The cave floor was a battlefield, littered with empty water bottles. Russell sat in the middle of it, belly bloated, grinning like a troll gloating over the goat bones of his conquests.
“We did it,” he said, clutching Tumzy. “We did it.”
He waited, expecting a response, a shared note of celebration from his oddly animated water-holding pal. To his disappointment, it never came. He waited, but the silence was broken by a sucker-punch of nausea that hit his gut like a boot. BAM. He shoved the beverage cart aside, flopped himself to the edge of the ridge, and let loose. Of the seven bottles he’d inhaled, about four of them came right back up, splattering into the dark below.
From the sound of it, the drop wasn’t far — maybe five or six feet. No bottomless pit of doom here, just a dirty lower level. Russell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned against the wall.
“Don’t worry, Tumzy,” he muttered, his voice scratchy. “Still got plenty left in the tank.”
Tumzy, however, still didn’t speak. Russell shook the panda, held it up to his device, tapped the beret a few times. Nothing. Just a lifeless plastic bottle once more, looking stupid and smug. Where was the friend that led him to salvation when he needed it most?
He felt clear-headed for the first time in hours, and now that clarity came with an uncomfortable thought: maybe Tumzy hadn’t talked at all. Maybe it had all been in his head, a fever dream cooked up by dehydration and desperation. But it had felt very, very real.
That’s when he finally noticed the blinking of his device, flickering like it had been trying to flag him down for hours — which, for minutes at least, it had. He squinted at the screen, the glow cutting a sharp line through the cave’s darkness.
A notification filled the display, bold and in-your-face:
PERK ACQUIRED!
Russell blinked, then focused on the silly animation that had filled the screen. It was him, in cartoon form. A little Russell caricature, mascot leggings and everything — curled up in the fetal position, convulsing on repeat like a GIF. Surrounding him were cheerful little spirits, waving signs of encouragement: “DON’T DIE!” and “GET THE FUCK UP!” The whole thing was ridiculous, but Russell couldn’t look away.
He read the Perk information below the silly cartoon.
HOARSE WHISPERER
You’ve danced on the edge of dehydration so severe it cracked the veil between reality and insanity.
EFFECT:
Grants the ability to "hear" cryptic advice, taunts, or insights from inanimate objects and imagined characters during moments of extreme survival.
Russell stared at it, reading it twice, then a third time for good measure. When the hell had this kicked in? Back on the cliff maybe, during that leap of faith? He vaguely remembered a cheerful little chime. Figures. He nearly died, and what did he get for his efforts? Fucking schizophrenia.
“This is such bullshit,” he said out loud to nobody in particular. “I don’t want schizophrenia!”
But there was no way he was actually hearing voices. The panda wasn’t just some cheap plastic bottle; clearly, the Gamemaster had rigged it. That had to be it. The thing was more than just a broken-English cheerleader in a French beret. It was a mouthpiece. A plant. An agent of the show. An asshole!
Russell looked down at Tumzy, angrily.
“How could you betray me like this?” he said through gritted teeth. “I thought we were homies!”
He stood up and shuffled to the ridge, reeling back to throw Tumzy into the deeper cavern beyond. But before he could do it, voices echoed through the cave. Russell froze, listening. They weren’t in his head. These were real, loud, and coming closer.
It was Hotness, madder than hell, going off about something or other. And he was just outside the tarp.
Russell’s threatening grip on Tumzy turned into a fearful embrace. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Oh shit dude, we gotta go!”
He scanned the cave, heart pounding. No time for a grand escape. No way he’d make it out without being spotted. He looked around for options — anywhere to hide. The shadows were deep, but not deep enough. And when they came for their water, they’d find him sooner or later, surrounded by the empty bottles of his shame.
His eyes darted back to the ridge. The drop to an unseen level — down to where he’d barfed big-time just a minute or so ago. Not ideal, but it’d have to do. He pulled Tumzy close, sucked in a sharp breath, and rolled over the edge. He hit the ground hard, the air knocking out of him, but the sound of his landing was masked by Hotness yanking the tarp open, moaning as he went.
Hotness stormed into the cave, his steps heavy and full of purpose. “I swear to God,” he said, flopping down on the beat-up cardboard he called a bed, “when I catch that little shit again, I’m gonna knock him so hard he’ll smell the secret herbs and spices.”
He grabbed an empty tuna can from the mess around him and flung it into the darkness at the back of the cave. It clattered against a wall somewhere beyond Russell, who was crouched low in the shadows just beneath the ridge. His heart thudded in his chest as the can skipped past, close enough to rattle his nerves. He held his breath, wondering if Hotness was onto him, baiting him out with these half-assed throws. But no, Hotness just grumbled and grabbed another empty can.
“Friggin’ little asshole,” he muttered, letting it fly. It skidded and tumbled off the ledge, landing uncomfortably close to where Russell crouched. He shifted slightly, keeping his movements slow and quiet.
“Chill,” Mari said, her voice low and calm. Russell hadn’t even heard her come in. She moved like a ghost, barely disturbing the tarp as she entered. “We’ll find him. Not a lot of places for a naked fool to hide.”
