Chapter 2: The Plan
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Rowrow213: Glad you think so! I hope you stick around to see what happens as the Story continues!
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The remaining 21 teens followed Chef Hatchet in a tense, anxious silence as he led them through a dense section of the island's forest. Every crack of a branch or rustle of leaves sent shivers down their spines, their nerves still raw from the horrifying events at the dock.
Chef had promised to take them to the island's monitor room, a space set up for the production team to keep an eye on the contestants during the show. According to Chef, the room had a direct line to both Chris McLean and the studio back on the mainland. If there was any way to figure out what was going on—or get off the island—it would start there.
When they arrived, the monitor room was larger than any of them expected. The walls were lined with at least 100 small screens, each one displaying a feed from a different camera placed around the island. The surveillance setup was meant to capture every moment of drama for the show, but now it gave the room an eerie, almost dystopian vibe.
At the center of the room was a long desk with a control panel embedded into it. Buttons and levers blinked and glowed, indicating the system was still operational. There was enough space in the room for three or four people to work comfortably, though now it felt cramped with the entire group squeezed inside.
Chef wasted no time. He scanned the control panel, his sharp eyes searching until they landed on what he was looking for: a bright red phone sitting on its cradle near the edge of the desk. He snatched it up, his movements swift and efficient, and began dialing a number.
Courtney, standing near the desk, crossed her arms and raised a brow. "Who are you calling?" she asked, her voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Chef didn't answer immediately. Instead, he raised a finger, silently signaling her to wait as the phone began to ring.
The group waited in uneasy silence, the ringing sound echoing in the room like a countdown. Cody stood near the back, his heart pounding as he clenched his fists, silently willing someone to answer on the other end.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a voice crackled through the line. It sounded panicked, rushed, and full of fear.
[Hello?! Who is this?!] the voice demanded.
Chef straightened up, his tone firm and professional. "This is Chef Hatchet, the co-host of Chris McLean's show, Total Drama Island," He paused for a breath, then added, "We need help—"
The voice on the other end cut him off, the desperation palpable. [So does everyone! The city's gone to hell! people are going crazy—killing each other like animals!] The voice grew shakier, their words coming faster. [They're puking blood, attacking anyone they see! It's chaos out here!]
'Damn it! It's spread that much already?!' Chef Hatchet thought, his grip tightening on the phone. His face was grim, his jaw clenched as the weight of the situation sank in further. "So, the Rage Virus has hit Toronto?" Chef asked, his voice low and tense, though the question already felt rhetorical.
[What the hell do you think?!] the voice on the other end shouted, their panic palpable. [It's everywhere! The city's completely overrun—infected people are tearing through the streets, attacking anyone they see! There's no way to contain it!]
Chef swallowed hard, the reality sinking in deeper. "What about Chris? Is he safe? What's going on over there exactly?" he pressed, hoping for any shred of good news.
[Chris?!] the voice cried, their tone verging on hysteria. [You really think anyone's safe right now? Most of the studio staff are dead! Either they were killed by those crazy infected bastards or they've turned into them!]
Chef's breath hitched, but he forced himself to stay calm, at least outwardly. "What about security? Emergency protocols? Anything?"
The voice on the other end was shaking now, both literally and figuratively. [There's no security left! They're all gone! This shit's happening so fast, the cops can't keep up, and we haven't heard a damn thing about what the military's doing! For all we know, they're getting wiped out too!]
Chef's fingers tightened around the phone, his knuckles turning white. The chaos was spreading faster than he'd feared, and the idea that Chris and the production crew might already be dead sent a cold chill through him.
"You're telling me there's no plan? No fallback?" Chef asked, his voice gruff but controlled.
[Plan? The only plan anyone's got right now is to stay the hell out of the way and pray you don't get bitten!] the voice snapped, their despair bleeding through every word. [We're not even sure what the military's doing—or if they're doing anything at all! Everything's gone to shit, man! It's like the end of the damn world!]
