tonic. He stank of cologne, cigar smoke, and sweat. When he was actually on the island, he spent much of his off-camera time hitting on Pauline.

The beach was noisy. Snatches of conversation blended with the shrieks of seabirds as they circled overhead or darted across the sand looking for crabs. The waves crashed against the shore. Farther inland, the treetops rustled in the breeze.

As Becka watched, Troy succeeded in reclaiming his hat and gave a victorious, profanity- laden cheer. Pauline began stretching, bending over to touch her toes and then reaching for the sky. She brushed grains of sand from her coffee- colored skin. Becka frowned. Her own skin was blotchy and peeling from overexposure to the elements, while Pauline’s stayed smooth and unblemished. As Pauline’s acrobatics continued, Raul, Sal, and Richard openly leered at her, while Jeff and Stefan cast furtive glances in her direction. Troy seemed oblivious. Ryan was checking out Jeff, rather than Pauline. And Matthew...

Matthew was also staring at Pauline, but his expression was one of contempt.

Despite the warm sun on her skin, Becka shivered. She glanced at Jerry to see if he was also captivated by Pauline’s aerobics, then wondered why she cared. Even so, she felt relieved when he turned his attention to her and smiled.

“When this airs,” he said, “I’ll be amazed if Troy gets any screen time.”

“Why?”

“Because they’ll have to bleep everything he says. Dude swears more than a sailor.”

Becka, Ryan, and Shonette laughed. Noticing them, Troy walked over and joined the group. He plopped down onto the sand and scowled. Becka studied the tattoos covering his forearms, back, and chest. Most of them were basic black, and the ink had faded in spots.

“What’s wrong?” Shonette asked him. “You got your hat back.”

“I need a fucking cigarette,” Troy said. “Thirty days of this shit without a fucking smoke? What the hell was I thinking, man?”

Jerry brushed white sand from his forearms. “Why didn’t you just bring some cigarettes as your one luxury item?”

“Because the fuckers at the network made me pick between my hat and my smokes.”

“But a hat is clothing,” Becka said.

“They didn’t see it that way, and I don’t go anywhere without my fucking hat.”

“Why not?” Jerry asked.

“Because it’s my lucky fucking hat!” Troy’s tone was incredulous, as if Jerry should have already known that. “I’ve traveled all over the fucking place, and this hat is the only thing that’s been with me each and every time.”

“You’re from Seattle, right?” Becka asked.

“Yeah. But I moved around a lot. I was born in New York. Brackard’s Point, armpit of the fucking world. Me and my older brother, Sherm, ran away from home when I was fourteen. Our parents didn’t give a fuck. We went from New York to Florida, and stayed there for a while. Then we lived in fucking Texas. Then Wisconsin, which was even worse than fucking Texas. Eventually, we ended up in Seattle. Been there ever since. My hat stayed with me the whole fucking time.”

“It’s funny,” Jerry said. “Seeing as how you’ve lived in Seattle for so long, I would think you’d be craving a Starbucks caramel macchiato rather than cigarettes.”

Troy scowled. “And you’d be wrong. I hate that fucking shit. Starbucks tastes like hot cat piss. Whatever happened to just plain old coffee? Black, no flavors or fancy names that sound like French and Italian run through a fucking meat grinder? This country is going down the fucking tubes. Not every person from Seattle is a Starbucks- loving ass-hole. I hate Starbucks. Give me fucking Folgers any day of the week. If I want vanilla, I’ll eat some fucking ice cream. You know what I’m saying?”

“I guess so.” Jerry shrugged. “I kind of like their iced cappuccinos.”

“So,” Becka said, trying to change the subject, “I bet your brother will be pretty excited to see you on TV, then?”

Troy lowered his head and stared at the sand. “Not really. Dumbass got in trouble a few years back and had to bail. Moved his ass to Pennsylvania and got shot during a fucking bank robbery.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was his fault. Stupid son of a bitch. He was always doing crazy shit like that. You should have seen what he got up to in Seattle.”

Sensing that Troy’s mood had soured even more than normal, Becka tried to distract him again by returning to the original subject. “You could have hidden some cigarettes underneath your hat.”

“Nah,” Troy said. “Wouldn’t have worked. They checked us all pretty good. What’d you bring as your luxury item?”

Becka blushed. “My diary.”

“No shit? That’s cool.”

“I’ve been keeping them since I was a little girl.”

Troy turned to Jerry, Ryan, and Shonette. “What’d you guys bring?”

Before they could answer, Stuart, one of the field producers, grabbed a battery- powered megaphone and shouted directions.

“Okay, everyone, if you could please gather together here,  we’re ready.”