Russell exhaled quietly. They weren’t talking about him — yet. This was about the naked rock-thrower. Whatever beef they had with that guy ran deep. Hopefully deep enough that they forgot about Russell entirely.
“Yeah, and what about the other one?” Hotness asked. “The half-a-Muppet from the beach.”
Russell winced. Spoke too soon.
“What’chu worried about?” Mari said. “You said he just woke up here. We find him again, put him to work. Easy-peasy, no problem.”
Hotness chuckled, a low, nasty sound. “Look at you, mastering the art of pimpin’. Student becomes the master.”
Mari muttered something sharp in Spanish that sounded less than complimentary, and Hotness snorted. The room fell into a tense silence as the two of them moved around, each doing their own thing.
Russell clenched his teeth. They were still after him, still planning to turn him into their personal errand boy. Not a chance. His thirst was quenched, his head clearer, and while he wasn’t exactly in fighting shape, he could throw a punch if it came down to it.
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Still, he’d rather have an edge — and he didn’t mean his unwanted perk of auditory hallucinations (which was bullshit, he reminded himself). He needed a weapon, anything that could split a skull if he needed. He fumbled in the dark, feeling around for anything he could use. A rock, a stray tuna can, anything.
His fingers brushed against something soft. Fabric? What the—
He flinched, then crept back to it, patting cautiously. Beneath the cloth was something solid. He felt its shape — a stubby cylinder with a fat, rounded end. A wrench? No, not quite. It felt older, more brutal. It could work.
“You check your level?” Mari’s voice cut through the silence, making Russell freeze mid-grab.
“Nah,” Hotness replied. Russell heard the faint taps of plastic as Hotness accessed his device, then a pause. “I dunno, progress bar moved a little. This system’s so stupid. I shoot badass outta my fat hog every day. World’s a more badass place ‘cause I woke up this morning. I should be like, Level 9000 by now!”
“C, you gotta make it happen. We’re close to unlocking the—”
“I know, I know,” Hotness grumbled. Russell’s brow furrowed. C? Was that a name? A nickname? He’d been calling the guy “Hotness” in his head for so long, he hadn’t considered he might have an actual name.
“You don’t have to be on my ass about it,” Hotness added. “I’ll go out there and bust a nut of badass all over this goddamn island.”
Russell rolled his eyes in the dark. Mari probably did the same, based on her tone.
“Oh yeah, when you gonna do that, huh?”
“Later, dammit!” Hotness responded. “I just need some water first.”
“Not too much,” Mari warned. “We gotta make it last.”
“What did I just say about being on my ass?” His voice grew louder, closer, as he entered the darkness of the cave, feeling his way towards the snack trolley. Russell heard the squeak of the metal door opening. He held his breath.
“Yo, what the fuck?” Hotness’s voice jumped an octave. “Where’d you put it?”
“What?”
“A shitload of the water’s gone, Mari. Don’t mess with me. You planning on cutting out on me? We’re supposed to be a goddamn team.”
“I didn’t take anything,” Mari snapped. “What are you even talking about?”
“Take a look yourself.” Hotness’s tone was sharp, angry, but there was something else there — paranoia, maybe even fear. Russell stayed perfectly still, listening to their frantic rustling as Mari checked the cart, just above his head. She frisked around in the darkness, finding the plastic bottles, evidence of Russell’s robbery.
“Shit!” she hissed. Her voice echoed through the cave. “That purple-leg bastardo! It has to be him.”
Hotness’s voice hit a pitch just shy of a shout. “Mari, be straight with me. If you’re trying to run out on me, we’re both fucked—”
“IT. WASN’T. ME,” Mari fired back, each word landing like a slap. “We should’ve tied him up when we found him. First Shoji, now this fuckin’ guy. Ay dios mío…”
Hotness started pacing, his footsteps loud and uneven, the sound of a man unraveling. “They think they can walk all over us. Like we’re some kinda punks.” His voice had a new edge to it, sharp and jagged, like something dangerous was clawing its way out.
“Maybe if you hadn’t tried to steal his stupid panda…”
“Oh, here we FUCKIN’ go!” Hotness’s pacing stopped abruptly. “You’re the one who said all those packages are worth grabbing, even though they’re full of cheap-ass off-brand SHIT. Then, the one time I get my hands on something that actually holds water, I’m the fuckin’ bad guy!”
Mari let out a bitter laugh, the kind that cuts deeper than words. “Ya cállate con tus mamadas. You didn’t grab it for water! You thought it was cute, estúpido. What, you planning to open a toy store now?”
Hotness didn’t miss a beat. “SO WHAT IF I AM?!”
For a second, it seemed like they might go at each other, their voices huffing and snapping like two alley cats about to scrap. Russell, crouched below the ridge, wanted more than anything to poke his head up for a look. But he stayed put, arms tight around Tumzy, even as curiosity itched at him like a bad rash.
Finally, Hotness broke the tension with a growl. “I need the cave. I need me time.”
