The Castaways Page 5

  I jump at the shrill noise.

  “Oh, very good. We always wait on your approval, little lightning bug,” Tilly says, huddled over the fire.

  The girl leans in once more. “I’m Bug,” she whispers, an accent I can’t place barely clutching at her words.

  Bug continues staring, eyes wide. “How old are you?” I ask, cringing, my head aching from the inside out, my own words cutting between my ears.

  “Seven.” She sits even taller. Bug wears a patchwork dress and short pants made of leather and suede and other woven fabric all sewn together.

  “Here you are.” Tilly hands me a bowl. “It isn’t much, but its lunch around here.”

  “Lunch?”

  “You had a good sleep.” She smiles. “Come Bug, give Olive a chance to breathe.”

  I wince at the sound of my name—though, I’ll admit, it does have a certain ring to it with the accent.

  Bug jumps up and follows Tilly.

  The sight of food, as bland as it looks, triggers my appetite. It’s fish and coconut and some kind of plant in a gray liquid. I eat, all of it tasting similar, having been cooked in the same pot, but with different textures. I finish every bite despite how it even tastes gray.

  Lewis, wire glasses sliding down his nose, strides over, sitting next to me with his food. “It’s no steak, but it’ll do.”

  Not looking at him, I smile.

  Another younger boy—Charlie?—sidles up next to us and my sacred personal space is once again challenged. Unlike Bug, who has a childish playfulness about her, Charlie seems wiser than he should. Sad. Eyes set on his bowl, he picks out a few bits of coconut with his fingers, plopping them into Lewis’s bowl. Lewis doesn’t flinch and keeps eating. Then, not using the spoon-like wooden utensils the rest of us have, Charlie tips the rim to his lips like a cup, and bits of fish and stringy vegetable hang down his chin. He has the same build as Lucky: scrawny, probably small for his age, with blond, overgrown, hardly brushed curls falling all over his head like a sheepdog. He, too, is barefoot and wearing a pair of black cargo pants and a T-shirt with a parrot on it that reads in faded, cracked red lettering: Castaway Carnival.

  I drop my bowl. The half coconut shell bounces, spilling fish juice and the spoon onto the floor.

  Everyone in the room stares at me, then quickly goes back to whatever they were doing like nothing happened.

  I pick it up, not taking my eyes off the shirt or the boy wearing it. It’s him. The boy who disappeared last year. Will had said something about it last night, but it hadn’t registered. Much of that conversation was a total haze.

  “Charlie. He’s from the same place as you and Will and Duke,” Lewis says between bites, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his heavily stained, once button-up shirt. “He doesn’t talk,” he adds, looking over at Charlie.

  Charlie stands, walks to a vacant corner, and squats facing the wall.

  I lean in toward Lewis. “Could he ever speak?”

  “We’re not sure, but we think so because he talks in his sleep all the time. Will found him huddled in a ball, down by the beach, what we can only guess was days after he got here. He wasn’t speaking anything but gibberish by that point.” Lewis shakes his head. “Poor damn kid.”

  He barely finishes the sentence when Will and Jude bust through the door. They pant for breath, faces red and dirt-caked.

  “Take cover!” Will yells as Jude runs full force toward Charlie, pushing him to the floor and hunching over him. Before I know it, I’m flat against the floor, too, Lewis above me.

  “Hey—” I begin to say when an explosion sucks my voice away with a crack and a boom that shakes the entire cave.

  The floor, the walls, the ceiling. Even my teeth chatter from the blast. My eyes strain to look up. Dirt falls down on us like a light dusting of snow. Just how strong can a cave-tree possibly be?

  “They’re getting closer,” Will says, Bug curled on his lap, a ball of rags resembling a doll gripped at her chest. Tears fill her blank eyes as Will gently strokes her back. I follow her stare and see it’s trained on Charlie, who’s in his corner, mumbling and picking at his toenails.

  The rest of us are scattered before Will, a captive audience.

  After cleaning up the few things that fell and broke and sweeping the dirt that rained from the ceiling during the blast, we’re once again in the common room. It’s cool and dark, aside from the firelight from the few torches.

