A Beast at Bay

"Life is for the strong, to be lived by the strong, and, if needs be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships-lascars, blacks, Chinese, whites, mongrels-a thoroughbred horse or hound is worth more than a score of them."

"But they are men," said Rainsford hotly.

"Precisely," said the general. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

- Richard Connell, "The Most Dangerous Game"

"Well, Gilligan. You did give me a run for my money."

Champion big game hunter Jonathan Kinkaid stood on a grassy knoll that overlooked a broad clearing of thick sand. He looked across to the edge of the jungle where Gilligan lay on the ground, clutching his thigh. Ribbons of blood as red as Gilligan's shirt dribbled between the young sailor's fingers. Gilligan grimaced in pain, powerless to move.

The sun beat down, white and merciless, as Kinkaid dragged his sleeve across his brow and tossed his Australian bush hat on the ground. Casually he unslung his canteen from around his neck and took a quick drink. "I'm surprised you let me get so close to you – bad move. Not like the man in the book."

"Book?" Gilligan gasped, the cold sweat of fear dripping into his eyes.

"The Most Dangerous Game. About a hunter who chases humans on a deserted island. Sound familiar?" The hunter grinned. "The man who's the prey has a great last line: 'I am still a beast at bay.'" Kinkaid let the canteen drop to the grass, then lifted his rifle. "Well? What about your last line, Gilligan?"

The jungle had gone deathly quiet. Gilligan lay panting heavily, his burning blue eyes fixed on the hunter. It was an act of sheer will not to look at the sand. He did not speak.

Jonathan Kinkaid raised a bemused eyebrow at Gilligan's silence. Then he cocked his Winchester and took aim. He paused a moment, grinning in triumph, while Gilligan shut his eyes, praying.

"Bang!"

Gilligan's eyes snapped open to see Kinkaid laughing.

"Just kidding. I want to be close enough to see your face."

Gilligan's heart was pounding so hard he feared he would faint. He watched Kinkaid intently, almost forgetting the pain in his leg. Just one more step…

Kinkaid leapt lightly off the knoll, landing about six feet into the patch of sand. And at once there was a great, sucking, monstrous slurp as he sank past his knees and continued to sink, the ground beneath him giving way like—

"Quicksand! It's quicksand!" Instinctively Kinkaid struggled to lift his feet, but but the mire held him in a ravenous grip. He looked around at the foliage. "Got to shoot down a vine!"

"Don't bother," came a low, pain-wracked voice from the edge of the jungle. Kinkaid looked up to see Gilligan leaning back against a rock, weak and gasping with relief. "There's none over there."

"How do you know?"

"I took them."

"You what?" Kinkaid gaped at the first mate for a few moments, struggling to understand. Then it hit him. "Let me get this straight. This is a trap? You planned this?"

Gilligan nodded, clutching his wounded leg. "Uh huh. I know that story. I saw the movie."

Kinkaid blinked at him.

"Remember the trap the guy set for the hunter? The big pit? I thought of the quicksand."

The look in Kinkaid's ice blue eyes slowly turned from incredulity to admiration. He laughed in delight. "Not bad! You've got more brains than I thought!"

But in moments the undulating sand, wet and yielding as oatmeal, was up to the hunter's hips.. Kinkaid stopped laughing, but kept calm. "But let's be honest, Gilligan. You're no killer. Go on. Throw me a vine."

Gilligan did not move, except to glare warily at the Winchester. "Oh!" chuckled Kinkaid, looking at his rifle as though he'd forgotten it was there. He tossed the rifle ahead of him where it hit the sand with a quiver and swiftly vanished. "There. You win. Go on, get the vine."

"I didn't mean it to kill you, Mr. Kinkaid," said Gilligan, his face growing paler by the second. "I only meant to make you throw the gun away."

The mire was sucking at the hunter's chest now. "I just did," said Kinkaid. "So get the vine."

Gilligan looked up at a leafy vine hanging high above his head, then back at the hunter. "I can't. I've been shot."

Kinkaid was thunderstruck. He stared at the blood on Gilligan's leg and hand and felt his own blood run cold. "Oh…my…God. Gilligan – Gilligan, come on! Get up! Gilligan!" He struggled and sank a foot further, and his eyes bulged in terror. "Gilligan, for God's sake, get me the vine!"

That genuinely stricken voice galvanized Gilligan into action. Unthinking, he sprang up and tried to stand on his wounded leg. "Aahh!" Almost at once it buckled out from under him and he slumped to the ground, nearly fainting from the pain.

Kinkaid stared in horror, the hungry sand lapping at his throat. His arms were raised, high and helpless. "Gilligan! Get up! Gilligan! Somebody! Help me!"

The birds were darting out of the trees now and the monkeys on the shaking branches were gibbering with fear. Gilligan buried his head in his arms and shut his eyes tight, but couldn't block out the screams. On they went, fading to frantic, liquid gurgles, until finally there was no voice at all. Then Gilligan heard a strange new sound: the mechanical buzz of an alarm.

