Roger

Roger hated his family. It was no secret, although somehow his parents never seemed to realize his loathing of them. Neither did his sister. He generally tried to avoid them; most of the time he was out with his gang. When he was at home, the only communication made between them was the necessary lines, like “where’s the remote?” or “I want my money back.” He hated everything about his family, even though to the casual observer, it would appear a normal, nurturing household.

His loose association of friends never called themselves anything but a gang, which they clearly weren’t. Their habitual pastime was doing drugs. When they weren’t high, tripping, drunk, or something else entirely, they were at the mall, shoplifting. Roger loved it… couldn’t seem to get enough of it. He hadn’t been caught yet, but he figured his time would come. He tended to accept things as they were, and he was never one to complain. Shit happens. In his room was a small treasure of stolen goods, which he would pawn at opportune times, but generally keep for himself. His parents never questioned where all the stuff came from; they always just assumed he had extremely generous friends and a well-above minimum wage job.

So, it was plainly much to Roger’s dismay when his father announced that in July of that summer, they would be taking a family vacation. “C’mon, wont it be fun, kids? We’re going to Australia!” As exciting as Australia seemed, Roger didn’t want to leave his gang and drugs behind, especially not to spend “quality” time with his kin. But whatever daddy said went, according to his mother. He was not one to be directly disobedient, he preferred sneaking behind everyone else’s backs. He decided there was nothing he could do. Shit happens.

Roger informed the gang he would be away for a while. Ben said he would have a fresh bowl of weed packed for him when he returned. “Oh,” he replied, “I’m gonna need it.”

Some time later, when the time came to depart, Roger wasn’t fully packed. “Roj, honey, are you ready to go?” his mom called up the stairs.

Roger rolled out of bed in sleepy rage. “What the fuck, mom! You didn’t tell me we were leaving today! I have like, two things packed!” he yelled.

“I’m sorry, I thought daddy told you!” his mother said.

“Well, he didn’t!” said Roger. “And why do you always call him daddy? I’m not a little kid anymore.”

She didn’t respond. After a moment she said, “Well, just hurry up and pack what you can.” Roger rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. “Whatever,” he replied groggily.

Soon they were crammed in a taxi on their way to the airport. As other cars slowly drifted past his window, Roger closed his weary eyes and tried to forget reality, worthlessly anticipating a flashback, or even just a dream, to take him away from his surroundings.

On the plane, Roger luckily landed himself a window seat. He had to wrestle his sister out of it, but she wasn’t much of a fighter. After take-off, he was soon bored. Going more than a day without doing something illegal wasn’t much fun to him. If you’ve ever known a drugee, you’ll understand how emotional one can get when deprived of their habit. Soon though, he was over the internal struggle. He didn’t have a lot of common sense, but he was a fairly bright kid. He knew the root of his problems was his addiction, and he convinced himself not to put up any fuss over his situation.

Many hours passed of lame movies, low-grade food, and uncomfortable seats. Roger noticed rain outside, but the clouds looked harmless enough. About halfway through one of his CDs, with a jolt, the plane suddenly had a bout of turbulence. “Finally, some action!” he thought. The plane shook steadily, but gently for a little while. The captain put on the “fasten seatbelts” light. Then, the shaking became more violent. The intercom crackled to life with the captain’s voice: “Uhh, this is your captain speaking. We’re experiencing some turbulence here, so if you could please fasten your seatbelts if you have not done so.” The shaking wouldn’t stop, for minutes it went on, though it seemed like hours. Roger felt as if he would be thrown from his seat had he not clicked his seatbelt. People started screaming as the aircraft noticeably shifted angle and direction. But as suddenly as it had started, the turbulence stopped. The plane gradually moved back on course, the seatbelts light went out, and all returned to normal.

Roger turned his CD player back on, pleased that at least something had happened. Suddenly, he felt a tingle. Certain people, when something terrible is about to happen, receive a sense or feeling of foreboding. It’s as if they can sense what’s about to happen, like animals running to safety long before a storm hits. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His pupils constricted. He slowly looked around the plane, but nothing seemed awry. Roger couldn’t possibly explain the immense fear he was feeling, that which he had never felt its equal his whole life. Slowly, coolly, he reached for his seatbelt, and fastened it. He put away his CD player, zipped up his bag, and brought it to rest on his lap. He could feel the charge in the air.

CRACK! The lightning was drawn to the plane like a moth is to light, and it hit home with a clatter that left the entire plane temporarily deaf; at least, those who weren’t silenced by 100 million volts of electricity. Panic ensued. The pressure had very suddenly dropped, and the oxygen inside the compartment had quickly escaped. It became hard to breath, but the oxygen masks dropped, much to the passenger’s relief. The part of the plane nearest the strike was on fire, and those who didn’t have their seatbelt on were sucked out of the gaping hole.

Roger watched the horrific scene in stupor. Turning to his family, all he found were empty seats. They had all neglected to buckle up. His heart leapt into his throat, and he could feel tears in his eyes. However much he had hated them was forgotten in knowing he would never see them again. Deep down, he had truly loved them. As the plane sped toward the ocean below, for the first time he prayed to the almighty. He never expressed a belief in god, but he figured there ought to be someone up there. After all, there are some things that just can’t be explained. He prayed, begged, and pleaded, that he would survive.

