Castaways (30 page)

"What are you—"

"Good-bye, Mr. Heffron."

He turned off the phone, tossed it into the underbrush, and hobbled to his feet. It felt like somebody was jabbing knives through his swollen ankle, but he welcomed the pain, because it meant that he was still alive—even if it was the last sensation he'd feel.

The growls increased.

"I win," he said. "I'm the last one left on the island. I'm the last man standing."

The bushes parted, and Stefan's laughter turned to screams.

The creatures fell upon him, crushing him to the ground.

Epilogue

Jerry awoke in a panic and bolted upright in bed. He clenched the satin sheets in his fists and gasped for breath. He heard the distant drone of traffic. Somewhere a dog barked.

Once again, he'd dreamed that he was back on the island. In the dream, he and Troy were creeping through the tunnel, but when he turned around, Troy was gone. Then he heard the cryptids racing toward him. Their cries and footfalls echoed off the walls. Unlike in real life, the creatures spoke English, and they shouted threats and promises of all the things they'd do to him when they finally caught him. Jerry crawled into a side tunnel and was confronted by a squiggly, black, cloud-shaped mass with malevolent red eyes glowing at its center. A furry hand fell on his shoulder. Talons dug into his flesh. That was when he'd woken up.

He took a few deep breaths and rubbed his face, waiting for the last vestiges of the nightmare to dissipate. He dreamed about the island at least once a week, but this had been the worst one in at least six months. He hadn't confided in anyone about the

nightmares, except for his psychiatrist. She said that he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, but that in time, it might pass. Jerry wasn't so sure about that. His grandfather had served in Vietnam, and the old man had suffered from PTSD until the day he died after complications from early-onset Alzheimer's disease.

Until applying for
Castaways,
Jerry had thought that was the most horrible way to die imaginable.

He knew better now.

And he now understood how his grandfather had felt.

Sometimes, when he was at his lowest, Jerry wondered if maybe Richard, Sal, Ryan, Shonette, and all the others weren't the lucky ones. After all, it was over for them. They didn't have to live with the aftermath. They didn't have to experience things like guilt and depression and anger. They didn't have to suffer panic attacks every time they saw the ocean or turned on the television.

When his pulse was back to normal and the dream was safely banished, he slid out of bed and put on his robe and slippers. The soft material felt luxuriant against his skin. The smell of fresh-cut flowers filled the room. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was six in the morning. The first few rays of sunlight crept through the drapes. He considered going out onto the patio and having his morning coffee. Maybe make some mimosas and start the day right.

Becka stirred beneath the sheets and opened her eyes. Blinking, she glanced around the bedroom. She seemed stiff. Tense. Jerry smiled at her, and she

visibly relaxed. His smile grew bigger. When she returned the gesture, he forgot all about his bad dream. Even after all this time, she still made him feel giddy when she smiled. He hoped that feeling would never fade.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Good morning yourself." Yawning, she stretched her arms over her head. The sheet slipped down, revealing her breasts. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay," he lied. "How about you?"

"Pretty good."

Jerry knew that Becka was lying, as well. A few hours before, he'd heard her moaning in her sleep, whimpering and crying out. He'd gently shaken her and whispered in her ear until she'd stopped.

"Troy's private jet lands at eleven this morning," Jerry said. "I'll send the car to pick him up."

"Isn't it funny?"

"What?"

"Troy, with his private jet and everything."

"No funnier than us, living in Beverly Hills and owning a line of successful, upscale graphic novel boutiques. You can't say we didn't put that money to good use. I just thought it was funny that the first thing Troy wanted to buy was a million-dollar mobile home."

"How about wanting to get a glass display case for his hat?"

Jerry snickered. "He's a weird dude, but I love him."

Becka stretched again. "Everyone must think the three of us are eccentric." "Why?"

"Pick a reason. Maybe because we all refuse to own televisions."

"Screw 'em. Who cares what they think?"

A few days after their rescue, while they were still recovering in the freighter's sick bay, the network officials met with Jerry, Becka, and Troy. A videotape had been found on the island, the contents of which revealed that Matthew had been a member of the Sons of the Constitution and had killed Jesse in cold blood. It was assumed that he'd done the same to Mark. They showed the tape to the three of them and suggested that their fellow contestants might have met the same fate. Then they told Becka, Jerry, and Troy how financially lucrative it would be for them if they agreed. The executives had contracts with them, drawn up by lawyers just hours after the massacre's discovery. The offered amount was for a lot more than they'd have won by participating in the show. They held out for more—and got it. They also insisted that the other contestants' families be compensated, as well.

Federal investigators had echoed the terrorism angle. The three of them had often wondered just how the network had managed to get investigators to go along with it, but they never found out for sure. Had they sent somebody in to clean up the evidence before investigators arrived? Or were they in on the cover-up as well? He'd seen a few conspiracy theories floated online—how the government had actually killed all the contestants in a bungled operation to get Matthew, how the government had killed everyone so they could blame it on the Sons of the Constitution, how the island had really been an alien

base, how something or someone called Black Lodge had accidentally exterminated everyone on the island with some kind of top-secret weapons test. Each crackpot theory was more laughable than the next. None of it was close to the truth, although the truth was just as bizarre.

"I still think we should move somewhere in the Midwest," Becka said. "Someplace where we can't see the ocean. I could go the rest of my life without seeing it again."

"We can if you want to," Jerry agreed. "We can certainly afford it."

She smiled slyly. "We could move to Montana and hunt Bigfoots."

"Bigfeet," he corrected her. "And no thanks. You've had enough of the ocean. I've had enough of cryptozoology for a while."

"As long as we're together, Jerry, I don't care what we do. We've got a pretty strong alliance, after all."

