A/N: You thought I abandoned this, didn't you?
Well, I did, too. But Gilligan's Island never dies. Unfortunately for me.
/
"I'm telling you, it was seven feet tall and staring at me with three horrible eyes—"
"Gilligan, please." The Professor did not sound amused, although the rest of the castaways were leaning in with great interest. "There are no deer on tropical islands, and even that's overlooking your outlandish claim that it had three eyes."
"But Professor, I saw it!"
"Are you sure you didn't imagine it? Perhaps it was a wild boar or even a sea lion that wandered inland and you believed you interpreted tree branches as antlers."
"And what about the third eye, Professor?" Skipper asked, disbelievingly.
"You said the eye was glowing, Gilligan?" Professor asked.
"Like a headlight!" Gilligan exclaimed. "A deer with head lights!"
"Simple. A glare from the sun."
"Professor, it was a three-eyed deer! It had four big long legs and it wasn't even standing in the sunlight!"
"You just can't expect me to believe such a tale," Professor said with a shake of his head. "And even you must admit that my hypothesis is far more likely than the alternative."
The castaways were gathered around the signal fire the Professor and Mary Ann had built, enjoying the provisions the Skipper had salvaged from the Minnow. The desalination device was working in the lagoon, and there was enough food and water for all seven of them. The sun was going down, and so they were finally cooling off, even despite the signal fire, which was keeping the bugs at bay. They were taken care of for the first time since they'd landed, but Mary Ann wished Gilligan and the Professor would stop arguing about the three-eyed deer, or whatever Gilligan had seen.
Mary Ann just wanted to enjoy the canned goods provided—food had never tasted so good—but then the Skipper spoke up. "What about that thing that attacked us all in the jungle our first night here?"
"Yeah!" Gilligan said. "Spooks that stole our voices!"
"They did no such thing," Professor scoffed. "They were parrots."
"Parrots?"
"Damn strong parrots," Ginger remarked.
"Oh, please," Professor scoffed. "Everyone is on edge enough already. We don't need campfire stories about cryptozoological fantasies. Parrots can easily imitate human speech and, if feeling territorial, they might attack."
"With razor-sharp claws?" Gilligan challenged.
"Their talons can inflict significant damage," Professor said. "Why these parrots were so active and defensive during the nighttime is beyond me—parrots are usually diurnal—but I'm hardly an expert on tropical parrot subspecies. Maybe they have to be hypervigilant against nocturnal predators."
"Does anyone understand what this guy is saying?" Ginger asked blankly.
Professor ignored her. "In any case, I suggest we remain calm and avoid the jungle for as long as we can."
"I don't believe it. There is something wrong here," Mr. Howell said, his voice deep and disturbed. "There's something terrible in the water."
"What?" Gilligan's voice was tinged with panic.
Professor rested his head in hands. "This is not the time to incite panic, Mr. Howell."
"I'm not inciting anything, schoolboy," Howell snapped. "I was snatched."
"Snatched?" Mary Ann echoed, her voice high and fearful.
"I can assure you, Mary Ann, we have nothing to fear," Professor said immediately.
"Thurston told me all about it," Mrs. Howell whispered. "It sounded horrible. It almost drowned him!"
"Oh, what was it?" Mary Ann moaned.
"It sounded like a sea monster!" Mrs. Howell exclaimed. She clearly believed every word, and Mary Ann saw the Professor roll his eyes and mumble something about the ability to think critically.
"A sea monster?" Now was the Skipper's turn to become alarmed.
"Oh, come on now, Skipper," Professor objected, "you can't honestly tell me that an experienced sailor such as yourself believes in sea monsters."
"Well what else could have grabbed me with such strength?" Mr. Howell demanded. "And pulled me under so fast?" He spread his arms as he said it, spooking half the group. Mary Ann cried out. She wanted to cling to the Professor for safety, but instead recoiled into herself.
"Any number of creatures!" Professor answered. "Sharks, octopuses. Why, do you have any idea how vastly diverse undersea fauna is?"
The movie star laughed, earning a glare from all the other castaways.
"What?" Mr. Howell growled.
"I'm sorry, it's just that I've never heard anyone talk like that in real life." Ginger knitted her brows and imitated the Professor: "Why, do you have any idea how vastly diverse undersea fauna is?"
That was when everybody started shouting at each other.
Mrs. Howell was defending Mr. Howell, who was shouting at the Professor, accusing him of being unqualified and fraudulent. Mary Ann and Gilligan were fully panicked, bombarding the Professor with questions about their survival.