Chef's lips pressed into a thin line as he processed the information. It wasn't just bad—it was catastrophic. And if the mainland was already falling apart this quickly, then it may be a safer option to remain on the Island for the time being.
Cody, standing nearby, caught the look on Chef's face and felt his stomach drop. Even without hearing the voice on the other end, Cody could tell the news was nothing short of disastrous.
[If you're on that island, my advice is to stay there, it's safer than anywhere else right now,] The voice told him.
Chef's jaw tightened, his frustration evident. "Safer, huh?" Chef muttered. 'He might be right, we've already taken care of those who were infected'
The voice on the phone continued, [If you've got supplies, ration them, lock down the area, and for God's sake, if anyone shows symptoms... don't hesitate,]
Chef's grip on the phone tightened as his gaze flicked to Tyler's bloodied body on one of the monitors. "Yeah," he said grimly. "We know,"
[Look man, good luck and pray to god if you believe in him that all this blows over soon,] He said before there was a click and the call ended.
"What's he saying?" Duncan asked, his voice sharp with urgency.
Chef slammed the phone back onto its cradle with more force than necessary, turning to face the group. "Toronto's gone," he said flatly. "The studio? Gone, Chris? Probably dead, and the cops? They're overwhelmed,"
The teens stared at him in stunned silence, the gravity of his words hitting them like a tidal wave.
"What about the military?" Courtney asked, though her voice wavered.
Chef shook his head. "No one knows, either they're fighting it and losing, or they're keeping their mouths shut, either way, we're on our own,"
The room erupted into a cacophony of voices as the teens began panicking, their fear and desperation spilling over.
"This can't be happening!" Lindsay cried, her hands gripping her head. "It's like a zombie movie, but it's like... Real!"
"Are you saying there's no rescue?" Trent asked, his voice rising. "No one's coming for us?"
"Looks like it," Chef said grimly.
"What the hell do we do now?" Duncan snapped, his frustration bubbling over.
Chef met his gaze with a steely glare. "What we do now is survive," he said firmly. "We've got supplies here, We've got cameras all over the island to keep an eye on things, But if any of you think you can sit back and wait for someone to save you, forget it, this is on us now,"
The room fell silent again, the weight of Chef's words pressing down on everyone. Cody felt his heart hammering in his chest as he looked around at the terrified faces of his fellow contestants.
The perfect time to try and become famous they'd envisioned was long gone, replaced by a nightmare that none of them had been prepared for.
And for the first time, Cody realized just how small and isolated the island truly was. Their haven had become their prison, and the only thing waiting outside was a virus hell-bent on turning the world into chaos.
Chef Hatchet stood at the front of the room, his commanding presence cutting through the tension like a knife. His sharp eyes scanned the group of teens, all of whom were visibly shaken by the events of the morning. Taking a deep breath, he clapped his hands together, snapping everyone's attention to him.
"All right, listen up, here's the plan," He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the group. "I need a few people to come with me to the ship. We need to check if any of the supplies on board are contaminated, if they are, we burn them, no questions, no hesitations, understood?"
The teens exchanged uneasy glances but nodded collectively.
"Good," Chef continued, his tone firm. "Now, while we're doing that, the rest of you are gonna handle another job... We need to bury the bodies—those three out there,"
At the mention of the bodies, the group visibly tensed. Lindsay let out a small gasp, and Gwen winced, wrapping her arms around herself. Even Duncan, who usually oozed confidence, looked slightly uncomfortable.
Chef's eyes narrowed as he caught their unease. "I know it's not gonna be easy," he said, his voice softening slightly. "But it needs to be done, we can't just leave them out there to attract animals—or worse,"
The room was silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Slowly, the teens began nodding, though none of them looked eager to volunteer for the task.
"Good," Chef said after a moment. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Now, who's comin' with me to the ship?"
