A/N- I'm 25 now. Why am I still doing this. I should be getting health insurance :/
/
108: "The Bracing Challenges That Lie Ahead"
Without Irving's vigilant guard, the wild animals of the jungle once again posed a threat. The dog had disappeared into the jungle without them, as he so often did, and as a result, they were twice dive-bombed by murder parrots. Once they'd heard an unfamiliar growling that Gilligan had hoped was Irving, but obviously wasn't. The sound would have frightened Kincaid himself. Regardless, they pressed on. Despite the dangers lurking in the dark, no one had been anxious for daybreak.
And then, inevitably, the gunshot cracked through the air, startling everyone with its proximity. A quick glance at the eastern sky revealed the first break of day—barely. They could spot only the smallest sliver of bright orange sunlight illuminating the ocean.
Kincaid had wasted no time.
Gilligan caught his breath only for a moment before continuing forward—not that he could put much distance between himself and the hunter on such a small island. Everyone else clearly felt the same way; no matter how far they trekked, everyone kept casting anxious glances over their shoulders.
Gilligan was not only looking out for Kincaid, but checking on the Skipper, who'd insisted upon taking up the rear to make sure no one got left behind. Like ducks. That, of course, left Gilligan in front, leading their little line.
Unfortunately, he lacked the confidence of a mama duck, so he was relieved when the Skipper called for them to stop for a spell.
Gilligan's heart was pounding so hard that he could have kept running forever, but Mr. Howell was staggering, the Professor had stumbled on several exposed branches in the past hour, Ginger and Mary Ann were panting, and even the Skipper looked as though he could use a rest.
Gilligan put that thought out of his mind. Surely, he was just stopping for the sake of the others, whose energy levels were lower and needed to be conserved.
"We need to play this smart," the Professor said, his face dire with thought.
"Smart how?" Mary Ann asked woefully. They were all trying to whisper, for fear that Kincaid might somehow already be within earshot, but her voice was tipped with hysteria.
"Smart like not getting shot is a start," Ginger grumbled.
"Smart like killing him before he kills us," the Skipper suggested.
His suggestion was met with silence, everyone grimly contemplating that they might have no other option. In Kincaid's head, the game would go on until he had picked them all off. And the only other way they could end the game was…
"Or we could try to steal his boat," the Professor suggested. A weight lifted from Gilligan's chest at this alternative. "Mrs. Howell seems to have earned his trust. If we can somehow get to her—"
"If she decides to help us," Mr. Howell interrupted.
Everyone stared for a moment. Gilligan had never considered that she might not try to help them. Now, he realized, that to cross Kincaid might mean a death sentence for her.
"Oh, she has to help!" Mary Ann shared Gilligan's faith. "She's our friend, she wouldn't leave us to die!"
Mr. Howell shrugged a little, as if to say that he might if he were in her shoes.
"Regardless, she's the best chance we've got," the Professor declared.
"I agree," the Skipper said. Then, "If we're going to get to her…" the Skipper paused and cast a glance behind him. "…Then, we're going to have to circle back."
That idea did not appeal to anyone.
"We're going to walk right back to Kincaid?" Gilligan suddenly wasn't very keen on the plan. He was trying to figure out if there was any way they could live underground in secret indefinitely.
"We're going to play it smart," the Professor repeated. He grabbed a stick and began sketching a crude map of the island in the sand. Everyone noticed that his hands were shaking, but no one said anything. "If Kincaid and Mrs. Howell are here," he put an X at the southern tip of the island, where they'd found the huts so many months ago, "then we need to draw Kincaid as deep into the jungle as we can." He drew an arrow along the western shore, up to the northernmost point of the island. "Meanwhile, we'll send a few people down the other way," he drew a matching arrow on the eastern end of the island, "to find Mrs. Howell and/or the boat keys."
A moment while everyone stared at the map. The plan seemed so childishly simple that it was almost discouraging.
Then, the Skipper said, "We should do it the other way."
"What?"
He grabbed a stick of his own and pointed at the eastern arrow. "We should send him along the eastern side of the island. There's that marsh—" he indicated roughly where with the stick, "—and we'll leave footprints in the mud. The other group will be a little less easy to track on the western side."