Skipper was trying desperately to calm everybody down, at first to no avail. He was, as difficult as it was to believe, claiming that he could protect them from sea creatures or monsters. That he was familiar with all the legends, as though that would somehow save them.
As the clamor carried on though, Skipper gave up on trying to reason and resorted to bellowing.
"Quiet, everyone!" he barked. His voice was stern and angry enough to make even the Professor start, and immediately everyone was quiet. "Now, we've got our provisions and we've got fire and equipment enough to last until the rescue planes find us."
Mary Ann admired the Skipper's leadership; the arguing was quelled and even though Skipper clearly wasn't convinced that they were entirely safe, he was reasoning with the castaways. And then the Skipper's efforts were undermined by a sound from the jungle.
It was the howling. Chillingly close and entirely clear. Everyone stared into the jungle, wishing they could put more distance between themselves and its depths.
Which finally gave Mary Ann a chance to speak up. She braced herself to do it and waited an extra second to make sure no one else was about to cut in; saying anything to a group containing a pair of billionaires and a real-life movie star still made her tense up. "Um, I—I think I might have found something that will help us get into the huts." That got everyone's attention. Instantly, everyone's eyes were on her. "It's, uh, well don't your hopes up because I'm not sure, but, um, one of the boards on the back of the smallest hut looks a little splintered. Maybe—maybe it's rotted and we can take it apart a little and get inside?"
The six pairs of eyes staring at her just blinked. And then, the Skipper leapt to his feet. "Well, why didn't you say anything earlier, Mary Ann?"
Now she felt stupid for not talking. "Well, I don't know. I'm still not sure if it will lead to anything, and everyone was so caught up talking about the deer…" When she saw the Professor roll his eyes, she quickly corrected herself: "Or whatever it was."
"Well, let's not waste any more time," Mr. Howell said, getting to his feet as well. "Who knows what goodies are in there?"
"Yeah, and if there's any chance we can have a roof over our heads tonight, let's go!" Gilligan ran toward the huts, the rest of the castaways on his heels, the spooks of the jungle forgotten.
Skipper shined the flashlight where Mary Ann showed him. The rotted board was unimpressive, probably did not live up to everyone's high hopes. The horizontal board, half buried in the sand, was still hanging on. And even if they could tear it loose, they wouldn't fit through. But it was all they had for now. And the Skipper didn't seem deterred. He got right down on his knees and began digging in the sand, Gilligan and the Professor following his cue.
When they had uncovered the whole thing, they began trying to pull it loose. It took a couple moments of suspense: if it turned out to be as sturdy as the rest of the hut, they'd be sleeping outside that night. Entirely exposed to the elements. Mary Ann had seen what coyotes can do to chickens if their coops had even one point of vulnerability. And while they never attacked farmers… she still hated to think of what the howling creature in the jungle would do if it found them sleeping on the beach.
But a cracking sound rang out and then—yes!—the Skipper held up the detached, blackened board. Everyone knelt then, eager to see what was inside the huts.
Of course, it was too dark to see anything, and even when Skipper swept the flashlight across the gap, they couldn't make out anything significant.
"Gilligan," the Skipper said eventually, and gestured to the gap.
"What?"
"Get down," Skipper instructed. "You're the only one here that stands a chance of getting through that hole.
"What do you mean, Skipper, I can't—" Before he could finish his protest, he was shoved by the other castaways into the hole they'd dug. Mary Ann felt a pang of guilt, but it faded in comparison to her anticipation to get into the hut.
They watched him scuttle and claw his way through the hole— honestly, an impressive feat—until eventually his foot disappeared inside. Skipper threw the flashlight in after him, and then the castaways were listening to him stumble around inside the hut.
One cautious step, then another, another… As he crossed to the door, the castaways migrated to the other side of the hut as well. They could hear him so clearly on the other side, so close. One more step, then another…
The rhythm was interrupted with a crash.
"You okay, little buddy?"
For a second, no answer came, but then the door swung open, and there stood Gilligan, beaming the flashlight right into their faces.
Everyone cheered. And then they wasted no time scrambling to get past Gilligan, eager to see what was waiting for them inside, praying that it wasn't nothing. As he passed, the Skipper clapped Gilligan on the back and told him, "Well done, little buddy." As Mary Ann passed, she, too, thanked him hurriedly.