He smiled, but didn't reply.

Becka frowned slightly. "What's wrong?"

"I keep asking myself if we did the right thing. Taking the money in exchange for our silence. Don't the other families have a right to know what happened to their loved ones? Did we do the right thing, Becka?"

"We did the human thing. I don't know if it was right or wrong, but I don't care. Anybody else in our situation would have done the same thing."

"Maybe you're right."

"You're a good man, Jerry. You deserve a little happiness. We both do."

He leaned over the bed and kissed her. Becka's lips were soft and warm. She sighed, nuzzling his ear. Then she threw back the sheets, took his hand, and pulled him to her. They made love, and neither of them thought about the island.

Later, they sat on the patio and drank mimosas and watched the sun rise.

They felt like winners.

Author's Note

In late 2001,1 was asked to contribute a story to an anthology called
In Laymon's Terms.
The book, published by the venerable Cemetery Dance Publications and edited by Kelly Laymon, Richard Chiz-mar, and Steve Gerlach, was to be a tribute to Richard Laymon, who had passed away earlier that year. Dick Laymon was not only one of my all-time favorite writers, he was also a friend and mentor. So I was very honored to participate.

If, like me, you are a big fan of Laymon's work, then you are probably familiar with the
Beast House
series, which consists of three novels and one novella:
The Cellar, Beast House, The Midnight Tour,
and
Friday Night in Beast House.
The central plot of this series involves a roadside attraction in the fictional town of Malcasa Point, California. This attraction, the Beast House, is inhabited by a repugnant, savage race of beings known only as "beasts" (thus, the rather apt name for the place). In one of the books, Dick offers a brief origin for the beasts—they are a race of subhuman creatures, brought to our shores from an island off

the coast of Australia by an old sea captain. The beasts then slaughter pretty much everyone they come into contact with. They are some real mean bastards. They like to fuck and kill, and fuck what they kill.

When I was asked to contribute a story for
In Laymon's Terms,
I remembered the beasts' origin. The reality television show
Survivor
was very popular at the time, and I was a big fan of the program. (I still am, although I loathe most of the rest of the reality-television genre.) I wondered what would happen if a reality show was filmed on the island where Laymon's beasts had originated—and there were still beasts lurking there. I thought it would be a pretty cool story. Most of my ideas start that way. "Wouldn't it be cool if . . . ?"

So I wrote it.

In the original draft of the story, I used both the beasts and a minor character from
Friday Night in Beast House
named Broadway Joe. At the request of the Laymon estate, I changed the monsters to something of my own creation and dropped the character of Broadway Joe, replacing him with Troy. The result was a short story called "Castaways."

The story was accepted for
In Laymon's Terms,
and also appeared in my own short-story collection,
Fear of Gravity.
A few years after its appearance in
Fear of Gravity,
it was also adapted into a graphic novel, written by Nate Southard, called
Brian Keene's Fear.
Readers have often asked me to consider turning the short story into a full-length novel. Well, your wish is my command. You hold your request in your hands. Never let it be

said that I'm not open to feedback from my readers. (If this were the Internet, I'd post a smiley face icon right here, but since it's not the Internet, feel free to pencil one in yourself if you want.)

I decided that in order to novelize the story, I should remove it even further from the
Beast House
mythos, firmly setting it in my own ever-expanding multi-verse. So after talking about it with Kelly Laymon and Don D'Auria, my editor at Leisure, that's what I did. Eagle-eyed, longtime readers will probably notice some subtle links that firmly ground this novel in my own mythos (including ties to
Dead Sea, The Conqueror Worms
and
Terminal).

One other note. The idea of a race of sub-beings using human females to propagate their species is one I've used before (in the novel
Ghoul).
I generally try not to repeat themes, but in the context of this tale, it seemed appropriate. I'm also not a big fan of using rape to convey a sense of horror in a novel. That's a tired trope, and many times, instead of experiencing horror, the reader is left with nothing but literary misogyny. I debated it for a while. But to have not used rape here would have been a cheat. It would have lessened the realism of the book. Let's be honest—the tribe is slowly dying off, and more and more young are being born with serious birth defects. Given those constraints, their actions were in line with the plot.

Anyway, as I said before, I consider the short story to be a tribute to Richard Laymon, and thus, the novel is too, by extension. As you probably noticed, the book is dedicated to him. (It's also

dedicated to Bruce "Boo" Smith and Dan "UK" Thomas, both of whom were big fans of my work, ardent supporters of the genre, and guys who always brightened everyone's day on the BrianKeene .com message boards. Both Bruce and Dan passed away before this book was published.)

The idea for both versions of
Castaways
was 100 percent inspired by Richard Laymon and his wonderful
Beast House
stories, and I'd like to think he would have dug this. Dick Laymon was a lot of things to a lot of people. Look at his incredibly prolific body of work and you'll understand how he influenced an entire generation of horror writers. He was always very gracious with his time and assistance. Anytime you read a novel by myself, Edward Lee, J. F. Gonzalez, Tom Piccirilli, Brett McBean, Steve Gerlach, Geoff Cooper, Mike Oliveri, Weston Ochse, or many other authors from our generation, keep in mind that it was Richard Laymon (among others) who had a hand in our development—be it a kind word or an introduction to an editor or just sharing a beer and a laugh. He is missed by many, but he is certainly not forgotten. And he will be remembered for a long time to come through his many works.

As always, thanks for buying this book and my other books, and for taking the time to drop by my website and tell me what you thought of them. I wish I could return the favor and buy each and every one of you a beer (or a coffee, if you prefer), but that would get pretty expensive, and I'm fairly sure my wife wouldn't let all of us hang out in my