He all but screamed his vow to never sin again. When he knew the plane was about to crash, he braced himself and closed his eyes. With a massive jolt and a loud WHAM, the plane hit the Pacific. Freezing water rushed in to meet them, slapping him in the face with a taste of salt and at such speed it left his cheeks stinging. Once recovered from impact, Roger threw his lifejacket on, grabbed his bag, and swam with as much strength as he could muster towards the emergency exit. Wrenching it open, he as much as dove into the watery brine. Knowing a sinking object will pull anyone above it down with it, he swam as far as he could away from the plane.

Once he was far enough away that he could no longer see the plane behind him, he relaxed a little, and let the waves carry him. The enormity of what had happened had not yet registered in every part of his brain, and he was in complete shock. Soon, he succumbed to fatigue, and blacked out. While unconscious, his mind was still in a mild state of delirium. He dreamed terrible watery dreams, of death by drowning, and sea serpents and behemoths of the oceans.

Roger’s dreams turned peaceful. He could hear the ocean from a distance, but he no longer felt its turmoil. A bright light forced him awake. Opening his eyes, he found himself lying on his stomach on a sandy beach. The sun was shining directly at him, warming his tired limbs. Slowly, he rolled on his back and rested on his elbows. All around him was beautiful scenery. In front of him was the shining, turquoise blue ocean. Behind was a palm tree forest, featuring all kinds of tropical bushes, trees, and the odd wildlife creature. To each side was his comfortable sandy beach.

Marooned. Roger couldn’t believe his luck. Dying of old age as the sole occupant of a tiny island was better than drowning. He rose to his feet. “Well,” he declared, “let’s get to work.” And work he did. After making a mental list of priorities, he emptied his backpack and began foraging for food. He shortly found two orange trees, with ripe, juicy fruit. There were lots of tiny lizards scampering around the sandy forest bed, and birds flocked above. Filling his bag with oranges, he continued around the island. Spying a large boulder, he hurried towards it. On the top was a slight bowl-shape somehow gouged into the rock long ago, which trapped rainwater. He drank nonstop until he no longer felt thirsty, then he took note of the spot, and walked on. Within 20 minutes he found himself back where he started. By his judgment, he figured the island to be no more than a mile around. In fact, he assumed it was closer to 3 quarters, or at least a half-mile.

He opened his bag of oranges and, staring at the fruit, realized with a start how hungry he was. He hadn’t had anything to eat since a bag of peanuts probably 20 hours ago. Though he didn’t know how long he had been afloat. It could have been days, for all he could tell. He tore into them, and soon he had eaten half of the whole bag. Coming to his senses, he stowed his bag away, knowing he would have to conserve all his food.

Once he knew he was set for sustenance, he assured himself he would survive. Now knowing he could rest easy, he set out again in search of shelter. The rest of that day he spent exploring the island. By nightfall, he had discovered not far from the beach a rocky area with a small roofed place. Enlarging it with the best sticks and thickest foliage he could find, he had soon made a suitable living space. Exhausted, he fell asleep with thoughts of the day swirling through his mind.

Malcolm

Over the next several weeks and months, Roger slowly became more and more adapted to his new living environment. He mastered building a fire without matches, expanded and strengthened his shelter, and managed to build lizard traps, setting them at strategic places. Eventually, he began fishing. Abandoning any ideas of spear fishing for the time being, he made simple rods instead. Wading out to near his waist, he baited his paperclip hook with small pieces of lizard, and cast his tree bark string towards a nearby reef. This soon proved very successful. On a good day, he would catch enough fish to last him up to a week or more, although he couldn’t keep them that long before they went bad.

On one such day when he didn’t have any fish, he waded out once again near the reef. In search of some possibly bigger catches, he baited his line with a whole lizard, and cast slightly further towards open water. He waited patiently. 10 minutes or so passed, and nothing was happening. Another 10 minutes. After another 10 minutes, he decided he might have to call it quits. Suddenly, he felt a twitch on the line. His senses heightened, and he started slowly pulling in the line. A stronger twitch, this time, he could feel the poll jerk. He started raveling in the line much faster now. Whatever was on his line had now had enough. Roger’s poll was nearly jerked out of his hands with the force of the fish. It kept pulling harder and harder, and the line was straining near its breaking point. Roger felt he had no choice but to wade out further, while he kept slowly reeling in the line. Feeling a slick, slippery something slide by his leg, he suddenly jerked to look down in horror, but saw only a small fish swim away. In diverting his attention away from the line, his rod was pulled out of his grasp.

“Shit!” he shouted. “Goddamn it!” He ran as fast as he could through the water, reaching towards his most prized possession on the island. “I spent way too long on that fucking thing to lose it now!”

“Damn right I did!” he supported himself. For a fleeting moment he almost wondered who had just said that, only to realize he was simply talking to himself.

As the poll slowly faded from his sight, he slowed down, by now up to his armpits. He stopped. “Fuck,” he cursed one last time. Turning around, his foot went mere inches farther out to sea, but it was just far enough. His foot slipped right off the edge of a drop-off. He fell down the edge of an underwater cliff, slipping on mud and seaweed. The feel of it against his feet was disgusting and nearly unbearable. When his head went under, his mouth had been open in surprise. He swallowed large amounts of water. Gasping for air, water rushed into his lungs. The undertow kept him under for some time. When he surfaced, he was light-headed, gagging, and disoriented. He had drifted many yards away from the drop-off, and was steadily being drawn back by a strong riptide. He screamed in mental and physical agony. The shore of his island drifted slowly away from him, by forces beyond his control.