Inside, sand crunched underfoot. If the huts had been built with flooring, it was buried now. It was sandy and it was dusty and abandoned, but it was something, Mary Ann reminded herself.
It was small, too. A crowded hut for seven to search, but no one wanted to step outside. As the Skipper shined the flashlight across the hut, Mary Ann felt her heart leap at everything she saw: A row of fat crates, hopefully stocked with supplies. A pair of cots, eat neatly made up with a light, colorless blanket. She imagined what it would be like to sleep in a proper bed tonight, her limbs aching. And then, the beam of light moved on, crossed the room.
A face on the ground made Mary Ann jump.
No, it wasn't a person, she realized immediately. Just a portrait of one. It had fallen to the ground and was now wedged, forgotten, in the sand, but the light lingered on it just long enough for the castaways to examine the man's soft face, half-buried by a bushy beard. His eyes, though, still a piercing blue despite the darkness, was peeking out from between his beard and his hat and seemed to be looking right out of the canvas at the castaways that dared enter his cabin.
"Ship captain," the Skipper mumbled. "From the 20's or so, by the look of his uniform."
"May have led an expedition here," the Professor suggested.
"Or he got shipwrecked, same as us," Gilligan said.
Whatever the case was, the castaways didn't linger on it for long, half the hut still left to be discovered. Next to the fallen portrait was a wood desk, still sturdy and upright. The light crept across it, revealing stacks of paper, old manuscripts, a map.
Another quick scan of the room, revealing nothing new, and the Skipper got to giving orders.
"Alright," he announced. "It looks like there's a lot to unpack here. Everyone, start moving the crates outside so we can see better. Anything we find, we share."
Everyone got to work immediately. Despite the fatigue, a sort of mania rushed through them. The supplies from the boat suddenly weren't enough. Despite the Skipper's claim that they had more than enough resources to survive until a rescue party found them, no amount of supplies felt like enough to a group stranded on a desert island all alone.
"Spare boat parts," the Professor announced as he cracked one of the crates open. Mary Ann started to go over to him, help him sort through the contents, but Gilligan gestured for her help opening his own crate.
"Might be useful if the Minnow wasn't missing half of her starboard side," Skipper grumbled, digging through another crate.
Mary Ann knelt next to Gilligan, and together they unboxed one of the bigger crates. By the firelight, they could make out the contents: cans! They grabbed at the cans, frenzied, hoping that they would be full of food and not motor oil or nails or—
"Canned vegetables!" Gilligan leapt to his feet. "Beets! Carrots! Spinach!"
"That's great, Gilligan!"
"There's just a bunch of clothes in this one," Mr. Howell declared of the crate he and his wife were staring disapprovingly at.
"Yes, and they're dreadfully gauche," Mrs. Howell said, moving on to see what the other crates had to offer.
The next thrilling moments blessed them with not only the canned goods and the used clothes, but an abundance of candles, a woodcutter's axe, a glinting flintlock and bullets to load it with, an ancient box of fishing tackle, and, most graciously, a thick brass key that unlocked the other cabins.
The other cabins were not stocked with supplies, but cots. Twelve in all across the four huts. Miraculously, everyone would have a place to sleep that night. The castaways rejoiced before splitting into groups, eager to finally sleep in a proper bed.
"Obviously, the Howells will want to share a marital hut," the Professor said.
"Only seems right for the first mate and I to take the Captain's hut," Skipper declared. "One hut for the women to share, and…"
"I'm happy in my own hut," the Professor said. Mary Ann immediately imagined sneaking in to see him at night, maybe reconnecting on a hot tropical night…
And then, she realized that she'd be sharing her hut with an actual movie star. She was going to be roommates, however temporary, with Ginger Grant.
After they claimed some clothes from one of the crates, which they'd stored in the Professor's hut as he had plenty of extra room, Mary Ann laid in her cot and stared at the ceiling. The shirt she'd picked from the crate was huge and stiff, but it was a relief to wear a change of clothes. She was exhausted, waiting for sleep, but Ginger was still shuffling about the hut, maybe changing her own clothes.
"Do you think we'll get home soon?" Mary Ann asked, wanting to break the silence.
"I'm trying not to think about that, actually," Ginger answered. Mary Ann heard the distinct sound of a bottle being uncapped, and then they didn't talk anymore.
Ginger Grant wasn't giving her much. So Mary Ann instead shifted her thoughts to the Professor. She would wake up later, sneak into his hut, she decided. She just had to wait until Ginger was asleep…
Of course, it was only moments before she herself was asleep, her mind and body desperate for a retreat.
