Under the fresh glow of the moonlight, Russell stood there, buck-naked and spirit-broken, staring out at the wrecked yacht.
“Shit.”
That just about covered it.
The yacht, once the sleekest craft Russell had ever seen, was a husk now, half-sunk with its keel buried in the shallows of a remote cove. The hull had been ripped open on one side, exposing splintered wood and twisted metal. Its sail hung in scorched, neon tatters. Forty yards out, just about, through tit-high water, maybe higher.
“Shit,” Shoji said, echoing Russell like they were taking turns with the obvious. He shifted his gaze from the boat to Russell, waiting, like maybe he’d have some grand idea, or maybe Shoji was just trying to figure out what was going on. Through the long trek out of the jungle and down into the tucked-away cove where the boat lay beached, Russell still couldn’t tell how much Shoji was picking up when he talked. Half of it, if he was being generous. Maybe less.
Either way, Russell didn’t have a next step, not yet. All day, his grand design had been: GET TO THE FUCKING BOAT. And now here it was, in all of its shipwrecked glory. And where the fuck was Buzz?
“Buzz!” Russell shouted towards the yacht, his words echoing off the cliffs of the cove. After a few moments, he shouted again. Nothing, no movement from inside the boat. Russell could only hope Buzz had made it out of that storm, saved by the coast guard or something. Anywhere but here.
The cove was a mess, the beach littered with splinters, merch, equipment, and a whole lot of Spazz packets, sealed tight and bobbing in the late-night tide like radioactive jellyfish. One had washed up at Russell’s feet. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. Perfect condition. Of course. The storm took the boat but left the junk. Figures.
He tossed the packet to Shoji, who caught it with the reflexes of a guy used to dodging flying objects.
“More magic powder for the little naked wizard,” Russell muttered, hoping that would be the last packet of Spazz he ever touched for the rest of his life — however short that may be. He stared out past the wreckage, beyond the cove, where more of those giant rock islands rose like crooked fingers clawing at the moon. What had seemed almost mystical earlier now felt like massive, moss-topped bars of his island prison, blocking any soul from leaving the island. Or coming, for that matter. There wasn’t going to be any help sailing over the horizon. Russell was going to have to leave this shithole through his own means — he’d have to survive, just like the Gamemaster had told him. So that’s just what he was going to do. That was the new plan.
“You staying or going?” he asked Shoji. The guy tilted his head, doglike, as if trying to puzzle it out. Russell didn’t bother clarifying. Instead, he stepped into the water, the cold a shock against his legs.
He’d taken maybe two steps when Shoji grabbed his arm. “No, no,” the smaller man said, voice soft but firm.
Russell glanced down at the hand on his arm, then up at Shoji, his eyes narrowing. He pulled free with a sharp tug and a warning glare. The kind of look that said, Do that again, and I might not be so polite. Not that Russell had any politeness left in him. He was sunburned, cut up, and running on nothing but rage and a little bit of Spazz.
He waded another step into the water. Shoji followed, grabbing him again, more insistent this time. “No, no, no! Same!”
Russell snapped. “Fuck off!” His voice echoing louder now. “You hear me! I don’t know you. You’re just another actor like those fuckin’ idiots on the other side of the island. Well, consider your role fulfilled — you showed me just how fucked I really am. Go run back to the Gamemaster now, tell ‘em this: I. AM. DONE. PLAYING. THE. GAME.”
When Shoji didn’t budge, Russell threw his hands up, then lunged at him like he was chasing pigeons off a park bench.
“Go on, get!” he shouted. Shoji flinched, backing up just enough to let Russell feel like he’d won. Satisfied, Russell turned back to the water.
He waded out, further into the shallows, dead set on reaching the yacht. The Spazz Shoji had hit him with was still buzzing through his veins, filling his head with just enough bad confidence to follow through on a worse idea. He’d climb aboard, find an emergency raft, or a busted plank — shit, even a pool noodle would do. Then he’d paddle himself out of this mess, even if it killed him. Which, let’s face it, it probably would. But that was still better than the knot twisting in his gut since the gorilla incident, a nagging thought he couldn’t shake: maybe he wasn’t the main character after all. The Spazz had also cranked up his paranoia, but this time, it felt like it might be onto something. Maybe this place wasn’t just some twisted game you could walk away from. Maybe the only way out was to play.
The thought settled in his stomach like ice, colder than the water lapping at his ankles. He tried to shake it off and kept moving, the yacht looming closer with every step.
He made it about five more steps before a naked Japanese man was on his back like a monkey, screaming some sort of war cry. Shoji clamped his arms around Russell’s head, legs locked tight around his torso, dragging him down into the shallows.
