“Oh, thank you, god!” Russell said, facing the voice behind him. He sized up the guy standing over him, relieved to see he was real. “Another normal person. I was starting to think I’d lost my damn mind.”
The guy wasn’t much older than a kid, mid-20s at most. Lean but wiry, with a sharpness to his posture that said he was always ready for a fight — or to run like hell, if the cops were coming. He stuck out a hand, and Russell noticed the device strapped to his wrist — same as his.
“Nah, homie,” the guy said dismissively, his voice full of swagger. “We just as fucked as you.” He hauled Russell to his feet with one sharp tug, like he was impatient just standing there.
Russell took him in. The guy was a demon in denim from head to toe — skin-tight Levi’s and a matching jacket shredded at the edges, either by design or because the island had already taken a bite out of him. His sides were shaved close, but the top was a greasy mop, slicked back with the kind of shine you get after a few days without a shower. His manicured eyebrows slanted down in what could’ve been a permanent scowl or just his resting face. He carried with him the light odor of dead fish.
The cuts, the sunburn, the slight fishy odor, it didn’t do much to dull the fact that the guy was handsome, but it was the kind of handsome you’d see hustling people on the street, scamming tourists out of their money, or throwing hands on some livestream for content. Chaotic. Dangerous. He might as well have had a neon sign hanging over his head with one word lit up bright: TROUBLE.
“How you doin’?” the guy asked, his voice low and steady, though his eyes flicked over Russell with a mix of suspicion and amusement, like he was trying to decide if he should fight Russell, or fuck him. Russell clocked it, and he knew he’d better keep a delicate balance between the two.
“I’m Russell,” he said, keeping it short, keeping it simple. He wasn’t sure if he should offer a handshake or not. The kid didn’t bother with one anyway. Instead, he cocked his head, his gaze dropping to the pink panda bottle in Russell’s hands. “What level are you?” he asked.
“What?” Russell blinked. “I just got here, man. Woke up maybe a couple hours ago. Hey, did you say ‘we’?”
The guy didn’t answer right away, still staring at the panda like it owed him money. Russell’s grip tightened on the ridiculous toy. Finally, the guy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah. We.”
Russell followed his gesture to the treeline. Sure enough, there was a woman perched on a fallen palm, working the jagged head of a ramshackle spear against a rock between her feet. She was older than the guy, probably early 30s, like Russell. Her brown hair was tied back in a thick braid, and her bikini — if you could call it that — leaned more fashionable than functional. Even so, she radiated toughness, the kind of energy that said she could snap that spear over her knee and still carve you up with the splinters. Every few seconds, she’d pause her sharpening to glance their way, her measured gaze flicking between Russell and her associate like she was weighing her options.
Russell gave her a small wave, the kind you’d give a neighbor — or at least the kind you’d give to another stranger who’s been kidnapped and strapped with a screwed-up device. She didn’t wave back.
“Great,” Russell said, chuckling nervously. “Three of us. That’s enough to get class-action on their asses.” He nodded at the guy’s device. “Against them.”
The guy didn’t laugh. The woman didn’t hear him, but she didn’t look like the laughing type. Russell scratched the back of his head, regretting the attempt at humor.
“You just got here?” the guy asked, his tone as casual as it was sharp.
“Yeah. Woke up down the beach, stupid fuckin’ thing on my wrist, telling me I’m playing a game. But fuck all that. I’m trying to find a way outta here. I was following some—” Russell stopped short, swallowing the part about joining a crab caravan. First impressions were important.
“I was thinking of heading inland,” he said instead, thumbing towards the jungle. “Find a town, maybe a bar. Someone with water — hey, you got water?”
The guy finally gave Russell his full attention. “Don’t go into the jungle, bro. Fucky shit happens in there.”
There was a seriousness in the young guy’s voice. His eyes, too, carried something real — a caution, maybe even fear. Russell wasn’t sure if this guy had seen what he’d seen, but it clearly wasn’t just about a rock-throwing asshole. This was bigger. Worse. A million nightmare possibilities churned in Russell’s head. Jungle cats with a taste for manhood? Snakes that went straight for the goods? Naturally, his worst fears were centered on the parts he’d almost lost to crab claws not too long ago.
“What do you mea—” Russell started, but the guy cut him off by reaching for the panda bottle and snatching it out of his hands.
“I— I just found that,” Russell said, trying not to sound as defensive as he felt. He barely stopped himself from adding, It’s mine!
The guy turned the bottle over like it was an artifact from another world. “Drinking up, water slut?” he read. Just like Russell had been, he was immediately frustrated by the nonsense. His eyes snapped back to Russell, full of accusation, like he’d come up with the message himself. Then he popped off the beret, and the hat’s little speaker activated once more.
“MAKE HYDRATION, Tumzy like!”
The guy squinted at Russell. “The hell is this?”
“I found it,” Russell said, this time sounding more like a kid caught with a forbidden toy. “I think its name is Tumzy.”