/
The Professor woke to sunlight streaming into his hut. Opening the shudders before bed was a mistake. He begrudgingly stood to put them back down, his body screaming in pain as he stood.
Out the window, though, he caught sight of the Skipper, sitting in the sand, a roll of parchment laid out before him. Ignoring his urge to curl back into bed, the Professor went outside.
"What are you doing up so early?" Skipper asked.
"I could ask the same of you," the Professor responded.
"I always wake with the sun. And I have a job to do."
"Oh?" The Professor knelt to look at the papers spread out in front of Skipper.
"Yeah," the Skipper said. "I'm figuring out exactly where we are." He lifted one of the books that had been on the old sea captain's desk. "With the help of Captain Corrigan Feldman."
"Ah. Is that the fellow who was here before us?"
Skipper nodded. "Hopeless treasure hunter and a pretty terrible sailor. He was quite the archivist, though. Has dozens of logbooks, manifests, and maps. Which is lucky for us." He pointed to a little island on one of them. "That's us. Where we ended up."
The Professor furrowed his brow. "We're a long way from Hawai'i."
"I know," the Skipper said. "I don't believe the power of that storm. Doesn't seem logical that we could have ended up here. And yet…"
A sour feeling crept through the Professor's stomach. "You don't think we were swept out of the radius of a search party, do you?"
"Normally, I think we would have," the Skipper said. "But we're lucky. We're really lucky." He gestured at the radio, now silent. "The entire world is losing its mind over the Howells and Ginger Grant getting lost at sea. The search party is going to be thorough."
"That's good."
"But we're still just inside the area they said they'd be combing," the Skipper said with a frown. "Which means they might only take one pass at us."
"No…"
"Yes. But we're lucky they'll be overhead at all. And we're lucky that they're broadcasting the search. We're going to know exactly when they're overhead. So we can be prepared."
"Signal fire," the Professor brainstormed. "Should be easy enough. Maybe we could make use of a reflective surface, like a mirror… And did the Minnow have a flare gun?"
"It did," the Skipper nodded. "There's a lot we can do."
"Well, this is incredible news!" The Professor broke into a smile at the Skipper's confirmation. "We're going to be rescued!"
"There is a bit of bad news, though," the Skipper added. "The plane won't be overhead for another five days."
The Professor tamped down his disappointment. "Well, that's alright. We've got plenty of supplies, places to sleep, we're still incredibly lucky."
"I like your attitude, Professor," the Skipper said, turning back to his maps and manuscripts. "Would you mind letting the others know?"
The Professor intended to do just that, turning toward the huts to begin, when the door to the girls' hut swung open.
Mary Ann's face lit up when she saw the Professor, and he grinned in response, despite himself. "Mary Ann! Did you hear?"
"Hear what?"
"The Skipper just finished telling me that a rescue plane is going to be coming for us in five days!"
"Five days?"
"Five days."
"Well," Mary Ann looked like she was trying to figure out if this was good news or bad news. She eventually landed on good news. "Well, that's not so bad! We can survive five days!" She gave a little jump and kissed the Professor on his cheek, to which he immediately reddened and recoiled.
"Mary Ann," he said in a low voice, taking her arm and walking away so that the Skipper couldn't overhear. "We shouldn't…" He watched her face fall and trail off. But he had to continue. If he didn't, it would never get done. "I'm sorry," he said. "I wanted to tell you on the boat. And then, everything on the island was difficult enough to deal with without the additional emotional turmoil…"
"You're ending things," she said softly.
He opened his mouth, trying to think how to explain himself, then simply nodded.
She looked like she was going to cry. He didn't know how to deal with people crying.
"We can't be together back at the University, and now that we're being rescued, it's just—it's just a bad idea to keep anything going."
The tears welled up in her eyes. Please don't cry.
"I'm sorry," he tried.
"I… Can't we just have each other for these last five days?" Mary Ann pleaded. She didn't just sound sad. She sounded scared. He thought that the huts and the supplies and the leadership of the Skipper might be enough to keep her from needing his comfort, but he was never good at gauging others' emotional needs.
He thought about it. He really did. But as usual, he had to put his career first. Even miles from his place of work, even in this total desolation, he couldn't take any more of a risk. "I'm sorry, Mary Ann. I'm just… I'm not comfortable with continuing. We shouldn't have started anything in the first place."