He puked. His stomach was retching violently from the muck he had swallowed, and his lungs felt heavy. For the second time in his life, he thought he would surely die. The island was now almost completely out of his sight, and his strength was fading. He looked into the sky, anticipating his slow demise. “Not this way,” he thought. “I don’t wanna go like this…”

“Hey,” Roger heard someone say, in a weary voice.

Roger spun his head around in surprise. To his sheer amazement, he found a man, floating on a piece of driftwood, not 10 feet from him. “Hello…” Roger extracted his voice, shocked. Making the effort to speak forced his stomach to lurch, and a stream of vomit spilled out of his mouth.

“Thank da gods,” said the man. “I can’t believe I found anoder human out here!” he said. He had obviously been afloat for some time. He had whiskers and thin, scraggy, graying hair. His voice was hoarse and he was in need of fresh water.

“Where…” Roger gasped, “Where did you come from?”

“Uh, I’ve been livin’ on a deserted island for probably 2 years now. I aint too sure, the days have all sort of… faded together… I tried getting’ back to… well… land. I made a raft. But… I didn’t get too far.” the man said. “What’s your name?”

“Roger,” he said, climbing aboard the piece of driftwood. “What’s yours?”

“Malcolm.”

They drifted for a while in silence. Neither of them could think of much to say. Both were clearly exhausted. Malcolm broke the silence. “Shit! Shit shit shit! I’m never gonna get back to land, an’ now all I have to die with is dis stupid piece of wood an’ some stupid kid! Fuck you, Roger! Fuck this! Fuck!”

“Whoa. Calm down, old man. There’s no point complaining about the inevitable.” Roger said. His voice was calm and soothing to Malcolm. His anger-contorted face smoothed over.

“Whatever, little man. I just want some fuckin’ water. I’m sick o’ drinkin’ this seawater. Is so nasty!” Malcolm exclaimed.

“Don’t drink saltwater, it makes you sick.”

“I don’t need advice from some stupid little man,” said Malcolm.

“Geeze. Just trying to help.”

Silence settled over the duo once again. The sun sunk lower on the horizon, and the remainder of Roger’s hope sunk with it. He had quickly decided Malcolm was a mad man. He never stopped itching, never stopped surveying his surroundings, and every word out of his mouth was distorted in some way. His accent was all it’s own. One wrong word directed at him was thrown back in Roger’s face. The man was clearly disturbed in his mind.

Roger could no longer remain awake. His fear of the old man was overcome by his tremendous fatigue. Soon he fell asleep.

He awoke to maniacal laughter. Malcolm was cackling in his hoarse voice, shaking Roger awake. “Look, little man! Look look look look look!”

It was dark, but near dawn. In the faint orange light could be seen a lump on the not-too-distant horizon. “Land!” Roger cried out in amazement and joy. “Its land, finally!”

“Dur. I could’a told you that.” Malcolm rolled his eyes.

“Shut up, man, who cares—its land!” Roger said, delighted. They began paddling with their feet towards the lump. Within minutes, Roger could recognize his island in the glow of the rising sun. “That’s my island! Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Christ it is, little man,” said Malcolm.

When they reached the shallows, Roger ran towards land, and kissed the sand of the beach. Malcolm was right behind him, arms waving, crying phrases of praise in strange tongues. He jumped on a palm tree and hugged it with his arms and legs, licking the bark. “What a crazy son of a bitch,” thought Roger in appreciation.

Sam

“Are those ready to eat yet?” Roger asked Malcolm, motioning towards several birds on a spit. Malcolm had, much to Roger’s surprise, created a successful bow and arrow months ago.

“Nah, little man.” Malcolm insisted on calling Roger by nothing other than little man, though he wasn’t short by any means. In fact, at nearly 6 feet, he towered above Malcolm by a good 6 or 7 inches. Malcolm’s thin frame and frail body added to his small size. “I threw ‘em on ‘bout 5 minutes ago. I’d give ‘em anoder 10 or 15 mayhap. But ‘s like I always says. Better pink den black.” He cracked a near-toothless grin.

“Or, better bloody than crunchy?” Roger joked.

“Hehe! Better drippin’ den stinkin’!” Malcolm said. Roger just smiled back at him. Malcolm mumbled to himself as he turned the spit, smacking his lips in anticipation. Roger had at first listened intently to the man’s self-ramblings, but no real sense could be made of them. He quickly chose to ignore it. Sometimes they seemed angry and spiteful, other times they were evil in tone. He honestly didn’t know what he was ever saying, though.

Many minutes passed before anyone said anything to the other. “Birdies… tey ain’t no bad at t’all, no sir dey dain’t, no no… delish, says I. Sure do but get’um mighty tired o’ em, I do.” Malcolm mumbled to himself. “Course dat dere Rojey sure do eat a mighty lot o’ em, he does. Takeses some o’ mine, some’imes. Li’l bastard, he is.” He continued.

