Castaways
By Brian Keene
Dorchester Publishing
Copyright © 2009
Brian Keene
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8439-6089-1
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?"
"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.
They swam for shore and caught up with Roberta.
Becka continued staring at the island. Jerry and
Roberta followed her gaze.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Castaways
by Brian Keene
Copyright © 2009 by Brian Keene.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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