The guy snorted. “More goddamn cheap Chinese bullshit,” he muttered. Then, with a shrug: “Listen, this is mine now.”
“What?”
“Yeah, it’s mine. Dibs, dawg. I call dibs.”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Russell blinked, unsure how to respond. In the short time he’d had with Tumzy, he’d grown oddly attached to it. I mean, it was a water bottle. Only one more necessary ingredient, and he’d have a solution for his thirst. But arguing over ownership with a guy like this, that seemed like a bad call.
“Buddy, I fuckin’ found it, but I don’t really give a shit.” It was a lie — he cared more than he’d admit. “What’s important is getting the hell outta here. You got, like, a phone or something?”
Finally, Russell managed to get a laugh out of the guy. He tilted his head back and cackled loud enough to echo off the treeline. The jean jacket fell open, revealing a tattoo scrawled across his chest in dramatic cursive: THE HOTNESS.
Still chuckling, he turned and called out to the woman on the fallen palm. “Mari, baby, you hear this? He goes, ‘You got a phone?’”
The woman, Mari, looked up from her spear, then stabbed the jagged point into the sand. Russell noticed the tip had been fashioned out of a license plate, bent and sharpened into a brutal tool.
“Ask him why he dressed like’a asshole,” she called out. Her accent was thick, maybe Miami, maybe somewhere further south — someplace where the sun burned hotter. Hotness, on the other hand, was American as baseball and bad credit but leaned hard into a wannabe street-rich persona, like he’d cribbed his whole vibe from social media.
Hotness turned back to Russell, his grin cocky as hell. He pointed at the fuzzy purple leggings. “She wants to know why you dressed like an asshole.”
Russell stared at him. Maybe it was the dehydration, but none of this felt real. The whole interaction had the energy of a bad dream: a dude in tight jeans, a woman with a spear, and a panda water bottle speaking broken bullshit. Maybe he’d died back there in the sand, and this was some twisted purgatory where you have to wait until a spot opens up in heaven or hell. Russell figured these two were headed down the devil’s way, and frankly, he might be joining them.
“It’s a long story,” he said finally. “I don’t remember most of it. Look, you two just here to fuck around? Or are we gonna figure out how to get off this rock? If not, give me back Tumzy, and I’ll—”
Hotness cut him off, sticking a finger in Russell’s face. “It’s my panda water bottle. I called dibs.”
“Dude, what’s your—” Russell began, but the young dude was already moving in, jamming his finger into Russell’s forehead.
“I just decided something,” Hotness said, the words coming with a poke to Russell’s neck, then his chest, then his collarbone. Each jab was punctuated by a step forward, forcing Russell to stumble back, his balance shaking with every step. “I just decided I don’t feel like being nice to you no more. So here it is, simple.”
Hotness shook Tumzy in Russell’s face, taunting him. “You work for us now. You’re our box bitch. Anything you find washed up — packages, loot, whatever — that shit’s ours. You don’t produce, you don’t get shit. And if you’re lucky,” he added with a shrug, “maybe I’ll let you have a sip from this googly-woogly-eyed, girly-ass panda once I fill it up back at the crib. If not, you can drink your own piss, ‘cause we ain’t got the time for lazy bitches. You feel me?”
No, Russell didn’t feel him. Russell didn’t feel anything but anger. He didn’t think. He didn’t plan (his claim to fame, really). He just reacted. With a guttural yell, he lunged at Hotness, tackling him with all he could muster. His ridiculous purple pants weren’t made for this kind of action, but he didn’t care. They hit the sand hard, Tumzy tumbling out of sight. Russell landed on top, pinning Hotness between his legs and throwing punch after punch into his ribs. Each hit was like pounding a brick wall, and his sunburned knuckles screamed in protest.
Hotness didn’t take the beating lying down — well, not figuratively. For every punch Russell landed, Hotness threw two back, quick and wild, straight to Russell’s chest and gut, then one to the bottom of his jaw. Lean as he was, the kid’s fists were like stones. He fought like he had nothing to lose, like he’d been waiting for this kind of chaos all his life. Russell had the high ground, but it didn’t feel like it.
“You pussy, you don’t want none!” Hotness roared, his eyes blazing with fury. His punches were sharp, relentless, driving pain through Russell’s already broken body. The kid could rumble, no doubt about it.
“I’m nobody’s box bitch!” Russell shouted, pulling on everything he had just to keep Hotness pinned between his fuzzy legs. He knew he couldn’t keep the demon trapped for much longer.
Russell felt the world tilting. His vision swam with stars, the edges going dark. He was going to pass out or get knocked out — it didn’t matter which — but this fight was about more than winning. It was about principle. The panda was his. He just had to keep swinging.
And then he froze. No more punches. No more swinging. Only a bit of light reading.
HL-922.
These were the letters and numbers that were etched into the rusted edge of the license plate pressed against Russell’s neck. The sharp, jagged edges dug into his skin, except where the rust had taken over. It wasn’t from any state or country he recognized, but it didn’t matter. A sharp edge is a sharp edge anywhere in the world, and this one was plenty sharp enough to open his jugular. All it would take was Mari shifting her spear an inch, a flick of her wrist.