This small detail left Gilligan feeling like they were pretty smart, like they might have a chance, and he nodded vigorously.
"Very well," the Professor said with a nod.
"I guess that just leaves one question," Ginger said dramatically. "Who's going to be the bait?"
They all looked around, exchanged glances.
"Well, logically, Mr. Howell should go along the leeward side to speak with Mrs. Howell," the Professor said.
This seemed like the obvious thing to do, but it was Mr. Howell that protested.
"Actually, I think she'd be more inclined to listen to one of you." The entire history of their marriage stood behind that one sentence, but to anyone who wasn't a Howell, it didn't make any sense at first.
"Mr. Howell, it's safer to go that way. Kincaid won't be on your tail," the Professor reasoned.
"I know. I still think you'd have better chances sending Gilligan or Mary Ann and appealing to her maternal side instead of her spousal side."
"No," the Skipper objected without hesitation. "Gilligan and Mary Ann should get somewhere safe. We men will—"
That set off discord.
"I'm a man!" Gilligan protested as Mary Ann and Ginger laughed at the notion that the men were any more capable than them in such a bleak situation.
"Quiet!" The Skipper hissed, casting around for any signs of Kincaid.
"Use your head, Skipper," the Professor urged. "There is no safe place on the island. Not anymore."
"We're all in this together," Mr. Howell agreed.
"Like High School Musical," Gilligan said with a solemn nod. Only Mary Ann had any idea what he was referencing, but it was decided.
They were going to split up, for better or for worse.
/
Ginger, Mary Ann, and Gilligan stepped lightly through the underbrush. Gilligan had mentioned about six hundred times in the past hour how much he trusted the Skipper, Mr. Howell, and the Professor to leave a convincing trail up the eastern side of the island, but somehow, it wasn't helping anyone's confidence.
They were all thinking of Kincaid's expertise. There was mud and soft earth throughout the island, and it wouldn't take long for an expert tracker like Kincaid to notice that six sets of footprints had turned into only three, no matter what tricks they pulled.
Mary Ann had had the idea to fashion some massive palm leaves into hoods, preventing their distinctly human hair from getting caught on loose branches. The job had been rushed and shoddy, leaving them all clutching the leaves to their heads, but hopefully it would prove effective.
They were glad to finally escape the jungle and come to the western shoreline of the island; they had been moving slowly through the underbrush, and trying to stick to deer trails, trying to break as few branches in their path as possible.
All three of them were overwhelmed by the sudden reality of being prey: Leaving tracks, stray hairs, broken branches… there was so much to consider, and even more that they were probably forgetting that Kincaid would catch onto.
Now, at the edge of the jungle, they stared down at sand that might betray them with their tracks. Tentatively, Ginger pressed one toe into the sand. It was tightly packed, and left a clear impression.
They stared at each other for a moment. If they proceeded, they would be leaving a clear path straight to them. And stopping, of course, wasn't an option.
"We just have to get to the shore." Ginger pointed. A short jaunt away, waves were lapping up against the beach. She was right; if they could get there, they could walk in the tide, and it would wash away their tracks. Kincaid wouldn't know which way they'd gone.
"I've got it!" Gilligan cried. In a fit of inspiration, he jumped up, spun 180 degrees in the air. He walked backwards onto the beach, threw his arms out in triumph. "He'll think we came from the other way!"
Mary Ann and Ginger stared at Gilligan as he walked backwards, grinning like an idiot under his palm leaf bonnet. They couldn't help it. Between their uncontrollable nerves and the scene playing out in front of them, they burst out laughing.
"Do you actually think that's going to work?" Mary Ann asked between abashed snickers.
"That cannot work," Ginger laughed at him openly. "That is way too stupid to work."
Gilligan's confidence remained unshaken. "I don't see why it wouldn't!"
The girls exchanged another glance, shrugged, and then joined him.
"Maybe we should make it look like all six of us were here," Gilligan said when they were halfway across the beach. He leapt over a few feet, then again and again.
Soon, the three of them were leaving a mess of backwards tracks. Overcome by laughter himself, Gilligan tripped and fell into the sand.
