"At this point," Kimberly said, "I don't even want to be rescued."
Her words stunned me.
They echoed my own feelings on the subject.
This was the start of our fifth day on the island. In some ways, it seems like we'd been here for years. Mostly, though, it seems like much too short a time. Thanks to all our troubles with Wesley, we haven't even explored the island, yet. There's no telling what we might find, or what adventures we might have over the coming days -- or weeks. Or even months.
Rescue would put an abrupt end to all the fabulous possibilities.
I figured that Kimberly must feel the same way, but then she said, "I'm not leaving this island till I've taken care of Wesley."
"You already got him pretty good."
"I'm going to kill him."
The way she said it, and the way she looked when she said it, gave me a shiver up my back.
Preparations
I did some quick catch-up on the journal while the gals got ready for our jungle excursion.
Our hunt.
Our mission to rescue Thelma and finish off Wesley.
Before leaving, we had a small meal and discussed what to do about the fire. So far, we'd followed Andrew's advice about never letting it go out. But we figured we might be gone all day. If we wanted to keep it burning, we would almost have to leave someone behind to tend it.
We were not about to leave anyone alone.
But if we let two stay behind to guard each other and watch the fire, that would leave only two for the hunt.
Which, we all agreed, would be ridiculous.
We decided to let the fire burn out.
Anyway, we still had Andrew's lighter.
Billie went over to her sleeping area and looked for it. She found Andrew's khaki shorts, picked them up, and searched the pockets. She emptied them as she went along, pulling out such things as his pipe, tobacco pouch, billfold, keys, and the white handkerchief that he had placed over Keith's dead face. Soon, she came hurrying back with the shorts in one hand, the lighter in the other.
She tested the lighter. A flick, and the flame leaped up.
She had brought the khaki shorts over to us because she thought someone ought to wear them. "They've got such great, deep pockets," she explained.
Obviously, we could use something for carrying odds and ends.
Aside from Andrew's shorts, the only pocket in sight was the one on the chest of Kimberly's Hawaiian shirt -- a pocket so loose and flimsy that she didn't even trust her Swiss Army knife to it.
There was my bag, of course. I'd hidden it under some rags over at my sleeping place, for safe keeping. I planned to leave it there, because I sure didn't want to spend the day hiking through the jungle with that on my back. (It's the home of my journal, which is a big thick spiral notebook -- probably weighs at least two pounds.) "Who wants to wear them?" Billie asked, holding up Andrew's shorts.
Nobody volunteered.
Probably because the shorts would be too bulky and heavy and hot, especially for gals who were used to going around in scanty bikinis.
"You wear 'em," Connie told me. "They're men's shorts, and you're the only guy around here."
"I don't want to wear them," I said. I remembered how Andrew had taken them off and spread them over the lower parts of Keith -- who'd been naked down there and dead at the time.
"Just put 'em on over your trunks," Connie said.
"That'd be too hot."
"I'll wear them," Kimberly offered.
She didn't sound eager, and I didn't like the idea. In fact, I didn't want to see anybody wearing them -- but especially not any of the gals. "That's all right," I said. "I'll put 'em on."
I took them from Billie, bent over, and raised a foot to step into them.
"No," Billie said. "Get your trunks off, first. You'd smother in all that. Besides, your trunks are a mess."
They aren't a mess. I'd gotten most of the blood off them, so they were only a little bit gory.
I looked around for a place to change.
"Just do it here," Kimberly said. She was pretty matter-of-fact about it.
I shook my head. "I can go over to the rocks . . ."
"Don't be silly," Billie said. "Just doit here. We won't peek."
Connie smirked. "Who'd want to?"
I sighed. Then I said, "Well, okay."
After their backs were turned, I pulled my trunks down and got them off. It felt weird. I was naked on a beach in broad daylight, and the three gals were almost near enough to touch. They weren't wearing much, themselves -- but more than me.
I got enormous, all of a sudden. I stepped into Andrew's shorts and pulled them up as fast as I could.
"You decent?" Billie asked.
"Almost."
I shoved myself inside the fly and got the zipper shut. The shorts were big and loose, drooping well below my waist. But I hitched them higher and got the belt cinched.
"All set?" Billie asked.
"Uh, yeah."
She turned around. They all did.
I bent down fast and picked up my trunks. When I straightened up, I held them in front of me.
Connie said, "Good God, Rupert."
I shook my head. I felt as if my face might burst into flame. "What's the matter?" I asked.
Big mistake.
"Your hard-on's the matter, you fucking degenerate."
"Connie!" Billie blurted.
"Well, look at him!"
"He doesn't need you pointing it out to everyone," Billie scolded her.
"It's already pointing out to everyone," Kimberly said, smiling.
I think I moaned. I think I muttered something like, "Oh, man."
In the meantime, Kimberly's comment had cracked Billie up. Even Connie was laughing about it.
The object of their amusement, meanwhile, was shrinking like an icicle in Hell.
I stopped trying to hide behind my trunks. "Yeah, well," I said. "These things happen, you know?'
"Happen to you all the time," Connie said.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Billie told me, being sort of solemn now that she'd finished laughing. "Don't worry about it, honey."
Honey?
Kimberly said, "Looks like the big fella's out of commission, anyway."
"Do we have to talk about it?" I asked, feeling awfully squirmy inside.
"You're the one who brought it up," Kimberly said. She gave me that smile again. That spectacular smile.
I actually laughed, myself.
"Okay, okay," I said. "Now, can we get on with things?"
"Here." Billie tossed me Andrew's lighter. "You've got the pockets."
I dropped it into a front pocket of my shorts, and felt it way down against my thigh. "How about the knife?" I asked Kimberly.
Normally, I avoided looking at it.
This gave me an excuse, though.
It was tucked into the front of her bikini pants. The thickness of the plastic handle made the flimsy white triangle purse out. I could see bare skin down there.
Kimberly's open right hand suddenly covered it all.
Patted it.
"I'll hang on to the knife. It has an appointment to keep with Wesley."
Over at the supply pile, we gathered a few items so that we'd have something to snack on. The food went into the pockets of Andrew's shorts. (My shorts, now.) Then we gathered our weapons.
I volunteered to carry the ax.
"It's awfully heavy," Kimberly said.
"I can handle it."
"Let's take turns."
"Okay," I said.
"You start out with it, if you want. Just let me know when you get tired."
"Okay."
The ax required two hands. I wanted to have a back-up weapon, though, so I loosened my belt enough to slip a tomahawk under it, by my right hip.
Billie watched me do that, then pushed her tomahawk down the side of her pants. The waistband couldn't take the weight. "Woops!" The pants were at about a forty-five-degree angle by the time she grabbed the weapon.
"Mom!" Connie blurted. "For Godsake!"
"Oh, calm down." She pulled out the weapon, hooked a finger under her waistband, and corrected the slant.
"You did that on purpose."
"Don't be an idiot."