Roger lay on his back in the sand, staring at the stars. He had noticed early on that there were so many more stars out at sea than there were in the city. The night sky was breathtaking. He had spent many hours of the night, when he couldn’t sleep, staring at the heavens. He made his own constellations, and remembered their locations, and though he knew nothing of astronomy, he successfully located the North Star. With what he knew of the sun, he deemed the side of the island with his shelter as the southeast side. The bowl-shaped boulder was nearer to the middle of the island, but was closest to the west side. The reefs just offshore were on the south side, and on the northeast side was the highest point of the island, a hill about 25 feet above sea level.

“How long has it been?” Roger suddenly asked.

“Hold yer little horses! They ain’t done yet.” Malcolm snapped.

“No no, I mean how long have we been here? It’s been so long, I can barely even remember what my friends look like. Or my parents. I’ll bet I’ve been declared dead by now…” Roger trailed off.

“Oh… Well, I know best as you do. Fact, I thought you was countin’ the days!” Malcolm was confused.

“You gotta be kidding.” Roger raised himself onto his elbows. “You’ve been counting the days. Don’t you even remember, old man? You were supposed to be marking the days on the wall of the house!” Roger explained.

“Oh. Oh… yeah. Hehe! I remember makin’ a mark last night!” Malcolm giggled. Roger rolled his eyes.

“Just don’t forget again. This is almost as bad as the time you got lost at the top of the universe.” The “top of the universe” is the name they had given the highest point on the island. “You can see the entire island from there, dumbshit. Haha!”

Malcolm whipped out his rusty hunting knife and had it at Roger’s throat in the blink of an eye. He did this very often, so Roger by now was used to it, and never paid it any attention. Malcolm was extremely violent, but Roger knew he wouldn’t kill his only companion. “You watch whatchoo say to me, little man, or you gonna look reeeal pale pretty soon, if you get what I mean!”

“Jesus dude, I’m just playing around. You gotta work on your people skills, old man. Heheh…” Roger pushed the blade away.

“Oh, whoops. I forgot you was my bro for a sec’, heh!”

“The birds ought to be done by now.” Roger pointed towards the fire.

Malcolm threw himself onto his palm-leaf mat. He said, “sleepy.”

Roger silently lay down on his mat, and lay awake until he was sure Malcolm was unconscious. Without a sound, he stepped outside and onto the sand. Ever since the old man’s arrival, he had noticed a lot of queer things about him, besides the obvious weird qualities. Whenever Malcolm made the meal, somehow Roger never felt full, no matter how much of it he ate. It was almost as if he was only pretending to eat. In fact, he had noticed a distinct shrinking of his waist since he met Malcolm. But he credited it to the island. Everyone lost weight when they were surviving on their own in the wild.

Absentmindedly, he picked up a flat rock lying near the high tide line. He threw it out to sea, counting 5 skips before it sunk. Spying a calm tidal pool, he wandered over to it. His reflection gazed back at him, visible by the soft moonlight. His hair was long and matted, and he had a shaggy beard. Though he didn’t know it, he had turned 18 years old over a month ago, marking almost 2 years since his plane crashed. He looked 20. His cheekbones stuck out of his face, and it was obvious he wasn’t getting proper nourishment. Sighing longingly, Roger splashed his reflection away, and walked back to the house.

Late the next morning, Roger drew himself out of bed to find Malcolm outside eating a small breakfast of coconuts and leftover bird scraps. Plucking a coconut half from in front of Malcolm, Roger took a huge bite into the delicious white meat. “Storm’s comin’ a-from the northwest,” Malcolm mentioned absently. Roger craned his neck towards the northwest horizon, seeing a towering, gray cloud formation. “Best put out da rain buckets.”

“That’s a pretty big storm.” Said Roger.

Malcolm grinned viciously. “I do love a good ruckus in da sky.”

Just an hour later, the first raindrops plopped on Roger’s head as he was just finished filling his bucket with water from the bowl-der. Roger was lucky to have discovered numerous flotsam and jetsam articles sometimes. The bucket in his hand had washed up one night along with a dish sponge and an empty wine bottle. With the rain steadily getting heavier and heavier, he took his time walking back to the house. Placing the bucket inside, he went and joined Malcolm on the beach. The old man sat cross-legged, with his bony limbs in a knot. He was most likely in some kind of meditative trance, Roger guessed. He snapped his fingers in the man’s ear, but no response was made. The rain pattered against his near-bald head and soaked his thick beard. Roger, with nothing better to do, decided to join Malcolm in his ‘spiritual quest.’ He crossed his legs and placed his hands in his lap. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of the rain lull all other thoughts from his head, and his imagination roamed freely. The two men sat, facing the ocean, for almost the entire duration of the storm.

Lighting streaked across the sky in fantastic displays of nature’s power, while massive thunderclaps shook the trees and the earth. Torrents of strong winds churned the waves, and sheets of rain poured down, filling the buckets within half an hour. Still they sat, unconscious of their surroundings. With a splash, a white-capped wave slapped them in the face, shocking them awake with a cold surprise. “Damn!” Malcolm exclaimed. “What a ride!” he grinned, shouting over the storm at Roger.