"You have to make it look like you fell forward!" Ginger said down to him.
Wordlessly, Gilligan rolled over in the sand.
They were all laughing at the asinine impression he'd left—a sand angel, he called it—when they heard it. It was far-off but, it was unmistakably the sound of a single gunshot.
They stared in silence, processing what that sound could mean.
And then there was another. And another.
Nobody laughed after that.
/
The men had been cresting the island's biggest mountain when it happened.
The Professor had insisted that it wasn't really a mountain—it was just a particularly big and craggy hill—but after hours of trekking with no rest, in the building island heat, it may as well have been a mountain.
"I want to peel of my skin," Mr. Howell grumbled of the heat. "Or at least have a lie-down in the shade with a frozen gin martini."
"Complaining about the heat isn't going to make it any cooler," the Skipper said without sympathy.
At some point after splitting up from the rest of the gang, the three of them had started whispering, aware that Kincaid might be within earshot. It put all of them further on edge.
As they were pondering how close Kincaid might be lurking, the Professor froze at the edge of an overhang that overlooked a river below, which they'd walked along only an hour earlier. He held up one hand, motioned for them to stop, and when they did, he motioned to a fallen tree and then to the ledge, where the ground was split by the river far below.
"If we can use that tree as a bridge to get to the other side, we can buy ourselves some time." When he got no response, the Professor elaborated. "We cross the crag on the log, and then hurl it into the river. If Kincaid is a tracker worth his salt, he'll figure out what we did."
"I get it," the Skipper nodded. "Then he'll have to find some way around the river, and we'll keep him on our trail while buying ourselves more time."
"Exactly. We can even trail the log across the ground to make sure he doesn't lose our trail and find the others instead."
So the three got to work hauling the tree. Its branches and leaves swept along the ground, their control over it tenuous at best; they were all grateful that they were supposed to be leaving a trail.
Although their hands had roughened significantly since the shipwreck, the rough bark cut Mr. Howell and the Professor's hands miserably. The Skipper, whose hands were deeply calloused from years of working with rope and saltwater, was the only one unaffected.
Getting the tree across the chasm seemed like an impossible task, but nobody said so, and so it was done.
"You go first," the Skipper whispered, keeping his eye on the trail they'd made behind them.
Mr. Howell, keenly aware that the tree couldn't have been too strong if the three of them had managed to lift it, motioned for the Professor to go first.
And the tree didn't as much as crack under his weight as he crawled, ever so slowly and gingerly, across it, gripping the bark on all fours for extra support.
He was halfway across, willing himself to remain focused and not look down, when the gunshot hit the tree with a sickening crack just inches below him.
The Professor startled, lost his grip, and fumbled helplessly as Kincaid cursed and reloaded his weapon. Mr. Howell hurried forward, reached out to steady the Professor, and then urged him along.
"Hurry!" The Skipper called from the cliff. He spared a glance down at Kincaid, who had reloaded and was expertly taking aim again. He watched helplessly as Kincaid shot, and the bullet went whizzing over Mr. Howell's head.
He howled in rage, slammed his gun against his own leg, and then, still cursing to himself, shouldered it.
As the Professor and Mr. Howell scrambled to the other side, all three men watched in horror as Kincaid began scaling the cliff separating them.
The Professor and Mr. Howell were hollering for Skipper to hurry, to run, because it was their only chance, but the Skipper knew that that would only buy them a few more minutes of life. He began hurling rocks down at Kincaid.
His efforts were wasted.
When he could see that Kincaid would be upon the lip of the cliff soon, he rushed to the tree.
Too late, Mr. Howell and the Professor realized as they watched Kincaid rise to his feet.
The Skipper, too, stood and turned as Kincaid raised his gun, just a matter of yards away.
"Run," the Skipper told them before Kincaid shot—
-And by some miracle, missed.
"NO!" He roared. He threw his gun to the ground. "Useless."
He advanced on the Skipper. All he had to do was throw the man off.
But Skipper moved first.
He tossed Kincaid.
And he sent both of them flying into the river below.
