Dante
I’ve scurried my way up the tree to the platform that Zane made. I’m not sure this is going to fucking work, but from the screaming and yelling on the beach path, the wires at least did something. I wipe drops of rain from my eyes. My heart is beating in my throat as I wait for whatever is going to come. I’ve got my knife in hand, braced against the rope.
There’s no way this is going to work. This sort of thing only works in cartoons and Star Wars movies. But it’s at least something. And Zane said he’s done the math: it should come down in the right spot. I’m watching the shining rock in the path. He’s told me that if I cut through the rope as soon as the first person steps over the rock, it should trigger the net to fall. Then I have to cut the next one before I jump and run like hell.
I’m flattened behind my blind when the sand-covered pirate stumbles into the middle of camp. He swipes everything off the counter with the front of his gun—dishes go scattering. I want to fucking kill him just for that.
He’s mumbling in some language I can barely understand, and I’m only picking up a little bit of it. Fuck, I wish I’d spent more time learning whatever language a pirate who lives off the coast of the Philippines would speak, but I never thought I’d need to know more than the names of a few vegetables and “hello,” “goodbye,” and “where’s the closest bar?”
Still, I’m getting a few of the expletives he’s throwing down. He sits in one of the chairs that Calvin made. He kicks another chair sideways, and it skids across camp. He’s rubbing his ankle. His neck cranes as he looks up at the observation platform. He holds his gun up, and I brace myself, expecting him to fire a round, but he’s just looking through the scope. He drops it, grunts, and starts my way.
He stops at another of Calvin’s chairs and takes the crew sweatshirt from it. He glares at the Rock Candy logo and brings it to his nose and huffs it in. The guy is seriously out of his mind. We wash our clothes but not often, not by the standards back home. We’ve been saving soap, and while Haley’s mixture of flowers and herbs helps to freshen us all up, other than Haley, none of us are sniff-worthy. Especially not Easton’s second-hand deck jacket.
The pirate throws it on the ground. His eyes scan but not fucking high enough to see me. Thank fuck I’m good at sitting still. It’s not a skill a lot would think I’m good at, not with my wild mouth. I’m kinetic energy, that’s what my nan used to say. But then they didn’t have my uncle. I can be still, small, invisible when I want to be. It’s just that I never want to be.
Calvin taking the gun was the right decision, but if I had it? Damn, I could drop this stinky-jacket-huffer to the ground. The winds are strong but not strong enough that his big nose is going to pick up my scent on the breeze.
My fingers are loose around the bamboo connected to the line that will drop the load of rocks and coconuts on this fucker.While he was making these Ewok-Home Alone traps, Zane was happier than... actually, that fucker’s always happy.
But I say a little prayer to Saint Jude. Sister Maria Elizabeth would be damn proud of me. At graduation, she said she would keep praying for me. I’m hoping that works in my favor in the next few minutes.
The huffer is walking like he’s got all day. I guess he has; we haven’t gotten off the island in almost a year, and he’s holding the damn gun. But what was supposed to happen was half of them were to take off after Sam, the others off after Zane. I’m sure Zane’s just as busy with the one after him as I am frustrated about huffer taking an afternoon stroll.
Come on, man... I’ve got things to do.My fingers twitch, but I hold the knife to the rope. He’s really taking his time, which is going to work out a hell of a lot better for the debris smashing into his huffy little skull.
Two more steps and he’ll be on the spot for me to release the net. He’s over the rock, his head bent, looking at it. I wait. He takes two steps forward as he cranes his neck up. I pull the bamboo handle and the net crashes down, opening up. He screams as gravel and coconuts rain down. I cut the second rope, and the rocks pummel down.
His moaning stops. His feet stick out from under the net like the witch from theWizard of Oz. Damn, I’m turning into Zane. But they don’t move—well, a twitch when a coconut rolls into his foot. Huffer is either out cold or dead. Either is fine with me.
I scramble down the makeshift ladder and examine the pile. Somewhere under there is the huffer’s gun. I lift the edge of the net. No. First, I grab a rock the size of a roast to serve twenty and swing it down.
Sam
There’s screaming coming out of the pit. There’s nowhere to duck out of the way of a bullet. I didn’t make it to the derelict as I hoped. The fucking rain has slowed me down.
“Stop or I shoot again.”
I freeze, my hands in the air. They vibrate back and forth, even though I’m trying to hold them steady. He’s behind me. I assume he’s got a gun.
“Turn,” he says sharply. “Now. Go.” His words are crisp and demanding. I turn slowly.
He’s wearing khaki green, his jacket buttoned up to his neck. He can’t be more than mid-twenties. His English is tinted with a French accent. In the hole in front of me, his accomplice is scrambling, pulling at the palm fronds, trying to climb out, but using them for stability isn’t working.
The one in the pit hollers up to the other, the one holding the gun on me. He’s spitting and swearing in a language that I don’t recognize. Every once in a while, though, he yells out “motherfucker,” but it doesn’t have the same venom that the other words have, as if he doesn’t really understand the meaning behind it.
My jaw is clenched, and the tick in my neck is back.
He points the gun at the ground. “Down,” he says, and I’m not sure what he wants me to do. Does he want me in the hole? “Down,” he repeats, motioning with the barrel of the gun.
He strings together a sentence of French and whatever his native tongue is, but I don’t get any of it. His eyes glare at me, his forehead furrowed.
“Down lie,” he says, his English coming out backward.
I crouch next to the pit and reach my hand down for the pirate. He’s scrambling at the walls, clawing at them. “Here,” I say, holding my hand out. He looks at it like I have daggers for fingernails. “Take it,” I say softly, trying to assure him that I’m not going to bash him with my forehead—which, under other circumstances, sounds like a good idea, but the gun pointed at my head says maybe it’s not such a good idea.
He grabs my wrist, and I grab his. Then we do the same with our other hands. I lean back, and he walk-climbs up the side. He lands on the ground next to me. I’m ready for it, so I roll away. He comes after me.
They’re shouting back and forth between the pit guy and the one pointing the gun at me. There’s a brief second that I think I might be able to dodge away... but then the younger one pulls himself together. He leans over, getting in my face, and spits on my cheek.