By now Roger was frozen stiff. With numb lips he agreed heartily. “I’m starved, though. Lets grab some oranges and eat ‘em inside.” The two jogged off into the forest, snatching handfuls of the fruit. Returning to the house, they pigged out on their simple lunch. After about 5 oranges each, there was one fruit left. As Roger began to reach for it, the rusty knife found its way between his middle fingers, stabbing the orange through the center.

“Don’t… even… think ‘bout it, little man!” Malcolm growled, his eyes suddenly turning evil, glaring at Roger. The corner of his lip was twitching, as if he was ready to tear Roger’s nose off and eat it right in front of him. “Dis ones mine!”

Roger snapped. He was sick and tired of Malcolm’s crazy ways. “What the fuck are you talking about!” He screamed. “You and I both know I picked this orange! I remember, I had 6 oranges in my hands, you only had 5, dumbass! Gimme that knife before I break your fucking nose!”

Malcolm, indignant, growled in fury. “You don’t talk to me that way, boy!” he spat as loud as he could. “I’ll give you my blade just soon as I lay 6 feet under, hear!”

“I can arrange that!” Roger lunged at the old man, tackling him onto his back. The two tumbled out into the rain, struggling as furiously as the storm was raging the skies. Roger pinned Malcolm’s right hand down, keeping the knife away from him. The old man, trapped, grabbed Roger’s neck and bit down hard, while simultaneously kneeing him in the gut. Screaming, Roger let Malcolm up, only to deliver a hard punch right at his nose. The force of the blow fell Malcolm on the sand, the knife flying from his grasp. Roger ran towards it, but Malcolm grabbed his foot, tripping him to fall face first in the water. But Roger now had the knife. He slashed at the old man’s fingers, severing his index finger and slicing into his own ankle in doing so. Once again he tackled Malcolm into the sand, this time with the knife at his throat. “It’s over, old man.” He claimed victoriously. “Are you finished?”

Malcolm bared his teeth, seething with untold rage. He didn’t give an answer. Roger’s patience was at an end. He was mere seconds from slashing Malcolm’s throat, but something caught his sight in the corner of his eye. He looked up.

Standing in the surf not 20 feet away was a man of medium height. His white button up shirt and blonde hair stuck out from the dark gray background of the storm. His face was that of shock and surprise. Malcolm, seeing that Roger’s attention was averted, looked at the man too.

Roger sensed the man’s shock was of seeing the two of them fight. Rising to his feet, he stuck the knife in his belt, and slowly walked towards the man. The briny water stung his foot horribly, but he didn’t pay it any attention. Malcolm scurried into the house to retrieve the orange that had been the cause of the fight. Upon closer inspection, Roger inferred that the man must have been in a catastrophe. Maybe he had been on a boat that had sunk, or another plane that had crashed in the ocean. Anyway, it was clear he was stranded, like Roger.

“Hello,” Roger reached his hand out to the man. “I’m Roger.”

Nervously at first, the man took Roger’s hand, and upon grasping it, his face returned to normal as he plucked up his courage. Firmly, he said, “I’m Sam. I was on my yacht when this storm sank it. I didn’t realize I had gone so far out to sea. I don’t think my wife or son survived…”

“I was in a plane crash. My whole family is gone, too.” Roger said, comforting Sam with his like experiences.

“Why…” he paused. “Why were you two fighting?”

Roger didn’t answer the question. Instead, he motioned Sam to follow him to shore. “You must be hungry. Want an orange?”

Malcolm hated Sam. He never wanted to admit that if it weren’t for Sam, Roger would have done him in. Whenever possible, Malcolm subtly let his hate known, dropping hints, refusing him food when Roger wasn’t present, and giving him strange stares. Not long after the fight, Malcolm “moved out” of the house, and built his own hut on the south side of the island, about 100 feet away. Roger was friendly with Sam, but he also didn’t want to admit he had interrupted his victory. To add fuel to the fire, Sam was especially lazy. Apparently he was a very wealthy man from Australia, and wasn’t used to so much hard work. He would easily “become exhausted” and lay down for a rest in the middle of a task. Roger contained his anger by joking about how lazy the man was, saying things like “What are you, a kindergartner? Naptime’s over, little boy! Haha!”

Sam, being simple, good-natured, and friendly yet quiet, couldn’t fathom Malcolm. His behavior was unpredictable and sporadic, and Sam could never tell what he would say or do next. Whenever Malcolm did speak to Sam, which was rare, he would further alter his slang, making it next to impossible for Sam to understand. Roger sometimes had to translate for the poor man.

His greatest quality though, was his cooking. He was full of boy scout-like knowledge about wilderness survival, and cooking was his expertise. He knew more about making perfect cooking fires and how long to roast a lizard than either Roger or Malcolm put together. They had never even imagined that they were doing anything wrong until Sam came along. “No, here. Let me do it.” He would say as Roger set up sticks for a fire. “What you want is a teepee shape, see, like this. It’s a much more efficient way to get a fire started, and the coals last longer than if you just throw the wood in a pile.”

Roger looked in awe as Sam, with a lighter he happened to have brought along, sparked up a fire in literally a matter of seconds. Sam also had with him a pack of cigarettes, which, after being lain out to dry for a day or two, were perfectly suitable to smoke. He only smoked one on certain occasions, knowing that the 20 or so squares had to last him a considerable time. Roger never asked for one, but whenever Sam lit one, he could sense his thirst for a smoke.