Mr. Howell and the Professor watched as two heads wrestled for dominance in the river, each trying to drown the other.
/
Things didn't seem like they could get much worse as Gilligan, Mary Ann, and Ginger approached the huts.
Gilligan had never been great at math, but he knew that three of his friends were out there, pursued by Kincaid, and that they had heard exactly three gunshots, then silence. That wasn't good.
He couldn't stop imagining Kincaid picking them off cleanly, one by one. First the Skipper, who Gilligan knew would go down with his ship, as it were, and then the rest.
But it seemed that things could in fact get worse.
Kincaid had beaten them back to camp. He was sitting near their fire pit, sitting back against a log, as calm as could be. Gilligan almost wet himself when he saw Kincaid's figure, his familiar gentlemanly hunting attire. It was all he could do not to cry out and get them all killed.
He was covered in fresh bruises and little cuts—their friends had put up a fight. He tended to them as night fell: a gash on his cheek, then the welt on his forehead.
And when he changed the bloodied rags for clean ones, he was assisted not by Ramoo, but by Mrs. Howell.
Unwilling to make a sound with Kincaid so close, the trio watched from the foliage. They watched Mrs. Howell stroke his shoulders and feed him what they assumed were encouraging words. They watched her do this while Kincaid lay limp and injured, his guard visibly lowered, his gun leaning helplessly against a hut several feet away.
Gilligan waited for her to double-cross him, for her to push him into the fire or make for his rifle.
He waited for a long time.
Then, with a finality, Ginger indicated that they had to move on.
"Mrs. Howell can't be working with him," Gilligan whispered once they were sure they were out of earshot. Mary Ann agreed fervently. "She's gotta be earning his trust," he continued. "Biding her time."
Ginger was less convinced. She had seen how vulnerable a position Kincaid was putting himself in, too. She had seen Mrs. Howell do nothing but help.
And they had seen something else, too. They had seen how easy it was for Kincaid to rest. How many resources he had. With exhaustion and hunger building up unbearably in each one of them, it was impossible not to be discouraged by how the game had been rigged.
"We need to rest," Mary Ann said. She focused on finding one thing they could fix at a time. "We won't last long if we go on like this. We need to find someplace safe."
Nobody disagreed, but they all knew that someplace safe didn't exist on the island anymore.
In the past, they had noticed small caves chiseled into the island's rock faces. Nobody had dared then to explore the caves; the exposed parts of the island had been frightening and dangerous enough, so they didn't even want to think about what might lurk down in the dark.
But now, the trio was left little choice. They were too tired to trek far, and if they made camp in the jungle, they would be too exposed. So, when they found an outcropping that cut deep into the surface of the island, they exchanged wary glances and ventured inside.
From what the castaways could tell, the bats that dwelled in the cave were just normal bats. They didn't speak or swoop or chew on their necks with vampire teeth.
This didn't exactly put them at ease, but it did make the cave feel almost like somewhere they could rest, a place that they could lay their heads down and sleep.
In Gilligan's case, rest came too easily. He volunteered to take the first watch, but after such a long day, the silence and the darkness of the cave quickly lulled him to sleep. He jolted awake only when he heard rustling outside.
He tried to convince himself at first that the sound was just wildlife: the murder parrots, or perhaps Irving on their trails. But then, he heard the unmistakably gruff voice of Kincaid, grumbling to himself in pain, and he sprung into action.
The light from outside was dim, but he fumbled silently in the dark until he could wake the nearest body—Mary Ann, then Ginger.
He quieted them quickly, silenced their questions. They all listened at once as the rustling grew louder.
If Kincaid entered the cave, they would be cornered. Dead.
Mary Ann and Ginger knew this. They were frozen in silence, not daring to make a single sound that might lead him closer to them.
Gilligan had allowed his instincts to take over, and he started deeper in the cave. The girls cringed at each one of his rapid footfalls, and eventually had to follow as Kincaid's grumbling silenced and the hunter's footsteps drew nearer.
They had to press their hands against the wall to find their way in the dark. They had to step quietly, carefully as to not lose their footing.
To their surprise, the cave did not end. And when the sound of Kincaid receded, they found themselves deep in the earth.