  Now that the literal dust has settled, the weight of what just happened hits me full force. A bomb! A freaking bomb just went off. My hands are shaking and my shoulders are tremoring and my throat is as dry as sand and my breathing, as much as I try to keep it low and calm, is growing closer and closer to wheezing.

  Will, his one good eye a shade darker than before, somehow stares at each of us. “Jude and I were doing a perimeter check when we heard the bomb flying through the air, whistling down toward us like a dying bird.”

  I jump under my skin, remembering the blast. The way it shook the floor beneath my knees.

  Bug gazes up at Will, tracing his eye patch, black dirt stuck under her fingernails. He smiles down at her.

  I take a deep breath and swallow to wet my throat. “What is it? Where did they get a bomb?” I need answers. Now. Everyone looks at me. I shrink under my skin. Was I supposed to request permission before speaking or something?

  Will answers. “A type of island-made bomb—coconut shells filled with an explosive. We have no idea how they’re doing it, what they’re using to make them. The one’s we’ve found have only been remnants, burned to bits.”

  I gasp for breath, releasing a long wheeze I hope no one else notices. “So we’re sitting ducks?”

  “Until we find a way to counter the attacks. But, to our advantage, we’re hidden. To their advantage, they’ve got the high ground, the mountain caves.”

  I’m trying to get a feel for all of this, a mind’s eye layout of the land. Partly to distract my nerves and partly to make some sort of sense out of everything, I close my eyes. Inside my head, I draw a map based on what I’ve been told.

  Jude loudly clears his throat. I open my eyes to find he’s striding toward Will. “Now that we’ve got an extra mouth to feed”—he eyes me—“we’re extra low on rations. I’m going for water and food. Lewis?”

  “Yep!” Lewis jumps up, brushing the sand off his pants, and then gives me a small smile.

  They turn to leave without another word.

  “Take weapons along!” Will shouts after them. “And stay near cover.”

  Jude glances over his shoulder. “Done and done.”

  Will stares down at me, but speaks to Tilly. “Do you mind holding down the fort? It’s time I gave Olive the grand tour.”

  “’Course,” she says it in a distracted way, her eyes gazing in the direction Lewis and Jude just went. But she pulls herself out of it, smooths what’s left of her cardigan, and smiles a composed smile at Will, then me.

  When I start to get up, I’m distracted by my hands, the dirt already caked under my nails, but mostly how they shake all on their own, as if they know something I don’t.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Island

  As I follow Will through the cave-tree, I try my best to regain control of my anxiety. To rein in my instinct to either flee or slap myself across the face and wake up.

  He’s casual as he guides me, showing me what’s what, as if we didn’t all nearly just get blown to bits.

  The first room we walk through is the “kitchen.” Makeshift bowls, a rough-edged metal pot made from something that must have washed up on the beach, carved utensils, and rags torn from pieces of clothing fill one corner of the space. The rain collecting system is here, as well, water dripping into a hollowed and sanded tree trunk. It’s shiny, smooth. I stop to touch the outside of it. It’s hard like plastic. When I pull away, my fingers are still shaking. Will notices. I shove my hands into my pockets.

  He ignores it. “Many, many coats
of bee’s wax and coconut oil and Lewis finally found something that would seal the wood, keep from soaking up the water. Another one of his ingenious inventions.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, well, we have a lot of time on our hands.” It would be funny if it wasn’t so true.

  He walks on.

  The next room is covered in charcoal drawings and something resembling paint, with two furs on the floor. “Charlie and Bug’s room,” Will says.

  “The fur?” I ask, remembering how surprisingly soft and warm and welcoming my sleep mat was last night.

  “Wild sheep. They’re assholes, but they provide soft bedding and good meat.”

  “Huh.” Asshole sheep?

  “We also have chickens and pigs running rampant, along with fish, fruit, roots, and greens. I suppose if one is to be stranded on a secluded island, this one isn’t so horrible—aside from our enemies on the other side, that is.” This time, when his mouth turns upward, it’s less restrained, more real.

