Disclaimer: Gilligan's Island was created by Sherwood Schwartz. "The Most Dangerous Game" was written by Richard Connell. Geniuses, the pair of 'em.

Perhaps the Jaguar Does

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Whitney. "We should make it in a few days. I hope the jaguar guns have come from Purdey's. We should have some good hunting up the Amazon. Great sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed Rainsford.

"For the hunter," amended Whitney. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk rot, Whitney," said Rainsford. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Whitney.

--Richard Connell, "The Most Dangerous Game"

It seemed the very air was sweating in the hot, dense, murky jungle as Gilligan crouched beneath a squat tree, barely breathing. Even the insects had fallen ominously silent. How long had it been since nightfall? One hour? Ten? He strained to see, but the night was black velvet pressed against his eyes. Something crackled nearby. A whimper of terror rose in Gilligan's throat and he jammed his fist into his mouth to stifle it. He listened again, over the roar of the blood in his own ears.

Crack! Crack!

A spurt of fire in the darkness, and the bark beside him exploded.

He ran.

He ran in mindless fear, tearing blindly through the dark, grasping, snaring jungle. Breath burned like fire in his lungs. His heart pounded to the point where it must surely burst. Only one thought still rang in his fevered brain - that at any moment could come the bullet, and he would know no more.

Suddenly something caught his foot and he tripped and fell headlong. As he spun over and looked up, he blinked at the sudden intensity of the light. He had blundered into a grassy glade flooded with the incandescent glow of the full moon. And out of the shadows at the edge of the jungle stepped a rugged man in safari gear – a man with the brightest, coldest eyes Gilligan had ever seen.

Jonathan Kinkaid.

"Just like the moon over the Amazon, Gilligan," the hunter murmured, glancing briefly up as he cocked his rifle.

Gilligan stared at him, frozen.

"I hunted the jaguar there," Kinkaid continued. "Powerful creature. Cunning. Ruthless. The jungle's greatest predator. Until I came along." He looked down at Gilligan and smiled. "Survival of the fittest. That's the law of the jungle."

Gilligan felt as though the very ground was gripping him. He could not move.

"Now come on, stand up," said Kinkaid. "I'd prefer that my first two-legged prey died on its two legs."

Gilligan still did not move. But there came a strange sound from the jungle - a deep, coughing grunt – and the bushes shook, as at the movement of something huge. Kinkaid stared in its direction, his eyes briefly darting back to Gilligan. A flicker of fear crossed the hunter's face.

Then all at once a great beast bounded from the darkness, knocking the hunter flat to the ground and sending the rifle flying into the moonlit grass. As Kinkaid struggled desperately, Gilligan looked at the creature that had pinned his foe. It was like a leopard, its gleaming fur dappled with black rosettes, but it was larger, heavier, with a broad skull and long, curving fangs. It lunged at Kinkaid, its yellow eyes blazing with rage.

"Gilligan!" screamed Kinkaid as he writhed, hands upraised in a futile attempt to ward off those jaws. "Call it off! My God! Call it off!"

Gilligan shook his head. "I can't!"

The hunter's face was almost unrecognizable in its terror. "You've got to help me! Call it off! Please!"

"Stop!" Gilligan called faintly, but the great beast ignored him. The massive head lunged down with brutal fury. There was a scream that ended in a horrible crack, like a bolt of lighting, or a shattering of bone.

Gilligan sat watching in horror as the creature's head bent low in the quivering grass.

After a few moments the beast looked up at Gilligan. Its lips drew back in a red snarl, and the fury in its yellow eyes was terrible. Swiftly it leapt over the ragged figure at its feet and hurtled towards him. Gilligan scrambled to his feet and once more ran for his life.

The coughing grunt of a roar sounded again. And then there came a shooting pain in his thigh, like a burning brand, and the weight was bearing him down, down, and at last the scream erupted from his throat.

"Gilligan!"

Gilligan gasped and sat up. He blinked, panting heavily, as he struggled to take in his surroundings. It was dark, yes, but he was in his hut, and it was a blanket that had wrapped itself around him and trapped him, and in a moment there was a candleflame flickering before him. In the light of that flame was a face that could be in no nightmare.