Duncan raised his hand without hesitation, his usual smirk replaced by a determined expression. "I'll go," he said, his voice steady.
Trent followed suit, raising his hand as well. "Me too," he added, glancing at Duncan.
Chef gave them an approving nod. "All right, the two of you are with me," He turned back to the rest of the group. "As for the burial team, we'll need volunteers for that too, but first, everyone handling anything outside or on the ship is gonna suit up, we're not takin' any chances with this virus,"
Cody, standing near the back, raised a tentative hand. "What kind of gear are we talking about?" he asked nervously.
Chef pointed to a nearby storage locker. "We've got protective gear from the production team, masks, gloves, aprons—you'll wear it all, and don't take it off until the job's done and you've cleaned yourselves up, got it?"
The group nodded again, some more hesitantly than others.
Chef strode over to the locker and pulled it open, revealing stacks of yellow plastic aprons, white face masks, and thick rubber gloves. He grabbed a set for himself and tossed two more to Duncan and Trent. "Suit up," he ordered.
The two teens didn't hesitate. They slipped on the aprons, tied the masks over their faces, and snapped the gloves into place. The gear was bulky and uncomfortable, but it was better than risking exposure to whatever horrors the ship might hold.
As Chef adjusted his own mask, he looked back at the rest of the group. "For the burial team, same deal—gear up before you go outside, no exceptions, and if anyone feels even a little off after this, you tell me immediately, got it?"
The group nodded once more, though the unease in the room was palpable.
With that, Chef, Duncan, and Trent turned toward the door, their protective gear rustling as they moved. "Let's get this over with," Chef muttered, leading the way out.
The remaining teens stood in silence, their gazes following the trio as they disappeared into the forest toward the dock. The weight of what lay ahead hung heavily in the air, and for the first time, they truly understood the grim reality of their situation. This wasn't just a game anymore—it was survival.
After standing in silence for what felt like an eternity, Cody finally steeled his nerves. Taking a deep breath, he moved over to the remaining pile of protective gear. The others watched him hesitantly as he grabbed a yellow apron, a face mask, and gloves. Slowly, he began putting it on, tying the apron around his waist with trembling fingers.
"What do you think you're doing?" Heather's sharp voice cut through the quiet, and Cody froze momentarily. She stepped forward, arms crossed, her glare fixed on him.
Cody adjusted the apron and turned to face her, his expression firm despite his nerves. "I'm going to bury them," he said simply, his voice steady but laced with determination.
Heather raised an eyebrow, her stance unwavering. "I don't think so," she said, her tone dripping with authority.
Cody narrowed his eyes at her. "And why not?" he asked, his voice rising slightly in frustration.
Heather folded her arms tighter across her chest, meeting his glare with one of her own. "Because if you mess up out there—if you so much as trip and scrape your arm while handling those bodies—you could get infected, and if you get infected, we all have to deal with it," she snapped. "So, no, you're not doing it, we'll wait for Chef and the others to get back, understood?"
Cody clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening. "You're just scared of getting your hands dirty, Heather," he accused.
Heather scoffed and stepped closer. "Call it what you want, but I'm not risking my life because you want to play hero," she shot back.
Before Cody could respond, Courtney stepped in, her voice sharp. "Who made you the one calling the shots?"
Heather turned her icy glare on Courtney. "I did," she said firmly, her tone practically daring Courtney to challenge her.
"And what exactly makes you think you're qualified to be in charge?" Courtney demanded, stepping forward and squaring her shoulders.
Heather opened her mouth, ready to deliver one of her scathing retorts, but Cody cut her off before she could get a word out.
"You two can't be serious right now!" Cody shouted, his voice echoing through the monitor room.
The sudden outburst caught everyone's attention. All eyes turned to Cody, who stood there trembling—not with fear, but with anger and frustration.