  I find myself mesmerized by how this smile of his is genuine, how my own mouth is lured into following along, when, as if he catches himself, his crooked grin disappears and I force my lips to stop short.

  Will takes me through two more rooms. The first is another bedroom, the second is full of things ranging from shells and firewood to a bizarre collection of material items, my purse and jacket among them.

  I run over, digging through my bag for my cell phone. Once I find it, I hold down the power button. “Come on… Come on…”

  Will walks up behind me. “It’s no use.” With his breath on the back of my neck I simultaneously jump and shiver then turn and face him. “Charlie had one, too. It ended up more useful pulled apart and re-purposed as a game for him and Bug to play.”

  He’s right. My phone’s totally dead. I toss it back into my bag and spot some gum. My mouth goes dry. I pull out the pack.

  Will’s eye widen. “Whoa!” he shouts, then catches himself. “I mean, I can’t believe Jude didn’t rummage through your things and swipe that.”

  I pop a piece into my mouth, then tilt the pack his direction. “You?”

  “Only if you have some to spare.”

  “It’s a full pack. Here.” I wave a piece at him.

  He hesitates, then takes the stick. “Thanks.” Will smiles, shoving it into in his mouth. “You’d better hide that if you want it to last. If found, it’ll be up for grabs and gone before you know it.”

  I shoot him a questioning glance.

  “Nothing’s sacred here. We share everything out of necessity and survival. That leather jacket of yours? If you’re asked to stay, and accept, it’ll be made into something else—shoes maybe, a wrap for the handle of a spear. Everything is put to best possible use.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. Will creases his brow. “What?”

  “Sorry, that’s just not the response I expected. Tilly cried for days when we had to use her shawl for fishing.”

  “It’s just a jacket.” I pause, a memory hitting me. “Hey! Is that where my necklace ended up? Re-purposed?” If they even…

  “Not that I’m aware of, sorry. I’ll ask around, but it’s probably gone.”

  “Maybe it broke off when I fell.” Grazing my fingers along my neck where it used to hang, I add, “It’s okay.” I try to convince myself it’s just a necklace like I did my jacket, but it’s not as easy. I never take it off. It’s like a piece of me. A piece of my past that I was able to carry with me.

  He stares for a minute, that hint of a crooked grin teasing at his lips, then peers down at the floor, clearing his throat. “The front door.”

  I search the space but see nothing resembling a door. The only indication this might be the way out is the row of shoes sitting along the wall, my boots included.

  Will bends to his knees and brushes some sand away to reveal a metal ring. He pulls it, lifting a wood-planked door that leads into a dark tunnel.

  As he stands, a grin forms on his face, as if to say, See? You weren’t trapped. That’s when I realize how tall he is—six three, maybe? He makes his way to the shoes and slips on a pair of over-worn black lace-up boots, rolling his pants to the tops. I follow his lead and reach for mine, my beanie balled inside. I remove it and slide the boots on. I reach up and feel the stubble above my ear and lift the hat to my head.

  “You won’t want that. It’s a hot one out there.” My fingers freeze, grazing the rough nearly bald spot. He adds, “Appearances don’t matter here.” And he taps his eye patch.

  I nod, exhaling, folding my beanie in half and shoving it into my back pocket.

  “Shall we?” Will asks.

  “I think so.”

  “We have to crawl. It’s a tunnel, but it won’t take you home, just into the forest.” He laughs under his breath then clears his throat. “Follow me.”

  Will lifts the door and the space is just wide enough to squeeze through on hands and knees. It’s a slight descent and then we climb upward and through an identical door. There’s a large-leafed branch above us. Will pushes it aside and helps me up out of the hole, his hands warm, coarse. “You all right?”

  “I’m…fine…” I’m taken by the daytime version of the forest. The sounds of bugs and birds and waves mingle nearby as the scents of flowers and earth and salty moisture fill the air. Everything is bright and vivid, the colors so brilliant it’s blinding.