“Get off’a him,” she said, her voice low and calm, pressing the blade a little harder against Russell’s throat.
Russell turned his head, slowly meeting her eyes. Where Hotness burned with rage, Mari’s stare was cold, businesslike. No hesitation, no mercy, no second thoughts. This was a woman who’d cut him down and sleep like a baby after. And Russell, for all his pride, knew better than to test her.
“Lady, what the fuck?” Russell said, raising his hands into a slow surrender. Mari didn’t flinch, her spear steady, but Hotness didn’t waste a second. He rolled out from under Russell’s ridiculous fuzzy legs and sprang to his feet. Bloodied teeth and knuckles, he grinned and held out his fists, proud of his work.
“That’s it? That’s the best you got, little guy?” Hotness screamed, practically vibrating with adrenaline. He looked like he could go ten more rounds without breaking a sweat, while Russell was fighting gravity just to stay upright. His head swam, and the stars creeping into his vision were getting bigger by the second. He only had one weapon left: his mouth.
“It’s gotta be against the rules to threaten to kill somebody,” Russell said, trying to buy himself a second wind — and maybe his life, but he doubted the Gamemaster would let it go that far. “You try and do me in, they’re gonna haul your ass to jail, and you’ll miss your chance to cash in on the lawsuit I’m gonna bring down on the asses of whoever’s running this shit-show.”
He swallowed hard, feeling the blade shift just enough to remind him how close it was. He steadied his breath, keeping his tone light, almost casual.
“And,” he added, “you won’t even get to be on TV. Just think about that.”
Mari tilted her head, almost pitying him. “You know, you stupid, man. Really stupid.”
Hotness stepped in close, his sweat reactivating whatever cheap cologne was clinging to him. Mixed with the stink of fish, it was enough to make Russell gag. Hotness swatted Russell on the side of the head with his device-strapped hand, nearly causing an easy knock-out.
“Ain’t nobody comin’, bro,” Hotness said, bitterly. “Nobody. Now, I’mma say this again — you work for us.”
Russell blinked at him, trying to process the insanity of it all. He thought back to that first message from the device. “Take on a new role.” Could that be what’s happening here? People trying on new roles, playing the villain for their 15 minutes of fame. Maybe the best move would be to play along, until he could leave these two knuckleheads in the dust and figure out a way off this show himself.
“I need water,” Russell croaked.
“Oh, you thirsty? You need water?” Hotness asked, oh-so sarcastically. “We had no idea. That’s funny, because we need something too. Stuff. Just a whole bunch of fuckin’ STUFF. And you’re gonna go find it.”
Russell shook his head, or maybe it just wobbled on its own. “Look, I’ll do what you guys want. But I can’t do shit if I’m passed out. Just common sense, man.”
Hotness stared him down, so close their noses nearly touched. Russell could see the gears turning behind those angry eyes, Hotness wrestling with the undeniable logic of it. He looked up at Mari and they shared a silent conversation. Finally, Hotness grunted, “God damn it,” and stood up straight, his fists still curled like he wasn’t quite ready to let it go.
“You’re coming back with us,” he said, pointing down the beach where the crabs had been heading before they veered into the jungle. “We’ll give you some water. But only a little. And then you’re clocking in. You’re gonna be our employee of the month, dawg. So get your ass up and—”
“Shobuuuuu daaaaa!”
The cry came from back the way Russell had come from, loud and theatrical — a call to war if Russell had ever heard one. He craned his neck to look, careful not to graze Mari’s spear. There he was, the rock-throwing guy, standing maybe fifty yards away, buck-naked and veins-popping. Small in stature, but at the same time larger than life. He struck a dramatic pose, chest puffed out, arms bent like he was channeling some cosmic power. Then, with all the conviction of an anime hero on the verge of ascending into their next form, he shifted into another ridiculous stance and let out another primal bellow.
“Kakatteeeeeeeeee koiiiiiiiii!”
“Rock-throwing guy?” Russell said, half convinced he was hallucinating.
Before he could figure out what was real, Mari whipped the blade away from his neck and bolted, her spear tucked tight like a runner’s baton.
“Chinga tu madre, that little asshole,” she hissed as she tore past, moving like wildfire.
Hotness blinked at her, his brain catching up a second too late. When it did, the rage reignited. “THAT SLIMY LIZARD FUCK! WE GOT YOU NOW!” he screamed, taking off after her in a frantic sprint, both hands grabbing at the belt loops above his ass.
As they disappeared down the beach, Hotness threw a final command over his shoulder. “Stay here!”
Russell didn’t bother processing the circus playing out in front of him — it didn’t matter. What did matter was that the loony duo was tearing off down the beach after the rock-throwing man, who stood his ground for a moment, proud as a peacock, before turning and bolting in the direction Russell had woken up. That was all the cue Russell needed. He picked himself up, grabbed Tumzy, and hauled ass the other way.