Survival (4 page)

“Look!” breathed Ian, pointing.

It was the seaplane — not in the next cove, but in the one after that. It bobbed gently in a shallow lagoon formed by the curve of the coastline and a high jetty of dead coral. Four men waded in the waist-deep water, unloading crates from the cargo hold.

For nine days, the castaways had seen no living soul other than one another. Now — rescuers. With a plane.

Luke’s heart was pounding in his ears so loudly that he could barely hear his own voice. “Hey! Over here! Overhere’t”

Charla and Ian began jumping and bellowing.

The four men continued ferrying their cargo. No one looked up.

“We’re too far away!” Ian exclaimed, his throat hoarse from shouting.

Charla was in a full panic. “Let’s get over there!” She started down the steep slope to the next cove so fast that the others, following her, tripped, fell, and rolled all the way to the beach.

They sprinted along the shore, running the anchor leg of a long race. Down at sea level, they could no longer see the plane and its four occupants. But Luke kept a vivid picture of them in his mind. It gave his feet wings as he started up the incline, right behind Charla. This was it. Beyond this rise lay rescue.

The slope was rocky, but shorter and much less steep than the last one. Charla leaped expertly from foothold to foothold. Luke was hot on her heels. His hands and knees bled from the sharp coral formations, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered — nothing except reaching those men.

He could see the top now, just a few feet away. Charla was already reaching for it

Bang/

The shot echoed six times before Luke stopped counting. His arm snaked out, grabbed Charla by the back of her shirt, and pulled her down beside him. At the same instant, he used his other arm to halt Ian in his tracks.

“What’s the matter with you?” Charla shrilled. “We’re almost there!”

“That was a gunshot!” Luke hissed.

“No, it wasn’t!” she argued. “Maybe the plane backfired or something!”

“Maybe,” Luke said doubtfully. “But we’ve got to find out, one way or the other, before we let them know we’re here.”

Carefully this time, they crept up to the top and peered over the peak.

There was the seaplane. But now there were only three men wading in the lagoon. And one of them, a tall cadaverous figure with bright red hair, was holding a small snub-nosed revolver.

“Where’s the other guy?” Charla whispered urgently.

Then they saw him — floating facedown in the clear water of the lagoon. He wasn’t moving.

They ducked back from the top of the hill. Silently, they put together the sights and sounds of the last few minutes and realized that they equaled death.

Charla looked from face to face. “What? You’re not saying we’re not going down there?”

“We just witnessed a murder!” Luke insisted. “And those guys did it! I don’t think they’re going to be really psyched to see us!”

“I won’t testify against them,” Charla promised. “I know that sounds selfish, but we’re talking about our lives!Will’s life!”

“That’s exactly why we can’t go!” Luke argued. “Look — these are bad people. I don’t know what they’re doing, or what’s in those boxes. But if those guys’ll kill one person, they’ll have no problem killing us!”

Charla began to shiver. “I’m sorry!” she quavered. “But this is so unfair! There are rescuers right here and we can’t even go to them! We’ll never see another plane. Never.”

“It’s unbelievable,” agreed Ian, his voice hollow with shock and disappointment. “It would be better if nobody had come at all.”

Luke nodded grimly. He turned their dilemma over in his mind every which way, but it always came out the same: They would have to conceal themselves from these men; that was definite. But if he, Charla, and Ian were hiding, how could they ever hope to attract rescuers in a passing plane or boat?

It was the only safe path. But would following it condemn them to a lifetime marooned on this terrible island?

Day 4, 6:20 A.M.

Will Greenfield’s “camp” was less than half a mile from his fellow castaways’, in a small clearing in some dense jungle. It wasn’t much of a clearing, but then again, it wasn’t much of a camp. A small fire was the only comfort. Will slept on the cool ground, wedged between tree trunks. A hump created by exposed roots provided his pillow.