  I spin in a circle, to find we’re surrounded by large bushes and several mossy boulders, the door to the cave-tree truly hidden. I make my way back around to Will. He’s staring at me, taking me in, looking through me, a confused grin on his face.

  I stop spinning, completing the circle. “What?”

  He snaps out of it, blinking several times. “Huh? Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Seriously, what?” I run my fingers over the shaved side of my head, suddenly self-conscious, and notice my hands aren’t shaking anymore.

  “It’s just… Duke and I were the first ones here, and I’ve seen or heard most everyone’s first days on this island. But you’re incredibly calm considering the circumstances. It’s like…like…” He just shakes his head.

  “Like?”

  He laughs under his breath. “Like you’re okay about being here. Like you’re on vacation. Not as if you’ve been taken from everything you know and are now stuck on a secluded island and might never get home.”

  Taken aback by his words, I think on them, on the situation. My throat tightens and tears well up. “No. I don’t feel that way at all. I have a little brother back home, parents who love me, the best friend in the world, a cat…” Now I’m crying. “But I’m good at keeping things in. At hiding. I’m good at staying in denial. So, yeah, I’m looking around, amazed by the beauty, but I’m not totally convinced it isn’t a dream. And on the inside? I’m definitely freaking out.” I inhale a shaky breath, surprised by the first truth I’ve spoken in longer than I can remember.

  Will, still staring, confused grin gone, puffs his cheeks out then back in. “Good.” I glare at him, wiping my face with my fists, noting how my fingers are all tremor-y again. “All of that? It’s normal. You were beginning to freak me out.” And he walks away.

  For hours we explore the island, collecting tree fruit, roots, and anything else of use along the way. Will carries it all in a brown net-like bag—what I assume was part of Tilly’s shawl.

  The forest goes on forever until finally the sound of waves crashing along a shore grows louder and truer.

  We pass through a line of palm trees and collide with sand. The rocky beach leads to an ocean that pitches and sways and endlessly expands until it meets the sky at the horizon, blue on blue. The island literally drops off into nothingness.

  The wind whips up off the water and hits me, giving me a slap in the face that takes my breath away.

  I gasp.

  This is real. I’m on an island. Stuck with a bunch of kids and teenagers. In the middle of a screwed-up, real-life, Lord-of-the-Flies si
tuation.

  What now?

  Frantic, my internal freak out works its way out. I search for a place to run to or from. There’s nothing: water, sand, rocks, the forest behind us, a mountain in the distance, then more beach, nothing but water in all directions until the blues meet at the edge of the earth. If I’m even still on earth.

  I’m hyperventilating and don’t realize it until I’m on my knees, the warm sand radiating through my jeans.

  “Huh…hhh…hhhh…” My breath wheezes as it works too hard to go in and out.

  “Olive?”

  “Don’t say it. Not now.” I gasp for breath. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that damn name.”

  “What?”

  I don’t want to answer and I can’t on account of the rising hyperventilation—monster it is—taking over.

  “It’ll be all right. Slow down. Breathe.” Will moves closer and rubs my back. Despite the numbness taking over my body, I can feel his warmth and am torn between curling up right there on the beach and taking off.

  In the end, the choice is easy.

  I stand. Then run. It’s like I’m floating—no feeling in my feet—all numbness. Behind me, Will calls, “Wait! Olive! You don’t know where you’re going!” Then I hear, “Shit—” and footsteps after me.

  But everything’s clear. I do know where to go. “I’m going to find that boulder—” I suck in shallow breath. “The…hhh…maze.”

  “It’s no use. We’ve tried everything. It doesn’t work! Wait!”

  But I’m not listening because it has to work. It’s the only way. If it got me in, it’ll get me back out.

  I run until my body, my mind, and, mostly, my lungs give up. Because, problem is, Will’s right. I don’t know how to find it.

  I stop.

  Will stops.

  Bent at the waist, hands on my knees, I cough and spew, trying to catch my breath. The hyperventilation has passed, but my insistence on sprinting like I’m a track star when my lungs and legs have no business running, has taken its toll.