Many have speculated about the events surrounding the groups disappearance. Josh sure did. His head was pounding, like he'd ben hit by a ton of bricks. He stirred on the cold cement floor as his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
"Help!" he yelled. "Heather! Mike! MIKE! Where are you guys?!"
But he didn't hear a sound, except something like a dripping faucet. Then he really started freaking out. He had suffered hard these past few days, knowing that he might die in these woods without ever revealing what his heart, for years, had been begging him to reveal.
He threw out his hands and started to feel out his surroundings. The room was small, like a closet. But the walls were cement, and he saw a toilet trickling softly in the corner. And there were no doors. How had he gotten in here? He remembered being on watch duty, which Heather had asked him to do for the second night in a row. He didn't mind though. He loved knowing that he could protect them. Could protect him. He had gripped the long, thick flashlight hard, his mind wandering to that summer when they were both 11, when his mom had set out the sprinkler on the last Sunday before school started. He'd begun drifting to sleep, imagining the incredible afternoon, and the stupid, horrible night when things had gone so wrong. They hadn't spoken for years.
But how had he gotten here? He remembered flashes of pain, like leftover memories of a drunken blackout. He started to scream, pounding at the walls until the knuckles on his large, tough hands started to bleed. He thought back to the campfire, last Friday. Before all this terror began. What was stalking them? How had he gotten here? He repeated the question to himself over and over as he pounded the walls. He had been so happy. Hadn't felt so warm in years, sitting by that fire. While Heather yammered on he had stared, emboldened by the Jim Beam they were passing around, to stare harder than he'd allowed himself to in years. They were all smiles. And Mike had retuned his smiles, without an ounce of derision or the distance that had characterized their relationship for years.
"You're kind of like the captain and Mike's kind of like your Gilligan." Heather had said it offhand, but it sent Josh screaming back to earth.
"Hahahaha!" he laughed aggressively, trying to play it off. But Mike had laughed too, and relief washed over him like a hot shower.
"Let's not call it the captain anymore, you illiterate TV people!" Mike had said. "It's the Skipper! I'm Gilligan, and Josh is my skipper!"
Heart attack! He'd laughed again, his mind racing like crazy. It was almost too good to be true. What was happening? Was he imagining it? He'd looked straight at Mike then, deep into the olive-brown eyes, lit only by the flickering flames. "Good thing they didn't have any beer on that island, man. If they did they would have had, like, big-ass orgies."
Heather groaned, but Mike had nodded, hiccuping drunkenly. He'd felt on top of the world, and they'd all slept close that night, hugging closely in the tent for warmth before the perpetual hangover of the next few days befell them.
He suddenly felt cold. So tired and so cold. He stopped shouting and sat on the ground and stared at the toilet, despondent. "Just let me die," he said to the toilet. "Just swallow me up and take me away." He'd been stupid. He would never have told Mike. He never had, these past 15 years. What was supposed to change deep in the woods? And with Heather around? It was stupid. He was stupid. He began to nod off again, butterfly-legged on the concrete, before an impossible wind swept through the windowless room. He shivered and leapt to his feet.
Then pain, beyond any he had ever experienced, and his mouth began filling with blood. He tried to scream, but it came out like a gurgle, and he spit violently, a dark splatter streaking the wall behind the toilet. His teeth ricocheted against the walls, like they had in some many of his dreams. He screamed and screamed, feeling around in the still-darkening room for his teeth, but they were nowhere. He felt swallowed by the wind, but seconds before losing consciousness he heard a sound. "Josh!" came a shout, worlds away and barely audible. Could it be him? But it was too late, and he was out cold.
He awoke again, and it took him several minutes before he remembered where he was. He stood up and noticed there was now a small opening in the wall where before there had been none. He stepped through it into a larger concrete room. Like a basement. A single light bulb hung naked, throbbing in the corner. He approached the only exit — a staircase — before feeling a tap on his shoulder. His heart practically stopped, and he returned, fearing the end. But it wasn't any witch. It was him. It was Mike.
"Mike!" he tried to yell but couldn't through his bloodied mouth. Mike drew him in slowly, smiling, and shushed him softly. "Don't worry," he said. We don't have much time."
"But how did you get here!? Where are we!?" He knew his words were garbled, but he felt Mike understood him all the same.
"It doesn't matter now. Nothing does. We can't leave here, but we can enjoy it while we can." And they kissed. "But my mouth!" Josh started to protest. "It doesn't matter."
It could've lasted days. Years. It felt like eternity. An internal warmth like none he'd ever experienced cradled him in that room, and he felt a lifetime of joy held in those strong arms. Finally, they broke apart. The light in the corner popped, and Josh shuddered, blinking wildly in the darkness. He threw out his arms but once again feels nothing but wall. He tried to scream but nothing came out. Suddenly, a voice. "It's too late now. But don't worry anymore. Let the sleep take you, and know love, like you've never known it before. You are worthy of love. You are loved.
And light welled up around him.