Slowly Gilligan raised his head and looked out across the quicksand to where a lone, desperate hand clawed at the air. On the wrist the huge Bulova watch gleamed in the sunlight. Gilligan remembered Kinkaid setting that alarm exactly twenty-four hours earlier. Then the hand slipped beneath the surface, and all was silent. "Game over," Gilligan whispered.

He began to shiver uncontrollably. This time, the darkness that hid Gilligan's sight was merciful unconsciousness.

When he awoke, Gilligan saw the sapphire blue sky above and the soaring trunks and far off underside of the great waving tufts of the palm trees. Brightly coloured birds flitted high above, twittering softly, while the monkeys leapt nimbly from height to impossible height. Slowly Gilligan became aware of other things: the soft moss that pillowed his head, a cool, damp cloth on his forehead, the tangy scent of wood smoke and a dull throbbing ache in his thigh. He shifted and groaned.

"Gilligan, little buddy! Thank God!"

It was the voice Gilligan had prayed to hear once more. He looked up and there bending over him, with pale face and red-rimmed eyes, was the Skipper.

"Don't try to speak, Gilligan! Just lie still now. You're in shock." He turned and looked somewhere out of Gilligan's field of vision. "Professor! Professor, he's coming 'round!" Turning back to Gilligan, he squeezed his first mate's hand in reassurance. "The wound isn't serious, Gilligan. Just a deep graze. You were real lucky, little buddy."

The Professor's face moved into view above him. "Gilligan, thank heaven!"

"Is everybody safe?" Gilligan whispered.

"Everyone's fine! Just fine. You mustn't worry yourself."

"But what happened?" the first mate persisted weakly.

The Professor saw that Gilligan was not to be denied. "We're not exactly sure ourselves. The six of us managed to escape from the cave where Ramoo was guarding us and tied him up, but when we went back to check on him, he was gone! Then a little while ago we saw the helicopter taking off and saw him in it, just before we found you. But he was alone." The Professor looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he finally realized that a man as crazy as Kinkaid couldn't ever be trusted."

Gilligan felt the Skipper's hand gently lift his head up, and tasted cool water. He gulped it down gratefully until he recognized its source, and coughed and sputtered. "Skipper," he whispered. "That canteen. It's Kinkaid's!"

The Skipper nodded. "We know. We found it next to his hat on that knoll over there just before we looked across and…." His voice caught and he turned sharply away, gripping Gilligan's hand.

The Professor cut in gently, "…and saw you. The Skipper had a…bad moment or two then, Gilligan. Please, don't ever do that to us again."

The Skipper still hadn't turned around. Gilligan felt his grip tighten until it was almost painful. "I tell you, if Kinkaid had come along just then, gun or no gun, I'd have—"

"But where is Kinkaid?" The Professor cut in again, casting a wary eye at the trees. "It's all too terribly obvious he and his gun were here. But – forgive me, Gilligan – why didn't he finish the job? What could have happened to him?"

Gilligan's head shifted towards the quicksand. His hand flicked up briefly, pointing.

It took the Skipper and the Professor a moment to understand him. When they did, they stared at the quicksand in disbelief. The Professor whistled softly. "So the great hunter has hunted his first and last human victim! Well, I wouldn't lose much sleep over him if I were you, Gilligan. He brought this on himself. I'd say the human part of Jonathan Kinkaid died a long time ago."

The Skipper offered Gilligan more water from the canteen but the young sailor shook his head and shut his lips tight. The Skipper frowned. "Gilligan…"

Gilligan shook his head again. "No. Please, Skipper."

With a sigh, the Skipper shrugged and simply used the canteen to wet the cloth he was using as a cold compress. "The Professor's going back to camp to get a stretcher and some blankets. I'm going to stay here with you. Now you hang in there, little buddy—that's an order."

Gilligan's eyes softened at the tremor in the big man's voice. "Aye aye, Skipper."

"Good man."

The Professor did one last check of the banana leaf bandage and bamboo splints on Gilligan's leg. "Your leg's going to ache for awhile, Gilligan. I'll make you some painkiller out of willow bark when we get back to camp. Now you keep that leg elevated, Skipper, and keep the fire going to keep him warm. I'll be back right away, fellows," and he slipped off into the jungle.

Gilligan lay breathing heavily, deeply grateful for the cool cloth and the reassuring pressure of the Skipper's hand on his brow. After a few moments, he spoke. "Skipper, did you ever read a story about a hunter?"

"Shhh. Just rest, little buddy."

But Gilligan pressed on. "They made it into a movie. Made me hate hunting."

The Skipper's lips set as he looked up at the quicksand. "You're not the only one. That maniac. Boy, I'll say he got what he deserved! Doing this to one of the sweetest, kindest little guys in the whole world!"

"I am still a beast at bay," Gilligan whispered, before his eyes closed in troubled sleep.