Some nights, after Sam had created a feast of perfection unmatched by anything decent Roger had ever eaten, the three of them would sit on the beach, sharing a cigarette, watching the sunset.

One night, about 2 months after Sam arrived, Roger was sitting outside watching the fire unusually late. He had nothing particular on his mind; he just couldn’t sleep. Sam, noticing Roger outside, stepped into the glow of the fire and sat down across from Roger. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.

“Nope.” Roger sighed lightly.

“Roger, how long have you been on this island?” Sam ventured.

Roger searched for an answer. He then said, “I can’t be sure. With Malcolm marking the days, he’d probably say we’ve been here 3 weeks.” He laughed. “If I had to guess, I’d say I’ve been here over a year.”

Sam nodded in acknowledgement. His once bleach white button-up shirt was stained a yellowish tan-white from sweat, seawater, and all sorts of dirt and muck. The sleeves were rolled up, and various rips could be seen in the seams. His perfect crew cut was starting to show significant length, and he, like Roger and Malcolm, now had a full beard. None of them had any tool to shave with, other than Roger’s knife (he had kept it after the fight, to make sure Malcolm didn’t try anything funny), which was much too dull and jagged to attempt any sort of careful trimming.

Roger, noticing Sam was looking gloomy, tried to start some more conversation. “So, what was your wife like?”

Sam smiled. “Beautiful. Intelligent, funny, loving, understanding… everything any man could possibly want in a woman.” He fished his wallet out of his pocket. “Here’s a picture of her and my son. It was taken last year.”

The photo showed a young brunette woman, with deep gray eyes and tender facial features. The little boy next to her looked about 12 or so, with his mother’s gray eyes, and his father’s blonde hair in a shaggy bowl-cut. Roger, amused, said, “I used to have a haircut just like that. And yeah, she is beautiful.” He handed the picture back.

“Did you have a girl back home?” Sam asked.

“Oh, no. I didn’t have much time for girls, and besides… relationships don’t interest me. Well, didn’t, I guess.” Said Roger.

“What did interest you?”

Roger looked at Sam for a moment before turning away and saying, “Drugs. Shoplifting. You know… the usual ‘rebellious teenager’ stuff.”

“I see.”

Roger, about to go to sleep, stood up and was about to turn around when he heard a sound that he hadn’t heard in a very long time. His ears perked up. It was faint at first, but it kept getting louder and louder. By now Sam heard it too. Without a moment’s hesitation, Roger screamed at Sam, “Go get wood now!” Grabbing as much sticks and brush as he could hold, Sam dashed to the fire and tossed the large majority of it on. “Malcolm, wake up! It’s a plane, Malcolm! We’re saved!” Roger ran as fast as he could to the hut. Shaking the old man awake, he shouted in his ear, “Malcolm, a plane!” Malcolm, bolting upright, pushed Roger aside and scrambled into the open.

The three of them stood hungry with anticipation, watching the lights on the plane get bigger and bigger. When the plane looked close enough, they all started waving their arms frantically, shouting and jumping as much as possible, trying to get the its attention. As it slowly drew nearer and nearer, they almost hugged each other in joy. It flew straight overhead, it seemed almost close enough to clip the trees. The three leaped in the air in delight, knowing they would finally be reunited with civilization. They waited for the plane to circle around.

And they waited. But it didn’t come back. Their open-mouthed smiles slowly faded. Malcolm, fists clenched, teeth clenched, turned his eyes to the ground. He was growling quietly to himself, growing louder and louder, until suddenly he screamed, “Haaark grrammble fuuuck!” When particularly angry, Malcolm could no longer find English words to describe his rage. “Fraga nackilishibaarrrg!” Sam, had he not been furious as well, would have laughed at Malcolm’s nonsense. Roger was used to it. He merely went to bed.

The depressing incident of the night left all three of them very quiet the next morning. They ate their breakfast in silence. While engrossed in a dried lizard, Roger noticed something peculiar that had somehow escaped his sight until now. His ankle, which had received a nasty gash during the fight, showed no mark whatsoever. Alarmed, he mentioned this to Sam and Malcolm. “Hey, take a look at this… there’s no scar at all!”

Malcolm paid no attention. Sam glanced at Roger’s ankle, interested. “That is strange. I remember that was a nasty cut.”

“Am I just going crazy? It’s bad enough that I didn’t even notice it was gone, but… where the hell did it go?” Roger wondered.

“I’m as puzzled as you.” Sam said.

Roger shrugged it off. “Heh… maybe I just heal really fast, or something.”

The day dragged on. None of them had anything particular to do. They had a small surplus of food and it had rained just the other day, plus most of their sustenance was easily obtained anyway. No repairs or strengthening of the house was needed, and none of them could think of anything to make that they didn’t already have. All three by now had their own bow and arrows, and they had a whole bundle of fishing spears, enough to last them months. They had decided it was not yet time to attempt a boat, for their own reasons.

So, with nothing to do, they took to their own hideaway spots on the island to rest and relax. Malcolm returned to his hut, Roger to the top of the universe, and Sam to the house. Roger liked it at the top, because he had always found it the most serene part of the island. Away from the beach, the sound of the surf drifted up quietly, and one could lay in the grass staring at the sky for hours, watching the clouds slide by through a small clearing in the trees.