They stood for a long while, listening only to the air rattling around the big empty. After they were certain Kincaid had gone, Mary Ann fumbled for one of the only things she had on her when the fighting had broken out: a matchbook of Captain Feldman's. She struck a match, and the cave walls lit up.
But they no longer looked like just cave walls. They were now in smooth lava tubes, but the tops were lined with what looked like wiring and massive, unlit flood lights.
The exchanged uneasy glances, silently agreeing to continue exploring the tunnel. Despite their certainty that Kincaid was no longer near, nobody seemed to want to speak as they followed the tunnel. Occasionally, the tube would branch out into other cave formations, where they feared Kincaid might somehow be lurking. Thrice, they found doors, all three iron and bolted tight, with windows too dark to see though to the other side. They were left staring at their own haunted expressions, the dull light obscuring their faces.
"What could this be here for?" Mary Ann whispered. "What's down here?"
"Maybe the island's last castaways built it," Ginger suggested, but she sounded unsure. The strips of floodlights overhead and the solid iron doors felt too advanced, too industrial to be from the same people who built the huts above. Everyone felt a sense of unease. "Or," Ginger started, putting words to the dread that they were feeling, "maybe whoever made this tunnel caused the end of the castaways."
The thought but everyone ill at ease, but Mary Ann was the first to steel herself. "Well, it doesn't seem like any danger now." She frowned, summoned her courage, and spoke in a loud voice for the first time since they'd heard the gunshots. "Now, it's a safe place."
When Kincaid did not emerge, when no deadly chaos erupted as a result of her speaking voice, everyone knew it was true.
"This is the only safe place on the whole island," Gilligan echoed.
"Unless or until Kincaid finds it," Ginger added.
"But for now…" Mary Ann started.
"We can finally rest," Ginger conceded.
Despite their newfound safety and the totality of their exhaustion, the castaways rested poorly. Their thoughts kept drifting back to the others, and whether they were alive. And if it was just the three of them left, how long they could manage without food and water down in the dark tunnels.
As he drifted off, Gilligan imagined digging sluices from the ceiling to let in water, sneaking coconuts and vegetation in from their garden above to plant a new livelihood with Mary Ann. He imagined the rest of his life hidden underground.
They woke like children at a sleepover, staring in the darkness, wondering if the others were awake. Eventually, though cautious whispers, not wanting to bring the others to reality any sooner than necessary, they were all awake.
By then, Gilligan had made a very important decision.
"I'm going back to the surface," he announced when they all were awake.
By matchlight again, the girls exchanged glances. They were both imagining how quickly Gilligan would get killed up there on his own.
"That… doesn't seem smart," Mary Ann said, concerned.
"That sounds stupid, even," Ginger added with wide eyes.
Gilligan shook his head. "We need to find whoever is left and regroup. Then, we can make a plan." He added the last part to make it sound as though he'd thought through this more than he had.
After some deliberation, Gilligan convinced the girls to let him return to the surface. They couldn't hide forever, he reasoned, and it had been his and the Skipper's had been craft, their seamanship that had landed everyone on the island in the first place, and so, even months later, it was still their job to keep their passengers safe. And in the Skipper's absence, as the first mate, Gilligan was now solidly in charge. He didn't share that this newfound responsibility was exactly why he needed so badly to return to the surface, so that he could return Skipper to his post and they could recover some modicum of hope.
The girls had suggested that one of them accompany Gilligan, but he staunchly declined. They were tasked with exploring the tunnels further. They were surely too untouched by nature to be sustaining any type of life, but it did look like precisely the kind of place where weapons might be stored.
As the girls searched, they hoped they would instead find some kind of signaling device, a phone or a usable radio that they could use to call for help instead of taking matters into their own hands.
It seemed unlikely.
In fact, the girls were quickly becoming discouraged that they would find anything at all. They were stumbling around in only the dim light of their matchsticks, and it was impossible to make out anything more than the alcoves where the doors lay. They tried to keep their eyes sharp and their guards up, but with each locked door they tried, their spirits sank further and further.