"Three people are dead! Tyler is dead! We can't just... just leave them out there to rot! We're not doing that! We don't do that!" His chest heaved as he glared at the group, his eyes filled with anger and despair. "For god's sake, Tyler saved Lindsay's life! He died for it! H-He doesn't deserve to lay out there, rotting in the sun for hours, because we're all too scared to do what's right—too scared of some stupid virus!" He slammed his fist against the wall table, the sound echoing in the silent room.
Cody turned away, blinking back tears as he fumbled with the ties of his apron. His hands trembled, but he kept going, determined to see this through.
"We owe him better than that..." He said.
The room was deathly silent. No one dared to speak, their stunned expressions showing the weight of Cody's words. Even Heather, who usually had a retort for everything, stayed quiet, her lips pressed into a thin line.
The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps. Cody glanced up and saw Eva stepping forward, her face set in a determined expression. Without a word, she grabbed one of the remaining aprons and began putting it on.
"He's right," Eva said firmly as she slipped her arms through the straps. Her voice was steady, calm, and carried an edge of resolve. "Tyler deserves better than that, they all do," She tied the apron around her waist and adjusted the face mask before glancing around at the others.
As she slid on her gloves, Eva's gaze briefly landed on Heather, her expression sharp.
"We'll just be careful," she added. "And if one of us gets infected, well... that's one less person to worry about, right?" Her voice was pointed, her tone carrying a weight of accusation that wasn't lost on anyone.
Heather's eyes narrowed, her lips parting as if to snap back, but she stopped herself. Instead, she crossed her arms and looked away, her face flushed with irritation and, perhaps, guilt.
Cody straightened up, his determination solidified by Eva's support. He gave her a small, grateful nod. "Thanks, Eva," he said softly.
She shrugged, her face unreadable. "Don't thank me yet," she replied. "We've got a long way to go,"
As the room fell silent again, Gwen hesitated before stepping forward. She grabbed a set of gloves and an apron, her hands shaking slightly as she put them on. "I'll help too," she said quietly, her voice trembling but resolute. "You're right, Cody, we can't just leave them out there,"
One by one, others began to step forward. Geoff grabbed a pair of gloves and slapped them on, giving Cody a small smile. "I'm in, dude, let's do this,"
Trent followed, then Bridgette, and eventually even Lindsay—her face streaked with tears as she silently took a set of protective gear.
The small group gathered, each one preparing themselves for the grim task ahead. They were scared—terrified, even—but Cody's words had lit a fire in them.
As Cody looked around at the volunteers, his heart felt heavy, but he was also filled with a small glimmer of hope. These were people he barely knew, people who had every reason to run and hide. But they were stepping up, not just for Tyler but for each other.
Taking a deep breath, Cody adjusted his mask and looked at the group. "Let's get it done," he said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his insides.
With that, they headed toward the door, ready to face the grim reality waiting for them outside. No one spoke, but their resolve was clear. They weren't just burying bodies—they were holding on to their humanity, one small act of decency at a time.
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Chef, Duncan, and Trent descended into the dimly lit storage hold of the supply boat, the creak of the old metal stairs and the faint sloshing of water against the hull filling the air. As they reached the bottom, the heavy stench of blood and metal hit them like a punch to the gut. The lower deck was a mess—smears of dark, dried blood streaked across the walls and floor, with some areas still sticky and glistening under the dim emergency lights.
The three of them paused for a moment, taking in the grim sight. The chaos down here painted a horrifying picture of what might have happened before the infected broke loose.
"Damn…" Duncan muttered, wrinkling his nose as he carefully stepped over a pool of blood.
Chef's eyes swept the room, scanning the supplies. He quickly identified what they had to work with, and the news wasn't great. "Well," he grumbled, "there's good news and bad news."
The good news was that some of the supplies remained untouched. A few large bags of jasmine rice were stacked in a corner, their packaging intact. Alongside them were several cans of beans, vegetables, and fruits—enough to make a decent stockpile. However, that was where the optimism ended.