She was trying to look brave. She was failing, even he could tell, but he was grateful that she was trying to respect his wishes. She nodded. "I… I understand. Besides, it's just five days."
Five days until the rescue and he had to resist starting anything with her. It's just five days.
/
Four days until the rescue and the Skipper was on high alert. He had to make sure this went right.
The day before had been a day of respite for everyone. The castaways had been woken up to hear the news, each with their own reaction to it. Mary Ann, the Professor, and Gilligan had rejoiced. The Howells and Ginger Grant, however, took it as bad news, Mrs. Howell insulted as thought the long wait was a personal affront and Mr. Howell swearing to get the head of the coast guard fired.
Once everyone had calmed down, the Skipper built a fire while Gilligan doled out breakfast rations to the passengers. Even though they had more than enough food to last them until the rescue, the Skipper had to be cautious. What if they missed the plane? What if half their foodstuffs had gone bad? It was better to be safe than sorry.
After breakfast, the Skipper allowed the passengers to return to their hunts and make up for lost sleep. But not him. He had to stay diligent: Triple check their location, research Captain Feldman's notes on the surrounding islands, listen to the radio for any changes in the rescue plan…
He had tried to enlist Gilligan's help, but the boy was too busy searching for fairy tale creatures in the jungle.
"You're hopeless," he'd said to Gilligan. The parrots from the first night had been frightening, but the Professor was probably right. They were just parrots. And he certainly didn't believe that there were three-eyed black deer in the jungle, as Gilligan did.
Today he wasn't cutting his little buddy any slack. They all had to work to make sure they'd be set for the big rescue in four days. He'd sent Gilligan into the jungle to collect dry wood for the rescue fire. The Professor and Mary Ann were to break it into good-sized pieces, but the Professor opted instead to comb the jungle with Gilligan, much to Gilligan's relief. Ginger was then put with Mary Ann, the two women making sure the wood was usable for the rescue fire. The only job the Howells seemed capable was that of monitoring the radio, which mainly consisted of sitting and doing nothing. Whether or not the Howells and Ginger could be trusted with any job of significant importance remained to be seen, however, so the Skipper made sure to linger nearby whenever news of their impending rescue came on.
"I saw it!" Gilligan cried, rushing out of the jungle. "I saw it again!"
The Skipper rolled his eyes before turning to face his first mate. He did not have the time or energy for this.
"For the last time, what you saw was a wild dog," the Professor said irritably. "Maybe a boar, but not—"
"It was huge! It had three eyes—" Gilligan stretched his arms wide, "—and his antlers were out to here—"
"That's enough, Gilligan," The Skipper snapped. Best to stop him before he really got going.
"But, Skipper, I really saw—"
"Not now, Gilligan."
"But what if it's dangerous?"
"Gilligan, if anything tries to harm us, we've got Captain Feldman's flintlocks in the hut."
Gilligan nodded once, still not looking reassured.
His face made the Skipper cave. "Alright. Maybe I've been working you too hard. I'm ordering you to take a break."
Gilligan retreated to the beach, where Mary Ann was taking her own break. The Skipper heard Gilligan waste no time in recounting the tale to Mary Ann, who was more sympathetic—or maybe she was just gullible— than the Skipper would have liked. The last thing Gilligan needed was encouragement to keep his eye out for more jungle spooks.
He was still going on about it when the rest of the castaways turned in for bed.
But, of course, the Skipper couldn't rest. There was little more he could think to do, but he couldn't do nothing, so he settled in his cot with a flashlight and Captain Feldman's journals. Maybe he would learn something, anything more that would equip him with whatever knowledge he needed to survive the coming days.
/
Three days until the rescue and Ginger Grant was doing holding on. It helped to disconnect. Imagine the whole affair as some sordid story she'd tell later, or as a cheesy television show. The island wasn't real, and the characters weren't real. The work she was doing was just for show, and the brutal heat was just part of the set. She wasn't real; she would check out after delivering her lines as instructed.
She'd stockpiled the ship's remaining spirits, which helped with the disconnecting, and was now carefully rationing them, giving herself a checkout time, ensuring her supplies would last until the rescue. It wasn't much, but it was going to get her through.
"Um," the farmgirl—Mary Ann—who Ginger had for some reason agreed to share this miserable little hut with—was standing on the other side of the room, looking slightly concerned.
Of course, there was nothing to be concerned about. Ginger was perched on her cot, consuming her own nighttime rations, wondering why the farmgirl was staring. "What?"
"Are you drinking?"