Not exactly a four-poster bed, Will reflected, but he didn’t seem to need much sleep anymore. Crazy but true — his bug bites and the on-and-off rain kept him awake; his fear and racing mind kept him alert. He lay down because, in the pitch-dark, there was nowhere he could go without getting lost. Even then, he only dozed off here and there. Mostly, he squinted at the fallen log that stretched over him, suspended a few inches above his chest. In the dim firelight, he could see thousands of ants scurrying across the rotting deadwood. A metropolis of them! They made him even more restless. They all seemed sobusy . Watching them marching to and fro filled him with an urgent desire to do something.

The fire helped. Last night he had spent hours using a jagged rock to sharpen straight sticks into arrows. At least it had felt like hours; there was no way to judge time when the sun was down. And at very first predawn light, he was off through the jungle in search of a piece of wood he could use as a bow.

A bow and arrow. Even now, it seemed nuts. Like he’d ever have the guts to shoot at someone!

The idea sobered him up. Those kids were dangerous. He still wasn’t sure how, but they’d gotten him separated from his sister, lost on Guam. They were keeping him from thePhoenix , which might have left without him. His life could be in danger; Lyssa’s too. They were after him, and he was outnumbered, three to one. He needed some kind of weapon to defend himself.

He began testing twigs for their flexibility. The first snapped in his hands, and he dropped it with a yelp of shock. He was a wimp, that was for sure. He’d never even been in a fistfight, except with Lyssa. That was another story. He and Lyssa could really mix it up. No joke. They’d even put each other in the hospital once, which was why they’d been sent on Charting a New Course.

Even though Lyssa was a first-class pain in the butt, he would have given anything to see her face right now. Lyssa was smart. She’d be able to figure out what was going on. Every time he tried to think it through, the mist came back, and with it the terrible headaches.

Aw, Lyss, you’re never herewhen /need you !

He found a supple green branch that was gnarled into a C-shape. Perfect.

He began experimenting with vines. Most broke at the slightest tension. Those that held up were too stiff. At last he found one with both strength and springiness. Carefully, he plucked off the leaves and knotted the ends to his bow.

Now to test it.

He positioned an arrow against the vine and drew it back. Even though no one was watching, he felt himself reddening. Who did he think he was, Robin Hood? He could almost hear Lyssa taunting him:

If youshoot anything besides yourself withthat

Before he could finish her sentence, there was a violent rustling, and out of the underbrush burst a dark blur.

Will froze in terror. It was one of those wild pigs! No, bigger than that — a boar! It had to be. The thing was a beast, with black fur and a swinelike appearance. It ran at full speed, no holds barred. Will was sent flying as the animal charged at him. Dark blood appeared on the calf of his leg where a sharp tusk had brushed by.

By the time he could scramble back up, the animal was bearing down on him again. Luckily, the boar was as disorganized as it was ferocious. It thundered every which way, turning constantly. Yet each charge was made with the utmost purpose. Gasping and snorting with rage, it wheeled for another assault.

Atree ! Will thought desperately.Climb atree !

In a panic, he looked around. Plenty of trees, but all the close ones were palms — long, smooth trunks, difficult to climb. His eyes fell on the bow, which lay on the ground right where he’d dropped it to make his escape. Where was the arrow?

Then he saw it, partly hidden by a fern. It stuck straight up, its point buried in the soft earth.

In an instant, his mind ran through all the reasons this was a bad idea:You’!! never make it in time. You haven’t tested it yet. You’l! put your eye out. Look at those tusks

He dove just as the boar sprang forward. He picked up the bow and rolled, flailing an arm for the arrow. When he felt the stick in his palm, he yanked it out of the ground, sat up, aimed, and let fly.

The arrow shot from its bow at a wild angle, just as the attacking animal leaped. It caught the boar in the side of the snout, right behind its flat nose. Direct hit!

Wham! Will crumpled back to the ground as the animal’s full weight slammed into him. It was on top of him. He could see it, feel it, smell it. He waited for the ripping force of the tusks to tear into him.

And suddenly, the black fur that filled his field of vision was gone. The wounded boar reared up like a frightened horse, squealing in pain. Then it turned tail and disappeared into the jungle once more.

Will lay flat, the bow across his stomach, waiting for the beating of his heart to return to normal. When his brain finally unfroze from terror mode, it was to admit a single thought:

/need more arrows. Lots more .