“Bah!” Russell spluttered, flailing in the ankle-deep water, trying to shake the guy off. They tumbled together, a wet, thrashing knot of limbs. When Russell finally pried him loose, he stumbled to his feet, soaked and furious, fists up and ready to start a’whalloping.
But Shoji didn’t seem interested in fighting anymore — it was never even his intent. He held up a hand, calm and steady, and pointed out toward the water.
“Same,” Shoji said again. The word didn’t mean a damn thing to Russell. Not “same”, but “sah-may”, broken into two syllables. What the hell was he saying? He finally followed Shoji’s point, further out to the shallows he’d so blindly been tromping into. He turned to the moonlit waves and saw them — two dark fins slicing slow circles between the beach and the wrecked yacht. Big bastards, by the look of them. Guard dogs of the not-so-deep.
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“Shit,” Russell muttered, slapping the water in frustration but careful not to make too much noise. No sense giving the sharks any reason to turn his way.
“Shit,” Shoji repeated, as if it were the most profound thing he’d ever heard. Russell shot him a look. He didn’t know what to think about the guy and sure as hell didn’t trust him. Mari — the spear-swinging lunatic — had called Shoji a liar, among other colorful names. Conrad had gone straight for his throat the second he saw him. Whatever bad blood was between them, Russell had no idea. Hell, he didn’t even know why Shoji’s grand introduction to him had involved chucking rocks at his head. The dude was a mystery. But for now, Shoji had kept him from becoming shark bait, and that counted for something.
Russell let out a long breath and stood, water dripping off his device in slow, miserable streams. Fatigue was setting in, more than just on a physical level. He walked back toward the beach like a kid who’d just found out the Disneyland trip was a lie. Kicking through wreckage and washed-up trash, he eyed the cove. It was quiet, walled in by a horseshoe of cliffs that kept the worst of the outside world out — the only way in was a long hill up to the jungle. Decent enough place to hole up, for now, as long as the gorilla didn’t come sniffing after them.
Then something in the surf bumped against his toes — a plastic-wrapped cylinder sitting among the Spazz packets littering the sand. He recognized it right away, one of the tightly-wrapped projectiles designed for his t-shirt gun — a name that really didn’t do the awesome device justice. You could launch damn near anything out of it, if the thing was wrapped tight enough. Sweatpants, swim trunks, any kind of Spazz-branded crap — Russell had sent it all flying.
He grabbed the package and ripped it open, hoping for a winner. But today wasn't a day for wins. The stretchy, skimpy material was bright yellow, streaked with purple lightning bolts right where the goods would be crammed. The word SPAZZ was slapped bold across the ass. This wasn't a swimsuit, it was a swim brief. The kind the world knew better as a banana hammock.
“Sure, why not,” he muttered, too worn out to care. What was a little more humiliation at this point?
Something else rustled in the plastic. He felt around, pulled it out — it was another pair, this one purple with yellow lightning bolts. Without even glancing at Shoji, he tossed them over.
“I’m sick of purple,” Russell said.
They slipped into their banana hammocks in silence, no comments, no jokes. Once he’d accepted that his briefs were just a size too small and there was no changing that, Russell climbed a little farther up the beach, away from the waves, and let himself drop into the sand. He curled up like the day had gut-punched him — because it had, over and over again. It was the kind of day that made him wish he’d never shaken hands with Buzz Holiday back on that dock all those weeks ago — maybe never even shaken hands with him at all.
No, he didn’t mean that. He’d find Buzz and they’d both get the fuck out of here. Tomorrow.
He removed Tumzy from his neck and placed her next to him at the sand, angling her in a way that she’d have a nice view of the night sky. The sand shifted nearby, and he knew without looking that Shoji had flopped down beside him. They lay there in silence for a minute, all three of them staring up at the moon. Shoji hummed something soft, a tune Russell didn’t recognize. It was nice, calming.
Russell figured he owed the guy something, more than just some purple underwear. Not much more, but something.
“You’re a better actor than those other two,” he said, pausing for a moment. “That anime shit you pulled on the gorilla, that was pretty badass.”
It took Shoji a second to translate in his mind, but his next words were chosen with care.
“Jungle guardian, I respect,” Shoji responded.
“Tomorrow,” Russell said, voice flat, “we’ll search the beach for anything we can use.” He kept talking, more to himself than to Shoji. “Then we’re gonna find my friend and get out of here.”
Shoji nodded, and though Russell couldn’t see it, the gesture carried a quiet sympathy — a small courtesy to Russell’s doomed determination. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
That was good enough for Russell. He shut his eyes. Usually with Spazz in his bloodstream, he’d be up for hours, but not after today. He sat there for only seconds before sleep snatched him away.
