Castaways Read online

  Other Leisure books by Brian Keene:

  GHOST WALK DARK HOLLOW DEAD SEA GHOUL

  THE CONQUEROR WORMS CITY OF THE DEAD THE RISING

  BRIAN KEENE

  CASTAWAYS

  LEISURE BOOKS

  NEW YORK CITY

  This book is dedicated to the memories of Richard Laymon, Dan "UK" Thomas, and Bruce "Boo" Smith. We miss you guys...

  A LEISURE BOOK® February 2009 Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc. 200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 2009 by Brian Keene

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN 10: 0-8439-6089-2 ISBN 13: 978-0-8439-6089-1 E-1SBN: 1-4285-0600-4

  The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  10 987654321

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, thanks to: my family; everyone at Leisure Books; my pre-readers—Tod Clark, Kelli Dunlap, and Mark 'Dezm' Sylva; and to my loyal readers and the members of the F.U.K.U.

  And thanks to the following people for various reasons: Valarie Botchlet, Joe Branson, Jesse Carroll, Richard Chizmar, Richard Christy, Geoff Cooper, Brian Freeman, Bob Ford, Mark Hickerson, Michael T. Huyck, Christopher Golden, J. F. Gonzalez, Sal Governale, Jack Haringa, Joe Hill, Scott Ian, Michael Laimo, Ann Lay-mon, Kelly Laymon, Tim Lebbon, Edward Lee, Bentley Little, Nick Mamatas, Joe Maynard, Regina Mitchell, James A. Moore, Michael Oliveri, Gene O'Neill, Jason Parkin, Tom Piccirilli, Brandon Ramsey, Larry Roberts, Stuart Schiff, David J. Schow, Bryan Smith, Eric Sneddon, Nate Southard, Shane Ryan Staley, Dave Thomas, John Urbancik, Bev Vincent, and Roberta Walsh.

  CASTAWAYS

  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 acknowledgment. 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?"

  Castaways "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 tonight. 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 helicopter 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.