Day4,6:55 a.m.

Ian Sikorsky crawled out of the rebuilt shelter, scratching at ant bites and squinting through the brilliant morning at the lean-to’s roof.

Rain had come on and off all last night. Huge clammy droplets had fallen like bombs from the shelter’s ceiling. The three castaways had barely slept a wink. According to the documentary he’d seen, tree bark was supposed to be waterproof. It was a lesson he’d been learning over and over again since the sinking of thePhoenix : Real life wasn’t the same as TV.

He sighed miserably. If he’d come to that conclusion a month ago, Mom and Dad probably never would have sent him on Charting a New Course in the first place.

The thought of his parents, so far away, choked him up a little. Odd, the things he missed the most. The labeled diagram of the solar system that hung on his wall — he couldn’t remember the names of two of Saturn’s moons. His goldfish, Dot and Com. Even his mother’s pot roast, which was practically lethal, and the sound of his father practicing his trombone

He forced himself to concentrate on the problem at hand. Did the roof need more bark? Different bark? Bigger pieces laid out in a new pattern? Mud for mortar, maybe?

Luke would know. He always knew what to do. It wasn’t that he had so much information — he just knew exactly how to use the information he had. Ian could memorize the encyclopedia and still not be able to come to the courageous decisions that Luke made every day.

If there was one good thing to come out of this horrible situation, it was getting to know a great guy like Luke Haggerty.

The rain began again. At least the Discovery Channel had been right about that. The tropics were wet in the summer.

Look on the bright side, he told himself. Rain meant drinking water.

The castaways still hadn’t found a freshwater stream or spring on the island. There probably wasn’t one — they were rare on small cays like this. That meant they would have to survive on what fell out of the sky.

He walked over to the spot on the beach where they had stuck twenty-eight coconut shells in the sand to serve as rain-catchers. Along with them was a yellow rubber rain hat, which Ian had rescued from the burningPhoenix . Full marks to TV for that. The hat had been their only source of water on the raft.

“Aw — “

Each shell held maybe a couple of inches of water — less in the hat, which was wider. It was another example of how TV and reality were two different things. Yes, setting out receptacles would gather rain. But not much rain. The storms here were heavy but quick. For a good supply of water they’d need a lot more shells — or Noah’s flood. With a sad shrug, he picked up the rain hat and drained it. Then he downed three coconut shells in rapid succession. It wasn’t enough — not nearly enough. But this was all they had, and he wouldn’t dream of drinking more than his share.

When he finished, he was even thirstier than before. It was a different kind of thirst than they had experienced during those awful days on the raft. That had been a burning, paralyzing feeling of parched desperation — you knew that if you didn’t drink, you’d be dead very soon. Here there was always some water — a pint when they needed a quart; a quart when they needed a gallon. Enough to save their lives, but not to satisfy their constant craving. This was a kind of thirst that could go on for weeks, months, maybe even years. It wouldn’t kill them, but it was sure to do something even scarier. It would wear them down and drive them mad.

Angrily, Ian took one of the empty shells and hurled it with all his might. It hit the sand and rolled, disappearing over the shelf where the beach angled down toward the water.

The guilty feeling came immediately. Who was he to throw away one of their precious rain-catchers? He ran over to retrieve it.

And froze.

His heart pounded like a drum solo in his chest. The effort to keep from passing out claimed every ounce of strength he had.

A body lay limp and motionless in the sand. Its lifeless outstretched arms framed a single word from his sign partially erased by the tide: ALIVE. Another bad joke in the long cruel comedy routine that had delivered them all here.

He couldn’t bring himself to move any closer. If this was J.J. or Lyssa —

No, it was a grown man. The captain

?

“Luke!Luke!”

The sound of his own voice, thin and high-pitched, terrified him. It must have terrified the others too, because they came running. All three fixed their eyes on the huddled shape and moved slowly toward it as though wading through molasses.

It was Luke who mustered the courage to reach down and roll the body over. Pasty gray skin and wild staring eyes. The face looked unreal, like a wax figure.

A collective moaning sigh escaped them. This was not the body of Captain Cascadden.