The bad news was glaring. Fresh produce, bread, and meat lay scattered across the floor, crushed, torn open, or soaked in blood. A few packages of raw meat had been ripped apart entirely, likely from the infected attacking anything in their path. The air was thick with the rancid smell of spoiled food, making it hard to breathe even through their protective masks.
"Shit…" Duncan muttered again, bending down to pick up a half-open package of frozen meat. He grimaced at the sight of blood smeared across the plastic wrap. "How much of this is still good?" he asked, though the answer seemed obvious.
"Probably none of it," Chef said bluntly, his expression hard as stone. He stepped carefully around the mess, tapping a steel toe boot against a dented crate. "Take anything that doesn't have blood on it. Cans, sealed bags—anything we can use. Get it out to the dock so we can inventory it properly. If it's not much, it ain't too big of a problem. I've still got supplies back in the kitchens."
Trent nodded, though his face betrayed his unease. "All right," he said as he grabbed one of the clean rice bags. "But how long do you think what's in the kitchen and whatever's left here will last us?" he asked, his voice uncertain.
Chef straightened up, his gaze hardening as he assessed their situation. "Won't know 'til we've got everything out of the ship and counted," he replied. "But we're not gonna waste time worrying about it until we've done what needs doing. Now quit your yammering and get movin', soldier," he said, his tone sharp but not unkind.
Duncan snorted lightly at Chef's military-style command but didn't argue. He grabbed a nearby crate of canned goods, carefully avoiding anything that looked remotely contaminated.
As the three of them worked, Chef continued giving instructions. "Watch yourselves," he warned, his voice echoing through the hold. "If you see anything that even looks suspicious—any blood, any open packaging—you leave it, don't take chances,"
Trent and Duncan nodded, their movements cautious as they gathered the usable supplies. For every can they found intact, there seemed to be two more that were busted open.
After about ten minutes, they had gathered a decent pile of salvaged goods outside and onto the dock. It wasn't much—just a few bags of rice and a couple of crates of canned food, with a few untorn packages of meat—but it was better than nothing.
"Think this is all we're gonna get," Duncan said, wiping his gloved hands on his apron as he glanced at the pile.
Chef grunted in agreement, his eyes scanning the rest of the hold one last time. "Yeah, looks like it," he said.
Trent glanced at Chef, "You think this is gonna be enough to last us?" he asked, his voice low.
Chef didn't answer immediately. He stared straight ahead, his expression unreadable. "Depends," he said finally. "If we ration carefully and stay smart, we'll make it work, if we don't… well, looks like we'll have to hit the mainland and scavenge,"
The grim statement hung in the air as they reached the top deck. The sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the dock. As Chef, Duncan, and Trent began taking all the food to the kitchen the unspoken reality weighed heavily on all of them: food was just one of many problems they would have to face in the coming days.
As they made their way to the kitchen, the silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant sound of crashing waves.
Duncan glanced at Chef Hatchet, his brow furrowed in thought. "So, if we decide to head to the mainland," he began, his tone steady, "how are we supposed to protect ourselves? I mean, we've all seen what those infected people are capable of."
Chef gave him a sidelong glance, his expression as unreadable as ever. "We've got a few pistols here on the island," he said gruffly. "They were meant for emergencies, and I'd say this qualifies, I'll start teachin' everyone how to shoot, after that, we make a pit stop in White Harbor, I've got a stash of weapons there—plenty to keep us alive while we gather supplies from the mainland,"
Duncan raised an eyebrow, skepticism creeping into his voice. "And you're sure what you've got will be enough? We're talkin' about a full-on outbreak here, Chef,"
Chef smirked, the corner of his mouth curling upward in a way that was equal parts confidence and menace. "Kid," he said, his voice tinged with an edge of dark humor, "I've got enough firepower in that stash to be ready for World War Three, we'll be fine—assuming nobody screws up,"
Duncan nodded, seemingly reassured. "Fair enough," he said, pausing before adding, "but you don't need to worry about me. I already know how to shoot,"
Chef stopped walking, turning to look at Duncan with a raised brow and a skeptical glint in his eye. "Is that so?" he said, his voice carrying just enough doubt to challenge the claim.