What kind of question was that? Obviously. "Yes."
"You just… you were drinking earlier today, too."
"Yes."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"I've got a system. Figured out how much I can drink per day until we're rescued." Ginger lifted up the bottle so that the girl could see the tick marks she'd meticulously drawn on the bottle, indicating when to have what. "And TMZ said that I needed rehab. Ha!"
Mary Ann's brows knitted. "Did they really say that?"
Ginger shrugged, uncaring. But the farmgirl kept staring. "What?"
She looked like she was choosing her words carefully. Then, "What's it like being a big star?"
"I don't know how to answer that," Ginger said. She got that question more than she'd like, and she never had an answer. "What's it like not being a big star?"
That kept the farmgirl thinking while Ginger took another swig. Against her better judgement, she gestured to Mary Ann's cot, suggesting she sit. She didn't even really want to hang out and talk—Ginger didn't really have a lot of girl friends, unless you count agents—but it seemed like the thing to do. They had to share the hut, anyway. And Mary Ann looked like she could use a moment to de-stress. It seemed like the thing to do.
The farmgirl hesitated for a moment, then accepted the invitation. She was fiddling with her hands, obviously nervous. Nervous seemed to be her natural state of being, which was understandable given their current situation, but it was more than that. A social nervousness. Ginger saw the way she squirmed around her, around the Howells, around the Skipper, around that nerdy professor.
She must have been frightened by everyone. Intimidated by the Howells' wealth, by Ginger's status and poise (which was flattering, of course, but also got annoying), by the Skipper's authority. As for that professor…
"You came here with that brainy little man, right?"
The farmgirl was quiet for a second. Then, "Roy. Professor Roy Hinkley."
Something about her voice stroked Ginger's curiosity. As an actress, she knew the power of silence, so instead of pressing further, she just cocked her head and waited for Mary Ann to elaborate herself.
Which, of course, she did.
"…We sort of had a fling."
Ginger raised an eyebrow, sat up a little straighter. "Oh?"
"But we ended it. He ended it. He was going to do it on the boat."
Ginger laughed dryly. "Bad time for a breakup."
"But then we got shipwrecked here and he waited until we knew we were going to be rescued. He doesn't want to be together when we get back. Because, uh, because he's my professor."
Oh, this was interesting. This was interesting. The most interesting thing to happen on the island since they were all attacked by murder-parrots. "Well, that's saucy."
The little girl grimaced, obviously less amused by the predicament.
"Oh, come on, honey. It can't be that bad."
The farmgirl put her head in her hands. "It's probably not. For me. It's just… I don't know. It's—" her voice caught in her throat and Ginger became suddenly aware that the girl on the next bed wasn't an actress. She hadn't been written in a script. Ginger shifted uncomfortably, entirely unsure of what to do.
"I just want to go home," Mary Ann squeaked out from behind her hands. It would've been a damn good performance if she had been an actor.
"Here," Ginger said, her tone uncharacteristically flat. She held out the bottle of tequila to the younger girl, who hesitated, but ultimately took it. She stared at it for a moment, thinking, then pulled it to her mouth and tipped it skyward, taking a massive swig.
The regret was instantly visible on the girl's face. Her eyes went wide and she nearly dropped the bottle, spluttering and spilling tequila down her face.
"Woah there!" Ginger laughed, grabbing the bottle back. "You're wasting it."
"That is terrible," Mary Ann choked out.
"Yeah, you don't drink it for the flavor. Come on, aren't you supposed to be in college? Don't you go to parties?"
"A couple," Mary Ann said. "It's not like I've never drank before, this is just… strong."
"It's uncut tequila. Yes, it's going to be strong."
Mary Ann wet her lips. "Okay. Okay, let me try again."
She didn't want to lose any more of her precious stock, but the look on Mary Ann's face had been almost worth it, so Ginger handed back the bottle. Having learned her lesson, Mary Ann took a more conservative sip, though she still made a face afterward.
"Better?"
Mary Ann nodded, then smiled a little. "I'm drinking with a movie star."
"Yep." Ginger grinned back, and took the bottle again. Maybe after a little more, she'd be able to really console Mary Ann—not that she knew much about romance outside of movies, but then, you can learn a lot from movies. For now, though, she could offer no more than drinking advice.
/
Two days until the rescue and the Howells had turned the catastrophe into a sort of vacation. While the Captain refused to rest and pressed his first mate to do the same, the Howells had pushed two of the spare cots outside and sat in the shade.