And so the day passed without incident. Roger thought about his life before, and how much it had changed. He longed for a cheeseburger, a strong drink, and good music.

The next morning began with a ruckus. Malcolm had woken up early, and stormed into the house, screaming. He was claiming Sam had stolen his water pitcher. “Aright you li’l varmint, you maggot, whadja do with my fuckin’ pale?” Roger’s eyes snapped open to see Malcolm kicking Sam in the sides.

“I swear I didn’t touch it!” Sam was pleading.

“You lie, barfbag!” Malcolm was shaking with fury. “Whadja do with it!”

“Nothing! Please stop!”

Roger knew this wasn’t going to settle itself. Sam was too docile and submissive to argue or defend himself. He decided to step in. “That’s enough, old man. Calm down.”

Malcolm stopped kicking Sam and drew his face close to Roger’s, so they were eye to eye. “Stay outta this, little man,” he said, bearing his teeth and squinting one eye.

“I’ll do whatever I want, pissant! You’re forgetting who’s in charge of this shit hole!” The three of them had created a loose government on the island. Because of their differences, some rules were needed to keep the peace. Roger, being the possessor of the knife, or “steel,” the symbol of power, acted as the authority of the island, and when electoral decisions failed to sustain peace, his judgment became law. “Now, why do you think Sam took your pale?”

“Wake up dis mornin’ an’ it was gone! Where else would it be? You know he’s out ta get me!” Malcolm said.

“Sam, did you take Malcolm’s pale?” Sam shook his head hastily. “Show me where you saw it last.” Roger said to Malcolm.

Malcolm hesitated. Then, grumbling and mumbling to himself, he led Roger to his hut. Stooping to get inside, he said, “Dis is where it was last. Here.” He pointed in the far right corner.

“Last night?” Roger queried.

“Yeah.” Malcolm grunted.

“And you don’t remember doing anything else with it yesterday? Are you sure you didn’t leave it at the bowl-der?”

“Um…” Malcolm rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “Oh… yeah. Its at da bowl-der.” He admitted. He stomped off into the trees to fetch his pale. Roger, angry at Malcolm’s haste to blame, and at being awoken so early, went back to the house to sleep for another couple hours.

Later that evening, Roger was ecstatic. He returned from the reef holding a 3-foot long shark he had managed to spear. Jumping in triumph, he shouted towards the shore, “Hey guys! C’mere and check this out!”

Sam, seeing the fish from shore, grinned and shouted his praise, “Way to go, Roger!”

Wading to shore, Roger held the fish out to Sam to inspect. “I expect you to make a damn fine meal outta that, man. I’m counting on you!” He laughed.

Malcolm ran up just in time to see Sam receive the shark from Roger’s arms… and drop it. The fish suddenly jerked back to life for a moment, flipping out of Sam’s grasp and into the water. Roger, acting quickly, leapt towards the shark, but it swam quickly from underneath him. He chased after it sprinting as fast as he could, but the shark was much too fast. It had soon disappeared.

Malcolm was furious. “You clumsy… good fer nothin’… filthy, rotten, piece o’ shit, no good excuse for a human bein’!” He lost control of his anger, wailing Sam in the face with a hard, bony fist. Jumping on top of him, Malcolm unleashed a merciless barrage of punches at Sam’s face. Blood flew from his nose and mouth, and his eyes quickly began to swell. Roger kicked Malcolm, unsuspecting, right in the stomach with full force. Winded, Malcolm rolled off of Sam and crumpled into a ball next to him.

“Out of the way,” Roger said to Sam. Getting unsteadily to his feet, Sam toppled in the sand several feet out of Roger’s path. “Get up, Malcolm. I’m sick and fucking tired of your bullshit. It’s time we settled this once and for all, before you end up killing every last one of us, you god damn crazy bastard.” Drawing his knife, Roger moved into a fighting stance.

Malcolm, rubbing his stomach, got to his feet, scowling. “Always takin’ that son bitch’s side. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” Nonetheless, he prepared to fight. The two eyed each other carefully for a moment. Roger knew he had the advantage in both strength and arm, but Malcolm was completely unpredictable. His true fighting moves were lightning fast for a man of his age and his power didn’t match his frail build.

Without warning, Malcolm lunged. Roger swept the knife in a wide horizontal arc at Malcolm’s chest, but Malcolm ducked and landed an uppercut right in Roger’s jaw, and delivered a quick left fist to his cheek. Roger backed away to recover and attack, but Malcolm was too quick. He kept pushing Roger farther into the sea, throwing fist after fist in his direction. Thinking quickly, Roger anticipated Malcolm’s next punch, and slashed his knife right at the incoming fist. Screaming in agony, Malcolm recoiled, holding what remained of his hand close to his chest. Roger swiped quickly at Malcolm again, catching him in the chest near his shoulder. The rusty, jagged edge ripped through the skin, rather than cut. Again Roger moved to attack, but Malcolm grabbed his knife hand and wrenched it backwards, dislocating the elbow and throwing Roger down into the water. Now it was Roger’s turn to scream in agony, his right arm flailing uselessly. Malcolm kicked Roger in the face, and in the side. Rolling away, Roger scrambled to his feet and onto the shore before another foot could find his face. Holding the knife in his left hand now, he returned to his original fighting stance, glaring. His right arm hung limp at his side. Malcolm paused, noticing Roger’s stance. Neither of them moved, waiting, plotting.