"Gilligan! What is it, little buddy?"

"Skipper!" Gilligan whispered, and clung to the Skipper's arm. After a moment the trembling first mate turned his gaze to the window, where the rain poured down and the jungle momentarily glowed as lightning lit the sky. Thunder boomed and rumbled.

"Gilligan? Are you all right?" This time it was the Professor's voice, and Roy Hinkley slid from the upper hammock to crouch by Gilligan's side. He pressed the back of his hand to Gilligan's forehead. "No fever, at least. Thank goodness the humidity's broken with this rain. We'd better check his wound, Skipper. I'll get him some water."

Shadows hovered as the Professor moved to the far side of the hut. The Skipper set his candle on a nearby stool. "Sorry, Skipper," Gilligan murmured. "The thunder scared me."

The Skipper looked at him searchingly. "Just the thunder?"

"Yeah, Skipper," said the first mate, avoiding the Skipper's eyes.

The Skipper looked at him for a moment longer, then started to fold back Gilligan's blanket. When he eased the last of the cloth back, Gilligan winced slightly. "Still looks awful," he murmured.

"Just be glad it's only a scar. Gilligan, what did I tell you about trying to get in your hammock?"

"Yes," said the Professor as he knelt down next to Gilligan and handed the Skipper a ladle. "That's why we brought my bed in here for you in the first place!"

The Professor pressed the muscles near the long, dark scar on Gilligan's thigh, and the first mate gasped, gripping the Skipper's arm again. "Steady, little buddy," the Skipper murmured, his eyes dark with concern. Outside the lightning flashed again and the thunder rolled.

"Sorry, Gilligan," murmured the Professor. "Here, take some of these. Thank Heaven Mr. Howell was able to find them amongst all that baggage." He handed the young sailor several small tablets. Gilligan swallowed them with a gulp of water from the ladle.

"What do you think, Professor?" the Skipper asked.

"I think it was a miracle there was no major tissue damage. But there's no sense in taking chances." The Professor replaced the blanket. "You're going to have to be more careful, Gilligan. It's a wonder enough that you survived a gunshot wound."

"Even if it was only a graze," added the Skipper. "Goodness knows I've seen my share of what a rifle bullet can do to a man. You've got to take it easy, little buddy. Give yourself time."

Gilligan took another gulp of water and passed a hand over his forehead. "I-I'm sorry, Skipper. I just wanted something to be normal again. Like sleeping in my own hammock. I don't like being low to the ground, in the dark. It feels like I'm back in the jungle, waiting for him."

The Professor, putting away the pills, looked over at him. "Gilligan, Jonathan Kinkaid is dead. He fell in the quicksand. He is dead."

"Yeah," whispered Gilligan, his eyes still full of ghosts.

The Skipper squeezed Gilligan's arm gently. "You saw it happen. You told us about it yourself. You're safe now. It's all over."

Gilligan nodded, closing his eyes and shivering.

The Professor eyed him carefully. "The medicine should take care of the pain and help you sleep. Do you want us to sit up with you until then?"

"No…no, it's okay, Professor." Gilligan wiped his lips on his arm and handed the ladle back to the Skipper. "You two go back to bed. I'll be all right."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Skipper. I'm sure."

"Well…I'll get you a cup to leave beside you, then." The Skipper grunted as he stood up and headed for the water keg.

Meanwhile, the Professor climbed back into Gilligan's hammock. "Goodnight, Gilligan. And trust me. Things will get back to normal eventually. I promise."

"Sure. Thanks, Professor."

Gilligan lay back on the bed, listening to the steady fall of the rain. He almost didn't hear the soft rustle of the cup being set on the grass-covered stool behind him. Then the Skipper's face was in the candle-flame again. "Goodnight, Gilligan. Now you just sing out if you need us, okay?"

"Okay."

"And don't worry." There was that reassuring squeeze on his arm again. "You're safe now, little buddy. There's nothing for you to be afraid of."

The flame went out, and a few moments later there was no sound but the steady streaming of the rain and the low rumble of the thunder. Gilligan lay sleepless, staring into the shadows as if in search of a pair of yellow eyes.