Duncan rolled his eyes and let out a dry chuckle. "Yeah, it's true," he replied. "My old man might be a real piece of shit, but he used to be ex-military, taught me how to handle a gun when I was a kid... Only decent thing he ever did for me," he added, the last part muttered under his breath.
Chef studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze peeling back layers of bravado to find the truth underneath. Finally, he nodded. "Alright, kid," he said, his tone gruff but approving. "If that's the case, you'll be helpin' me teach the rest of these knuckleheads how to shoot, got it?"
Duncan smirked, his confidence returning. "Fine by me, Chef," he said with a casual shrug.
Chef grunted in acknowledgment and started walking again. "Good, the sooner we're all trained, the better chance we have out there... This ain't some reality TV challenge anymore, kid, this is life or death,"
Duncan followed, his usual smirk replaced by a look of grim determination. For once, he understood exactly what Chef meant—and he was ready.
As they walked in silence, the soft crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound that accompanied them. Chef Hatchet's mind was racing, his thoughts focused on the plan he'd been mentally assembling since the chaos began. He'd run through it a hundred times, adjusting and tweaking every detail in his head, trying to ensure their survival. On paper, it looked solid—hell, it looked like the best shot they had at making it out of this nightmare alive.
But Chef had been in situations like this before, and he knew one thing for sure: not everything went as planned. There were too many variables, too many unknowns. His gut told him that things were going to get much worse before they got better. It was the way the world worked—always kicking those who were struggling, just when they thought they might catch a break. He'd seen it a thousand times before, in different forms, but the outcome was always the same: just when you thought you were out, you got pulled back in, harder than before.
The weight of that realization settled heavily in his chest. He wasn't sure what exactly was coming next, but he had a sinking feeling that the worst was yet to come. Their luck so far had been a series of near-misses, and Chef couldn't shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time before something bigger, something bad, finally caught up with them.
As they reached the kitchen, Chef glanced over at Duncan, who was walking beside him. The young punk seemed lost in his thoughts, but Chef could tell the tension in the air wasn't lost on him either. He could see it in the way Duncan's shoulders were tense, the sharpness in his movements.
Chef let out a quiet sigh, the weight of their situation pressing down on him. "You know," he said, breaking the silence, "The world doesn't give a damn about people trying to survive, when you're down, it kicks you while you're already on the ground,"
Duncan glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. "You think we're already down?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with uncertainty.
Chef's gaze hardened, and for a moment, he looked like a man who'd seen more than his fair share of the world's cruelty. "We're not out of the woods yet, kid, not by a long shot," he said, his tone gruff but honest. "Right now, we're fighting the odds, but if there's one thing I know, it's that life has a way of turning on you when you least expect it,"
Duncan let that sit for a moment, his expression unreadable. They both knew the kind of battle they were facing, the kind that didn't have easy answers or clear paths. It was survival at its most raw, and that reality was something neither of them could ignore.
Chef shook his head, as if to push the dark thoughts aside, but they lingered, like shadows trailing behind him. "We stick to the plan, we make it through today, and then we deal with tomorrow when it comes, but don't fool yourself—this isn't over yet... The worst might be just around the corner, and when it hits, it's gonna be uglier than we can imagine,"
Duncan gave a tight-lipped nod, his face hardening. "We'll be ready," he muttered, though even he didn't sound entirely convinced.
Chef didn't say anything more. There was nothing left to say. They had their plan, and now all they could do was hope it worked—because, in the end, hope was all they had. But even with hope, Chef knew one thing for sure: the world had a habit of kicking down those already on the edge. And when it did, they had better be ready to fight back.