"If we could make cocktails and sip them from coconuts, this might actually make for a decent vacation spot," Mrs. Howell remarked. "Of course, it needs a lot of help in the customer service department, and the jungle simply must be landscaped…"
"Maybe we can develop this place when we get back," Mr. Howell mused. "Five-star resort, steakhouse, full bar in the swimming pool…"
Mrs. Howell raised an eyebrow. "We?" Her husband rarely involved himself deeply with any of his own business ventures, and it was even rarer when he expected her to take an interest in them.
"Yes, well, I just think it might be a fun project."
Mrs. Howell turned away from her husband, unamused. In front of her, the open ocean extended for miles, closing in on them with each breaking wave. He had never been interested in any of her projects, why should she care about his?
"You don't think so?" he asked.
"You know I don't really care for business," she replied.
"Neither do most businessmen," Mr. Howell pointed out. "When we get out of here, I think I want to make something." He was being uncharacteristically personable, she almost wished he'd just shut up again. Here, she had wished for years that he would become more of a human being, and now it was finally happening, and she just wished she didn't have to witness it.
"What, did your near-death experience leave you with a sudden urge to contribute something to the world?"
He was quiet. She still didn't look at him. The waves were still crashing ever-toward them.
"Do you think building a resort will do anything for anyone?" she asked him.
Again, no response. Until: "Well, what would you suggest?"
When she'd married the man, she'd wanted to purge his money. Give it to the poor, the hungry, the abused. Those words had meant something then, and she'd genuinely thought that marrying a billionaire would mean something, would give her even a sliver of a chance to help.
But their marriage had just been another business transition for her father and her groom. Instead of writing vows, they'd drawn up a contract before the wedding. Not just a pre-nup, but a comprehensive business agreement in which it was stipulated that no more than 1.7% of the Howell's annual income be allocated to charity cases.
The wedding itself was a public spectacle, one which paparazzi and paupers fought tooth and nail trying to get into. She'd worn a dress that cost more than entire cities saw in a year. But the dress was impossibly soft and detailed, and she loved how she looked in it, loved running her fingers down the intricate designs in the fabric.
1.7%.
She'd spent the following years trying to make the most of the 1.7%, throwing banquets and balls to convince other rich, hostage housewives to throw their husbands' money at whatever the cause of the week was.
The years went by and the sick, the poor, the abused, the masses who never really had faces, faded into one needy, pestering blob. Every time she finished with one charity job, there was another to replace it. Never-ending work, there would always be more need.
And now, Thurston Howell III wanted to make a difference. Now, after she'd conformed into exactly the type of wife he'd wanted. Now, after he'd pissed away his whole life. Now, when they were alone together in tropical heat that made it hard to so much as walk away from him.
"I suggest," she told him, "that when we get home, we go our separate ways like before. I don't much care what you do."
The last part wasn't entirely true, but she expected he would go back to his old self when they got home. It was better not to care.
/
The day before the rescue. They were finally leaving. Tomorrow, they would eat food that didn't come from dusty old cans. They would wear clean clothes and bathe in real showers, have access to real bathrooms. They would sleep in their own beds and they would return to the real world.
The excitement was palpable.
The day seemed to go by in slow-motion; there was little more to be done, and time always seemed to move slowly on the island anyway. Combined with the anticipation of going home, the entire island seemed to stand still that day.
The other castaways helped the time pass, however slowly. To Mary Ann's delight, a rapport had begun to form among them.
Ginger was more approachable than Mary Ann could have ever imagined. They'd taken to brief nightly chats before bed, Mary Ann telling her about farm life and Ginger telling Mary Ann about life in Hollywood, which somehow sounded glamorous but not always fun.
The Howells were less than talkative—though she saw them conversing with Ginger a couple of times. To Mary Ann, Mr. Howell only offered a civil hello or how-do-you-do. Mrs. Howell was a bit more a conversationalist, asking her and the others how they were holding up, commenting on the lovely sunset, the island climate…
The Skipper, it was smart to look busy around. Sit still too long, and he'd assign Mary Ann something to do. Chop wood, monitor the radio reports, even survey the beach for signs of their rescuers. He wasn't interested in small talk, understandably but always asked how the passengers were doing. If Mary Ann looked too busy or more worn than usual, he'd tell her to take a break and lay in the shade for a while, though he never did the same himself. Every time she saw him, she became more and more assured that they were in good hands, that they'd be home soon. Tomorrow.