The contestants made their way to a large makeshift stage that the construction crew had built before filming commenced. The stage was lined with bamboo torches and authentic native masks and carvings. Above it, out of sight of the cameras, were rows of lights, microphones, and other equipment. The group gathered on the stage after each contest and when they voted on who to exile from the game. In the center of the stage was an ornate white circle, painted directly onto the planks—the Circle of Protection. When it was time to vote, whoever had won the previous contest stood in the center of the circle, granting them immunity from exile. The contestant who was exiled had to leave the island immediately and join the game’s other losers on the network’s ship, a large freighter floating off shore that housed the camera and sound people, helicopter pilots, medical personnel, the director, Roland, and all the show’s other crew members.

When they were all onstage, arranged in a semicircle, Stuart flashed a cue, and Roland Thompson strolled across the sand toward them. A camera filmed his approach. He was dressed in a safari outfit, and when he smiled, his capped teeth gleamed in the sunlight. There were dark sweat stains beneath his armpits, but Becka knew now that the producers would edit those out before the show aired.

“Prissy fucker,” Troy muttered. “I’d like to see him spend a night in this fucking place.”

Becka and Jerry stifled their laughter.

“Hello, everyone.” Roland’s deep baritone boomed across the stage. “And congratulations to Stefan, who won today’s challenge.”

“Thank you.” Stefan smiled, flashing his own perfectly capped teeth. “I never had any doubt.”

“As you know,” Roland continued, “the last castaway to leave this island will go home with one million dollars. You are now one step closer to that prize, Stefan. Tonight, weather permitting, you will stand in the Circle of Protection, and one of your fellow castaways will go home. The rest of you have until sundown to figure out who that will be. Head on back to base camp, and we’ll see you tonight.”

Roland began to turn around, but Richard raised his hand. The host called on him, visibly annoyed.

He probably can’t wait to get back to the ship, Becka thought. Sit in the air- conditioning with his feet up and have a drink. Or take a shower. God, what I wouldn’t give for a hot shower.

“I noticed that you said ‘weather permitting,’ ” Richard said. “Any word on the storm? There was a rumor going around that a cyclone might be coming.”

Roland glanced at Stuart, motioning for him to join them. The assistant producer stepped forward and cleared his throat. The cameraman and sound engineer turned off their equipment.

“There is indeed a tropical storm warning,” Stuart confirmed. “But as far as we know, it’s not going to amount to much, at least not here. It’s currently tracking farther north.  We’ve got a staff meteorologist back on board the ship keeping an eye on things, and he’ll let all of us know if things change. They’ve named the storm Ivan, if that matters to any of you.”

“So what if it does hit?” Shonette asked. “That mean you’re gonna pull us off the island until it passes?”

Stuart smiled. “As I said, we’re keeping a watch on things, and if the situation changes, we’ll let you know. Now head on back to base camp. We’ll have more information for you tonight, after exile.”

They filed off the stage and began walking along the beach, heading toward their camp. Becka noticed that everyone had split off into subgroups. Sal and Richard walked together, laughing at some private joke. Stefan, Jeff, Raul, Pauline, and Roberta celebrated Stefan’s victory as a group. So much for Roberta and Pauline switching alliances. Jerry had been right to worry. Becka glanced from side to side. Ryan, Jerry, Shonette, and Troy walked next to her.

Our own little cabal , she thought.

Jerry must have been thinking the same thing.

“That’s trouble.” He nodded at the group in front of them. “Stefan and the rest of the big dogs. Unless we come together, they can start picking us off one by one. There’s five of them and five of us. If we make an alliance and get Sal and Richard to vote with us, we can come out on top.”

“Count me in,” Ryan agreed. “I say we exile Jeff.”

“I thought you had the hots for him,” Becka said.

Ryan shrugged. “Sure, he’s cute and all, but this is a million dollars we’re talking about.”

The others laughed.

“I’m in, too,” Shonette whispered. “And I bet you can convince Roberta to switch sides.”

“Yeah,” Jerry said, “we talked to her earlier. She wouldn’t commit to anything, though. In fact, I’m a little worried that she might rat us out to Stefan and the others.”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Shonette said. “Pauline might, but not Roberta.”

“We’ll see.” Jerry turned to Troy. “How about you?”

Troy shrugged. “Fuck it.”

“Is that a yes?”

Troy shrugged again. “It ain’t a fucking no, dude. Yes, I’m in.”

The cameras filmed it all.

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Ryan asked.

Jerry frowned. “Who?”

Ryan glanced back over their shoulders. Matthew trailed after the group, slinking along behind the camera crew.

“Yeah,” Jerry said. “I guess I did forget about him, after all. Kind of easy to do. He never says anything.”

“He’s flying under the radar,” Shonette said. “Hoping that if he doesn’t get noticed, he won’t get exiled from the game.”

Troy snorted. “He’s a fucking weirdo. Always watching people. Like a snake. Dude never fucking blinks.”

Becka turned, and sure enough, Matthew was staring at them. His expression was sullen.

She moved a little closer to Jerry, feeling Matthew’s eyes crawl over her exposed skin.

They continued along the beach, unaware that other eyes were watching them from beneath the jungle’s greenery, as well.