Both suddenly charged at each other. In an instant, the fight was over. Malcolm had turned limp and was leaning against Roger, since they had banged right into each other. Looking down, he saw the knife, up to Roger’s hand, imbedded in his gut. Blood was pouring down his bare stomach. He looked back up at Roger’s face, his own scowling face now pale and loosened with surprise. Up so close, Roger now realized how old the man must have really been: at least 50, possibly even 60. Still pumped with adrenalin, Roger wasn’t done yet. He slashed the blade savagely to the left, tearing a gaping hole in Malcolm’s gut. Malcolm contorted his face in pain and fell to his knees. He had to hold both hands clenched against the hole; his intestines were starting to spill out. With blood pouring from his mouth, he uttered his prophetic last words: “My death will mean yours.” With that, he fell face down, and the sand underneath him began to turn red.

“Now you’ve done it,” interrupted Sam, with conviction.

Roger had forgotten all about Sam. Spinning to face him, he said, “What?”

“Now you’ve done it,” he repeated.

“What are you talking about?” Roger gawked, “It had to be done, there was no other way!” Roger was confused and suspicious, for Sam had never spoken this way before. Sam didn’t answer, though. He merely stared coldly into Roger’s eyes. Roger sensed something was wrong. Looking down, he saw no blood on the rusty knife. Not a drop. Further confused, he spun around to Malcolm. But where the old man had fallen, there was nothing. The body had vanished, and no blood stained the sand.

Roger was baffled and alarmed. “What’s going on!” He yelled at Sam.

“Don’t you understand yet?” Sam said calmly, yet sternly.

“Understand what!” Roger shrieked. His hand suddenly felt empty, and looking, saw the knife was now gone. He looked back to Sam, but Sam was now gone too. Roger’s jaw dropped. “What’s going on!” He screamed, and heard an echo of his scream reverberate a thousand times in his mind before becoming silent. Suddenly his brain filled with an image of Sam repeating, like a broken record, over and over again, “Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand? Don’t you understand?”

Roger was terrified. He sprinted across the shore, slapping his forehead in a vain effort to silence his thoughts. Within sight of the house, he saw Sam step out. “There you are!” He yelled at him. He slowed to a stop a few feet in front of Sam.

Sam, as if noticing Roger for the first time, looked puzzled. “What do you mean? I’ve been here the whole time.”

“Don’t gimme that bullshit!” Roger said. He rubbed his eyes, as if not believing what he was seeing.

Sam said, sounding worried, “Is something wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong, man! Don’t play dumb with me, you were there, you saw what happened!” Roger said. “Tell me what I don’t understand!” He demanded, grabbing Sam by the collar. Then, before his unblinking eyes, Sam’s face grew pale and stretched, and began rapidly decomposing, inches from Roger’s own face.

“Are you okay?” Said Sam’s rotting corpse. Roger’s jaw dropped in sheer horror, and a scream escaped his lips that could have split the sky in two. He let the shirt collar slip from his grasp and he fell back, completely shocked. Sam’s skeleton was now all that was left, and it collapsed into a pile of bones, which quickly turned to dust. From the dust of the bones he saw billions of tiny spiders crawling away in every direction.

Roger sat, open-mouthed, too mentally numb to speak or move. Within seconds, the spiders had reached him, and quickly enveloped him. Screaming, Roger jumped to his feet, scratching his body all over in an effort to kill the bugs. But there were too many of them. He felt them on his face, so he clawed at his eyes and neck, and at his arms, with such force that blood was soon dripping from all over his body. Eventually, the spiders dispersed. Roger sat down on the sand facing the ocean, too exhausted for anything. His mind, wrapping itself again and again over what he had seen, began to slowly “freeze.”

For days Roger sat, never once moving. His brain began to function less and less as the hours crept by. Everything was a dream to him now. He couldn’t define night from day. Had he even the mental capacity to realize his hunger and thirst, he still would have lacked the strength to stand, for he had been starving himself for years without ever realizing it. It had finally caught up to him, and now it was getting only worse. His eyes forgot to blink, and began to crust over, and his mouth refused to shut, letting saliva dribble into his lap.

On the fourth day of his stupor (though he didn’t know how long it had been; for all he knew it could have been 4 more years), as his un-knowing eyes watched the sun set, he caught, in the last remaining corner of his mind, sight of his body. He looked down. From every hole, every last pore and orifice of his body, blood was trickling out. The blood coming from his body turned into a great and surging, though tiny, river of blood flowing towards the water. The entire ocean, from beach to horizon, became slowly stained with his blood, and eventually the whole ocean was his blood. Then, slowly, all the red water began to lower, as if being sucked away by a giant straw dropped on the earth. Soon all that remained was the dry, desert like ocean bed. Great hills and valleys and gorges were revealed to Roger.

As if summoning superhuman strength, he raised himself gracefully to his feet. Then, slowly, but steadily, he began to walk into the dry ocean. He kept walking on and on, until his life slowly faded away.