Gilligan was sweet. That was the only word for it. In the morning, he suggested that they make use of the old sea captain's fishing rods and Mary Ann, being the only other person besides the Skipper who knew how to fish, had joined him.
Gilligan she could talk with. Gilligan, like her, came from nothing and nobody. They had talked about their respective friends and lives. He told her about the sea and she told him about college, which he hadn't gotten into.
It should have been really nice, but remembering who she was, the normalcy… By the time they were done fishing (having caught a small load of tuna between the two of them), she was awfully, desperately homesick.
But today was the last of that.
Tomorrow, she reminded herself yet again, they'd board a rescue plane—or maybe they'd send a ship—and leave this desolate place behind.
Night was approaching, finally. Usually, there was an unease that came with the dusk. At night, the jungle outside came alive. Howling rose up from the trees, and the birds chattered violently among the leaves.
But on the last night, no one was scared.
On the last night, they had a roaring rescue fire, big enough that the plane would spot them miles away. To say nothing of what it did to keep predators at bay. The blistering island sun had been replaced with a warm tropical breeze, and the sand was cool underfoot. It was perfect.
The Howells, who insisted that they had the most divine taste on the island, had combed through their stash of foodstuffs and chosen the best selection of food for their last supper. Even the Skipper had taken a break to prepare the fish when he saw what Gilligan and Mary Ann had caught that day.
"When we get home, I'm going to a face restaurant and ordering everything on the menu," Mrs. Howell declared.
"And every cocktail," Mr. Howell added.
"I can get on board with that,: Ginger agreed.
"I'll throw a party," Mr. Howell decided. "We'll all be guests of honor."
"I'm just looking forward to sleeping in my own bed," the Skipper said. "And not worrying anymore about wild animals or what we'll eat and drink."
"I'm going to take a visit back home to see my family," Mary Ann said thoughtfully. "Take some time off of school."
"I can't wait to get back to school," the Professor chimed in. "In just a week, I'll have half a dozen academic journals to catch up on."
"I'm going to go to the grocery store and buy a whole aisle of candy," Gilligan said with the earnest enthusiasm of a child.
In the forest, the strange nocturnal birds skittered and cawed, but the castaways couldn't hear it over the fire's crackling and their own fantasies.
"We have a cattle dog back in Kansas," Mary Ann said. "Bingo. Oh, I can't wait to see her again. I missed the way she'd follow me around everywhere. I'll take her out to the field and play fetch with her for a whole day."
"I'm going to take a fishing trip," Skipper decided. "I won't go out far, but it can be just me and Gilligan—"
"Are you crazy?" Gilligan objected through a mouthful of tuna. "I don't want to go back on the ocean any time soon."
"What? Why, Gilligan, it's our way of life."
"Okay, I know. But maybe I'll take some time off and go home, too."
"Where's your home?" Ginger asked him.
"Denver, originally," Gilligan said. "I have a mom there who I can't wait to see. She'll want to hear about all of you."
"No dad?"
"Ginger, you can't just ask someone if they have a dad," Mary Ann said, although she'd been wondering the same thing since learning about Gilligan's life while they were fishing earlier.
"No dad," Gilligan answered, unbothered by the question. "But I've got a big brother there, and he'll want to hear about all of you, too."
And then, they were all talking about their families. Mrs. Howell had been raised with three siblings, none of whom she was close to. The Skipper had a wife and children, Mr. Howell a younger brother and an assortment of prodigal nephews. Ginger was an only child, and of her parents, only her father was still alive. She'd had plenty of boyfriends, but there was no steady waiting for her at the moment.
The Professor, however, didn't admit to having any family. He wasn't a cold man, but Mary Ann couldn't picture him going home at the end of the day to anyone but his piles of books and academic journals.
Mary Ann felt cold suddenly, despite the fire, and she wasn't sure if it was for her own sake or his.
She turned her focus to everyone else. By the firelight, watching everyone eat and share, Mary Ann tried to imagine everyone at home with their families. It was hard, at first, but slowly became easier as she heard them talk fondly, love evident in their voices. Maybe she couldn't relate to the Professor's life, but there was no doubt that he was just as excited as her to get home. A sense of comradery washed over her, seeing everyone dream out loud.
They had all survived the island's trials together, and soon they would all be rewarded, be home again. She hoped that everything they wanted would be waiting for them there. She hoped for his sake that someone would be waiting for the Professor, too, even if he didn't say so.
In the morning, the shining next morning…