To keep themselves from thinking too much about the dark hall that had swallowed them, and of the hunter that lurked above, and of their absent friends, the girls chatted. They discussed things that were comically out of place: Boys, and bad habits, and embarrassing childhood stories.
With each door they tried, their joviality became a little more forced, but neither was willing to give up the illusion of levity.
"Worst date ever," Ginger said, wrapping up a story about a date with a man she suspected was the most boring man in the world.
"That still sounds amazing," Mary Ann objected. "You still got a free steak and champagne out of the deal. My worst date was at Applebee's. And I had to pay for someone else."
Ginger frowned. Then, she spotted another door up ahead. She gestured wordlessly, and they started toward it. "He made you pay? That wasn't very chivalrous."
"Horace Higginbotham." Mary Ann continued. "Sophomore year of high school. He payed for himself, but it was someone else I had to pay for. He invited his friends."
"The more the merrier," Ginger said with a smirk.
"Yeah, not in this case. In this case, his friends were—"
They both froze. This door wasn't sealed like all the others. In fact, this door was ajar.
This was objectively a useful discovery; they would have gotten nowhere trying locked doors until Gilligan returned. But they were so full of anxiety and dreadful anticipation, that all they could do before pulling it open was exchange an uneasy glance.
Despite the thick layer of dust, both girls' eyes traced the room. They stared from the far wall down to the silhouettes of steel tables and counters. They couldn't make out all the little tools that lay abandoned on the surface. Further down, cold white tile. And then their eyes followed the trail, followed from the table all across the floor a massive dark stain that left them staring at where they'd planted their own feet.
"Blood?" Ginger whispered, dread in her voice. It looked like special effects, set dressing, Hershey's syrup in the shower scene of Psycho.
Mary Ann didn't speak. She was too scared. Her eyes were darting from the dark spot on the floor to the steel table above it to the sharp tools lining the walls.
Ginger, a bit more removed, stepped toward the table. She examined the tools. Scalpels, lasers, a small flashlight. She shined it along the floor: blood indeed.
Then, Ginger handed Mary Ann a scalpel. Mary Ann took it, held in front of her, tried to keep it from trembling. Ginger took up a blade of her own, larger, sawlike. For cutting bone, perhaps.
Whether they were expecting to use their new weapons to defend against Kincaid or some entirely new threat, they weren't sure.
"Anything that was once in this room… Oh, it has to be long dead now, right?" Mary Ann asked with a tentative look at the busted iron door.
"Must be." Ginger was an expert actor, and she liked how confident she sounded, almost like her statement would make it true.
At that moment, with a jarring boom, the girls were blinded by a sudden light.
Knees buckled in fear and blinking from blindness and dust that was fluttering down from the lights overhead, they realized that the lights had just come on.
"I don't suppose Gilligan found a light switch?" Ginger asked dreadfully, confidence shattered.
Mary Ann shook her head. It could have been Kincaid. It could have been whatever made the bloodstains. It could have been some other, entirely unexpected third thing.
They exchanged glances. Ginger looked from her bonesaw to Mary Ann's scalpel, and then found Mary Ann's eyes. They were both evaluating the absurdly frightening and unreal situation they had been landed in, which was only growing worse and worse with each day, each minute it went on, and they exchanged a look of resolve.
Mary Ann gestured to the door with her scalpel.
They were going to have to face whatever was out there head-on.
"I know all kinds of martial arts," Ginger said darkly as they traversed the newly lit hallway. "If we can get the drop on them before they notice us," she jabbed the bonesaw to accentuate her point, "I bet we can come out ahead."
Mary Ann nodded, determined. "I've castrated a bull before."
They both stifled giggles, weapons pointed ahead.
Now doubly bolstered by each other, they did not cower or startle when they heard a door close.
Instead, they locked in, trudged towards the door, stepping lightly.
Their hearts pounding in their ears, breathing in the stale air in the tunnel, they waited and listened around the corner.
There were at least two sets of footsteps. Kincaid and Ramoo?
The direction reversed.
They were coming back out.
A steely nod exchanged between the girls, then action.
Ginger lunged to take the first figure's back.
Mary Ann went in for the second.