In Laymon's Terms

“Caribbean tradition holds that it’s haunted. The natives avoided this island, because their legends taught that the caves here were the mouths of the underworld. They believed it to be infested with demons. And then there’s the legend of the Japanese squadron who disappeared here during World War Two. It’s been the focus of several television documentaries. There’s also the account of the Marcelle, which anchored here in 1905. Legend has it the crew stayed one night and left, swearing never to return.”

“That’s because they weren’t after a million dollars,” Marcy said.

Roland filled them in on a few more rules, then departed back to the ship, leaving behind six camera and sound technicians.

Becka noticed Antoine staring into the jungle.

“What is it? Is something wrong?”

“It’s quiet. No birds, nothing.”

“Maybe the helicopter scared them away?”

“Maybe,” he nodded, “or maybe it really is haunted.”

He grinned.

“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it,” Shonette whispered. “Having them follow us around everywhere?”

Heather glanced back at the two men, one wielding the camera and the other a microphone.

“Yeah, but I guess we’ll get used to it.”

They threaded their way through a tangle of vines, pressing slowly through the foliage in search of fresh water.

“This sucks.” Shonette slapped an insect from her ebony thigh.

“Yeah, but it beats having to lug back firewood. We’ll let the men do that.”

“Girlfriend, I’d let Antoine do a lot more than that!”

The man with the microphone crept closer.

“Jerry isn’t bad either,” Heather mused. “I think he’s got a crush on Becka.”

“That Troy guy is cute, too.”

“Yeah, but in a psycho kind of way. What about that creep Larry?”

“The way that man was staring at Marcy’s chest,” Shonette exclaimed, “you’d think he was gonna attack her right there on the sand!”

“First chance we get, we knock him off the island.”

“So we’re a team then?”

“I’m willing if you are,” Heather offered, sticking out her hand. Shonette took it.

“Just so we remember there can be only one winner,” she reminded Heather.

“Agreed.”

They pressed forward.

“You sure you remember the way back to camp?” Shonette asked. “We’ve gone a few miles.”

Heather didn’t respond. She’d stopped in her tracks, peering into the greenery.

The open mouth of a cave stared back at them.

“So do you have a girlfriend?” Becka asked Jerry, regretting it immediately.

“No,” he replied, and she breathed an inward sigh of relief. “But I’m always on the lookout. Want to hook up?” He winked at her.

“I don’t know you well enough,” she replied coyly, checking to make sure Marcy was out of earshot, “but I would consider an alliance while we’re on this island. It would be nice to have someone to trust.”

“Yes, it would,” Jerry agreed. “But an alliance doesn’t mean you’d be able to trust me. What if we play the game all the way to the end, and it comes down to you or me? What then?”

“Then I’d have to kick your ass and win the million. But don’t worry, I’d give you a loan.”

He laughed, the sound of it echoing through the trees. Becka picked some more berries, placing them on the wide piece of bark she was using as a makeshift basket.

“Found some good ones,” Marcy announced cheerfully. Immediately, the cameras focused on her cleavage. She gave her breasts an extra shake and smiled teasingly. Then she stopped, cocking her ear.

Jerry grew silent, too. Becka tilted her head and listened. The wind rustled softly through the leaves. The surf crashed against the beach. Then, much closer, a droning buzz.

“What is that?” Jerry stepped forward, lashing at a fern with his stick. The cameraman followed.

Marcy sniffed the air, her nose wrinkling.

The ferns parted, revealing a splash of red. Then more. Crimson spattered the leaves and the ground. The carcass of a wild animal, freshly killed, lay strewn in pieces. Flies busied themselves in the rancid meat. The scattered remains made identification impossible. The brown, matted fur was sticky with gore. A hoofed leg had been gnawed on and tossed aside. Scraps of organs and raw flesh lay shriveling in the sun—leftover droppings from whatever had done this. A sour stench, faint but noticeable, hung over the clearing.

Jerry turned his head and puked.

Becka closed her eyes. Cringing, Marcy turned away.

What she saw next made her scream.

“Man, get off your lazy ass! I ain’t lugging this firewood by myself!” The camera crew had followed Antoine into the jungle, and for the moment, Larry and Troy were alone on the beach. Troy stumbled with an armload of driftwood while Larry sprawled in the sand with his eyes closed.

“Please,” Larry frowned, waving a hand in his direction. “Can’t you see I’m thinking?”

“Think about my fucking foot in your ass.”

Larry rolled over onto his stomach, sand clinging to his back.

“Is that any way to talk to the guy that can get you a cigarette?”

“You got some?”

“No, I quit years ago. But I know somebody that does. They brought it as their luxury item.”

“Who?”

“The nigger. Antoine.”

“Dude, not only are you a lazy fuck, you’re a racist, too?”