“I’m not sure about this,” Anna said. “Why should we get special treatment?”
Anna Holmes, child star of the Wizard Wars movies, had been in St. Barts as a contestant in Celebrity Survivor: St. Barts. Decried as the most blatantly racist TV show since, well, ever, the show mixed a group of skinny white female celebrities with a group of hulking male celebrities, mostly drawn from MMA and WWE, and all “of color.”
If Anna had paid more attention to the line-up, she would have passed on the opportunity. She probably should have, anyway. It wasn’t like she was one of the “reality TV” stars that made up most of the female side. She was just filling time between two A movies. And many of the “challenges” came down to an opportunity for the women to flirt to get the guys to do the work. “Build a rock wall for defense against zombies” was, ironically, one of the challenges. Anna had managed to lift about six of the massive rocks provided for the wall before she gave out entirely. But she at least tried!
All that being said, she’d actually been enjoying it. She hated the majority of the other women. But most of the guys were very down to earth and grounded. She’d teamed with most of them at one point or another, throwing in with a will that was virtually unheard of among the rest of the “celebutantes.”
Then the Plague had been announced. Their challenge coach, famous survivalist Tiger Dour, had just returned from New York and, as it turned out, brought along a hitchhiker called H7D3. So, naturally, the first person to go down from the disease was the one person you’d want in a survival situation.
Air traffic was cut off as soon as Tiger was confirmed as a positive case but by then it was too late. Yachts started punching out in every direction but Anna and most of the cast and crew stayed. For one thing, it was hurricane season. Being in a yacht, even one of the megayachts, in a hurricane didn’t sound like a very good idea. And she, frankly, didn’t know most of the people well enough to trust them.
Then events began to turn for the worst. Tiger was only the first to “turn.” He was quarantined but he wasn’t the only carrier. Others turned. The on-site producer. Crew. Her favorite cameraman. People throughout the island were turning to the point that the police couldn’t control it. Nobody could, judging from the news reports which became more and more sporadic as satellite up-and downlink began to fail. When one of the MMA fighters turned and the police wouldn’t even respond, everyone knew it was out of control.
When the local police finally did respond it was in force and with an edict. The shoot was already shut down and they had their own ideas of how to handle things. The celebrities had been rounded up and marched to the police station for “protective custody.” Apparently that was going on with all the “names” on the island, as in Gustavia they had been herded in with another group.
They were climbing the steep hill to the gray concrete building that housed the local gendarmerie and where they would, presumably, be safe until rescue could be arranged. But she had to wonder what was going to happen to the crew, not to mention most of the rest of the people on the island.
“Because the worst possible thing that could happen to them is to have a bunch of celebrities bitching about how they were treated when this blows over,” Athena Perez said, shrugging. “Rich people will continue to have a lot of power but it’s not the same thing as having, well, you on Letterman or Leno, if they survive, talking about how poorly the St. Barts police handled the crisis. People will want to know about Celebrity Survivor: Zombie Apocalypse. They’re covering their asses.”
Athena was, surprisingly, one of the women Anna did get along with. The heir to the Vinyards Inn fortune was a well known diva and had been among the most manipulative at getting the “guys” to do all the work. But she was also grounded and professional as long as a camera wasn’t on her. It was only when she knew she was being publicly observed that the “little princess” came to the fore.
“Do you know what this place is?” Anna asked. Anna had quickly realized that the “photog whore” was the smartest and most knowledgeable woman in the group by far. “It looks like a fortress.”
“Former DGSE electronic listening post,” Athena said. “This isn’t my first visit to St. Barts. I managed to wheedle my way in when it was still in use. I felt like a Russian spy or something. But the commander was a fan and I totally banged him for the tour.”
Although, she was an unabashed slut. She hadn’t just been batting her eyes at the guys to get them to bow to her every command.
“They turned it over to the local gendarmerie when it was deactivated,” Athena continued. “So it is, yeah, a fortress.”
“How much farther do we have to walk?” Christy Southard whined.
“Probably to the great big building, Christy,” Athena said, slowly and carefully. “Maybe if you had worn real shoes it wouldn’t seem so far.”
The “singer” and reality TV star, mostly known for enormous boobs and being one of several live-in girlfriends of an eighty-year-old producer, had worn her de rigueur stiletto stripper heels for the walk across the island from Anse Grand Saline to the police headquarters. She’d worn them the whole shoot except for her occasional ventures into the water. Give her credit, she was actually good at underwater foraging. Athena had pointed out, on camera no less, that Christy had the benefit of a built in flotation system.
“I’ll be happy to help you up the hill, miss,” an older English gentleman said, holding out his arm.
“Do I know you?” Christy asked, warily.
“Let me handle the introductions,” Athena said airily. “Jerome Arthurson, Top Speed announcer, Christy Southard, professional slut. Christy, Jerry, Jerry, Christy.”
“Hello, Athena,” Jerome said, smiling broadly. “I see you’ve been enjoying the sunshine.”
“Better than your show,” Athena said. “Does it ever not rain in Sheffield? And I swear I could still smell Michael Moore on the seats. It’s a distinct smell. Don’t you fumigate it? Ever?”
“Positive and encouraging as always,” Jerome said. “Miss Southard, please let me take this opportunity to invite you on my show as soon as this unpleasantness is passed.”
“What show?” Christy asked.
“Top Speed?” Jerome said, sounding somewhat miffed. “Number one show on the Beeb?”
“What’s the Beeb?” Christy asked, confused. “Is that like Bravo? I’ve got my own show on Bravo! It’s called Christy Says!”
“Jerry,” Athena said. “You learn to dial it back a bit with Christy. Speak slowly and use words of no more than two syllables.”
“It is a car show on the BBC,” Jerome said slowly.
“They put a star in a cheap ass car,” Athena said. “And then you race around a track like a crazed squirrel.”
“Oh, like NASCAR?” Christy said. “I just love NASCAR!”
“How…unsurprising,” Jerome said. “Yes, somewhat like… NASCAR,” he finished with a wince.
“What are you doing on Sunny St. Barts?” Athena asked.
“Vacation, oddly enough,” Jerome said. “Quite ruined at this point.”
“Unaccompanied?” Athena said.
“My wife and I are having some complications,” Jerome said. “Nothing serious. Just time for a short change of scenery.”
“Wasn’t what I asked,” Athena said archly. “That would be wife four, right? Interviewing for five were we?”