Nearly-naked, on a beach, under the stars. Next to a plastic water bottle with a grenade in it, and another nearly-naked guy he barely knew.
----------------------------------------
Russell woke to the sound of someone yelling, fists clenched, ready to swing at whoever or whatever wanted a piece, but there wasn't a soul in sight. The sun was up, giving new definition to the madness of the cove. Out on the water, seagulls circled the wrecked yacht, diving at fish picking through the debris. Russell squinted as a bold seagull dove, wings spread wide — then the water exploded. One of the sharks shot up, snatching the bird mid-plunge. It let out one last squawk before being dragged into the shallows. The other shark lunged in, and the two beasts wrestled over the screaming prize.
“Jesus Christ!” Russell shouted, flinching as the brutal scene unfolded before he’d even wiped the sleep from his eyes. For a second, he wondered if he was dreaming in the worst of ways. Then the ache in his body chimed in, a sharp reminder he was wide awake. Every joint, every muscle, every useless corner of his anatomy screamed in protest.
Shoji shouted again, his voice sharper this time, and Russell’s head snapped in his direction.
Down the beach, Shoji was among the washed-up wreckage, uncaring to the carnage out at waist-deep. He stood over an upturned beach chair from the yacht, the cushion dangling in one hand while he pointed eagerly at something beneath it.
Russell didn’t think. He just ran. His legs ached, the sand slowed him down, and his yellow underoos squeaked with every high-speed movement of his ass-cheeks. But none of that mattered. Maybe Shoji had found something useful. A phone, a radio, a raft, a message from Buzz. He didn’t care what. It was hope, and Russell needed it.
“What is it?” he asked, breathless as he skidded to a stop. But he didn’t need an answer. One look told him enough. Under the beach chair, a cluster of crabs was busy nibbling on a hunk of meat. It was a human leg.
Russell’s gut reaction was pure cynicism, the same brand he’d leaned on when he found that skeleton back in the cave. Back then, it was just “a detailed prop,” part of the set dressing for the Gamemaster’s production. This leg? Same deal. It had to be. It fucking had to be.
He glared at Shoji, his tone sharp. “So, you just happen to stumble on this while I’m out cold, huh? Tell me the truth, little man. Did you plant this here? Huh? Did you?”
Shoji blinked, wide-eyed, clearly caught off guard. He looked like he was trying to find the right words but couldn’t pin them down, or maybe just didn’t know how to say them in English. Most people would’ve reacted to a severed human leg with horror. Russell? He was too busy clinging to his denial like it was a life raft, still believing none of this was real, despite all the evidence that had been slapping him in the face for the last 24 hours.
Denial, folks. It’s one hell of a drug. And when you ride it long enough, you end up flinging crabs off a severed leg to see if it’s the genuine article. Which is exactly what Russell started doing.
He grabbed the first crab his hand landed on and chucked it down the beach.
“No!” Shoji shouted, chasing after the crab like it was a runaway pet. Weird, sure, but Shoji had been nothing but weird. Russell didn’t have the patience to figure him out right now. He needed to see that leg. He needed answers.
He flung another crab, then another, each one skittering away as Shoji scrambled to catch them like an infielder chasing ground balls. Russell barely noticed. With every crab he cleared, the scene came into sharper focus. And with it, a growing sense of dread tightening like a noose around his neck.
The leg had been bitten off at the knee, torn apart by something big, the jagged edges a mess of shredded muscle and bone. The calf was thick like a turkey-leg, maybe from a bodybuilder or a Santa-shaped guy who’d spent his life lugging around his own bulk. Hairy and pale, the thing was dead as could be, the skin pulled tight, rigor locking the foot straight up towards the morning sky. Strapped to that foot was a sandal so stupid, it would only be worn by divorced dads hitting the town. And just above the sandal, of all things, an ankle monitor clung tight, the kind slapped on by a judge for people who drink and drive, then keep at it like they’ll eventually get it mastered. The whole sight just raised more questions for Russell.
Still painfully desperate for answers, Russell grabbed the leg by its sandal and flipped it over. What he saw made him stumble back, landing hard in the sand, his banana almost busting out from its hammock.
“Fuck!” he shouted, loud enough to break Shoji’s focus from his crab roundup. Shoji turned, crabs climbing all over him, and came running over. He leaned in for a closer look at the back of the calf, at the thing Russell had revealed.
It was a tattoo. Faded but clear enough. A man giving a signature two-thumbs-up, grinning like he owned the world. Russell only knew of one guy with the ego, the balls, and the booze-fueled stupidity to tattoo his own face on his leg — and it was the same face staring back at him now.
This wasn’t just any leg.
It was Buzz Holiday’s.