He laughed, the sound of it echoing through the trees. Becka picked some more berries, placing them on the wide piece of bark she was using as a makeshift basket.
“Found some good ones,” Marcy announced cheerfully. Immediately, the cameras focused on her cleavage. She gave her breasts an extra shake and smiled teasingly. Then she stopped, cocking her ear.
Jerry grew silent, too. Becka tilted her head and listened. The wind rustled softly through the leaves. The surf crashed against the beach. Then, much closer, a droning buzz.
“What is that?” Jerry stepped forward, lashing at a fern with his stick. The cameraman followed.
Marcy sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling.
The ferns parted, revealing a splash of red. Then more. Crimson spattered the leaves and the ground. The carcass of a wild animal, freshly killed, lay strewn in pieces. Flies busied themselves in the rancid meat. The scattered remains made identification impossible. The brown, matted fur was sticky with gore. A hoofed leg had been gnawed on and tossed aside. Scraps of organs and raw flesh lay shriveling in the sun—leftover droppings from whatever had done this. A sour stench, faint but noticeable, hung over the clearing.
Jerry turned his head and puked.
Becka closed her eyes. Cringing, Marcy turned away.
What she saw next made her scream.
“Man, get off your lazy ass! I ain’t lugging this firewood by myself!” The camera crew had followed Antoine into the jungle, and for the moment, Larry and Troy were alone on the beach. Troy stumbled with an armload of driftwood while Larry sprawled in the sand with his eyes closed.
“Please,” Larry frowned, waving a hand in his direction. “Can’t you see I’m thinking?”
“Think about my fucking foot in your ass.”
Larry rolled over onto his stomach, sand clinging to his back.
“Is that any way to talk to the guy that can get you a cigarette?”
“You got some?”
“No, I quit years ago. But I know somebody that does. They brought it as their luxury item.”
“Who?”
“The nigger. Antoine.”
“Dude, not only are you a lazy fuck, you’re a racist, too?”
Larry ignored the question.
“Antoine brought along a pack of Marlboros as his luxury item. Make a deal with me, and I’ll get you one.”
“What kinda deal?”
“You have to give me your word that you won’t vote against me, should you be given the opportunity.”
Troy flung a piece of driftwood into the ocean, then whirled on him. Calmly, Larry rose to his feet.
“You know,” the wiry mechanic spat, pointing a dirty fingernail at him, “we get guys like you in the shop all the time. Bring their BMW in for an oil change and expect to have it done in five minutes. Want us to drop what we’re doing and focus only on their car.”
“I drive a Lexus, actually.”
“That ain’t my point!”
“Well then, please do make your point.”
“Guy like you comes in last week with a cracked engine block. Wanted me to fix it. Told him I couldn’t. He gets indignant with me, wants to know why not. Know what I told him?”
“Something profound, I’m sure.”
“I told him ‘that fucking fucker is fucking fucked’.”
“And your point is?”
“So are you, you Lexus driving piece of shit.”
Larry’s face grew red and he took a step towards him. Troy did not back down.
“That’s not gonna be enough firewood,” said Antoine, stepping out of the treeline. He hefted a bundle of long, straight sticks.
Larry leaned close to Troy’s ear.
“Keep in mind what you need to do if you want that cigarette,” he snarled, then stepped away. “What do you have there, my friend?” he smiled at Antoine.
“Weapons.”
“Weapons,” the lobbyist stared at him blankly. “For what?”
“Hunting. Fishing.” He paused, sitting down on a rock. “Protection.”
“So how do you plan on manufacturing these weapons?”
Antoine grinned and reached into his boot, pulling forth a knife. Larry gasped as if he had pulled a rabbit from a hat.
“With this,” Antoine told them, letting the setting sun play off the blade. “This was my luxury item.”
“You are so fucking dead, man,” Troy told Larry. “Cigarettes my ass!”
Marcy’s scream exploded from the jungle.
Immediately, Antoine, Troy, and the two crewmen dashed toward the trees. Larry lagged behind.
The soundman grabbed his radio from his belt, and barked into it as they ran.
“Team Two, this is Three! Do you copy?”
There was a pause, and then came a breathless reply.
“Copy Team Three. We’re okay. I repeat, we’re okay. One of the contestants got a little spooked.”
“Roger that,” the soundman said. “Thought we might have had an injury. Should we stand down?”
“No, get them up here.” Even through the speaker, it sounded odd. “You might want to get this on camera—get their reactions. Looks like the survey team might have screwed up.”
“Say again, Two?”
There was a longer pause.
“We’re not alone on this island.”
“See,” Shonette told Heather, “the tunnel is narrow for the first six feet. Then it opens up wide enough for us to stand.”
“I’m still not crazy about going in there.”
“You worried about snakes and bugs?”
Heather knelt down beside her and poked her head inside the crevasse. “Shonette, I’ve got three boys at home. I’m used to snakes and bugs and worse. But it’s dark in there, and we can’t see what we’re getting into.” The cameraman stepped forward, the light mounted on his camera shining brightly. He said nothing, merely waited to see what they’d do next.
“See, now we got us a light,” Shonette said. “It’ll be nightfall soon. Let’s just check it out quick, and then we’ll head back to camp. Maybe there’s a spring inside or something.”
“I don’t know.” Heather shook her head doubtfully. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I thought we were partners,” Shonette pouted. “You’re not gonna wimp out on me, are you?”
“Alright, let’s go in.” Heather sighed with reluctance. “Just promise me we’ll head back before it gets dark.”
They crawled inside, followed by the two crewmen.
Outside the cave, the shadows grew longer.
Night was approaching.
The jungle held its breath.
“What the hell is it?” Jerry asked.
“I think that’s obvious,” Larry sneered.
In the mud was a single footprint. It was human in shape, having five toes and a heel, but that was where all similarities ended. It was twice as long as any man’s foot, and at the tip of each toe there was a long impression that designated a claw or talon.
One of the technicians drew away from the group, whispering nervously into his radio.
Antoine noticed his agitation. “We’ve got problems, ya’ll.”
“Let me see this thing,” Troy demanded, elbowing his way through the huddle. “What’s the big deal about—”
He froze, and then scurried backward.
“Oh shit!”
“What is it?” Becka asked. “Troy?”
“Look at the fucking size of that thing!”
Eyes wide, he turned to run. Antoine reached out and seized his arm. The second cameraman paused, unsure of what was occurring but continuing to film. The one on the radio faced the group.
“Folks, I just spoke with Roland, who spoke with the network. The game will continue. This is a temperate zone, and it’s been subject to a lot of rain recently. Obviously, this is the track of some wild animal, distorted by the weather patterns and the drying mud. No further discussion. We are back in game, starting now.”
Troy yanked his arm free and turned on the cameraman. “Ask Roland and the executives how much crack they smoked today.”