Mari laughed again, meaner this time. “No. You’re just gonna use my magazine to jerk off again. Fuck that. I want the cave for me time.”
“It’s not your mag—” Hotness started, then stopped, throwing his hands up, realizing he didn’t want to go there. “You know what? Fine. I’ll be outside. Doing badass shit, earning levels like a MAN.”
He stomped off, shoving past the tarp on his way out. Mari exhaled loudly, muttering after him, “Yeah, you do that. Maybe go find Shoji’s make-believe boat so we can get the fuck outta here while you’re at it.”
Russell froze. Boat.
“This fucking place,” Mari muttered, low and bitter, but Russell caught it clear as day. And as much as he agreed with the South American psycho, the bigger headline was the boat. Someone found a boat. His boat.
The cave settled into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the faint sound of Hotness stomping and swearing his way across the tide pools. Then came the scrape — metal on stone, steady and deliberate. Mari was sharpening something. Russell didn’t have to see it to know it was her spear. The rhythm of it carried a kind of menace, the kind that made you want to stay real still and out of sight. At least it gave him enough noise to breathe without giving himself away.
Russell hadn’t forgotten the thing in the dark — the one he figured might just save his skin if push came to shove. His fingers brushed the fabric again, prodding it, coaxing out its secrets. Whatever it was, he needed to see it. Moving slow, he lit up the device, praying the soft blue glow wouldn’t catch Mari’s attention.
SHHRT, SHHRT. Mari’s blade scraped against the rock in steady rhythm. Russell eased his head up over the ridge like a prairie dog checking for predators. She was still hunched over her work, laser-focused on turning sharp into sharper. He ducked back down, tilting the light toward the object he’d been feeling for.
The glow hit, and suddenly it all came into focus. The fabric wasn’t just any cloth — it was a pair of swim trunks, orange sherbet bright, the kind a guy wears to a beach party with a six-pack under his arm. Above that, a faded floral shirt. And all of it was clinging to the bones of a guy long-gone. Russell was looking at a dead man.
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Russell swallowed the panicked shout building in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stared at the skeleton splayed out in the cave’s hidden depths. The poor guy, down here in the dark, had gone completely unnoticed by the two inhabitants of the cave. That, or they just didn’t give a shit.
He swallowed again, fighting the urge to back off, and leaned closer. The guy — or what was left of him — looked like he’d been down here long enough to become part of the décor. Almost real enough to make Russell barf again, but his mind overpowered his stomach. He wasn’t buying it. This was just more stage dressing in this sick sideshow. Either way, he had to hand it to whoever set this up. Killer detail. Too good. This was one dead beach bum done right.
With his arms splayed wide and feet together, the beach bum was laid like fun-in-the-sun Jesus on the cross — minus the head, of course. It had been smashed flat under a boulder the size of a beach ball. Russell’s eyes drifted to the rock — heavy and blackened, crusted with soot. He rubbed a bit of the residue between his fingers and sniffed. That smell — burnt, acrid — took him right back to the time they’d stuffed him into the Dinger the Bear suit and tried to fire him out of a cannon during the seventh inning stretch. The suit came out toasted; Russell nearly came out with a busted arm.
His eyes wandered to the skeleton’s hand. Sure enough, there was a device strapped to its wrist, just like his own. Nice touch. He tapped the screen, half-curious if the thing would light up and show him something useful. Nothing. Just another prop to sell the illusion, apparently.
“Cute,” he whispered, shaking his head.
Russell fondled the skeleton’s floral shirt, his fingers grazing over something in the front pocket. He fished out a pair of orange party shades, holding them up to the glow of his device. Cheap plastic, scratched to hell — the kind you wear to get trashed at the beach, fully expecting them to end up at the bottom of the sea by sunset. He smirked, but shook his head. This wasn’t it. Not what he’d felt earlier. That had been heavier, solid — something with weight. So where the hell was it?
Russell’s eyes traveled down, past the ruined swim trunks to a pair of flip-flops on each foot, simple and sun-bleached. Useful, but the flip-flops were also not what Russell had fondled in the dark. His eyes went up, towards the waistband of the trunks. There it was — something thicker, half-hidden by the elastic band and whatever remained of the poor bastard’s hips. He tugged it free, holding it up to the glow of his device. He turned it over in his hands, squinting at its shape. It was a wooden stick, smooth and worn, attached to a short, stubby cylinder of metal at the end, where it carried its weight.
It had a certain rugged quality, like it belonged in a toolbox or maybe an old military surplus store. There were even some faint markings etched into the metal, instructions maybe, but they were too worn to make out in the dim light.
Huh… he thought to himself, turning it over again. It’s like a billy club. Something an old-time cop would use. Because that was the rub — the thing was certainly old. But he gave the club a few test swings, feeling the weight shift as the metal end carried momentum. Yeah, this thing could do some damage.
If only he knew.
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Mari worked the jagged edge of the license plate against the rock, scraping it over and over until the anger in her chest had dulled. She paused, cheeks puffed full of air, then let it out slow as she studied her work. Her spear had been sharp enough to turn heads — now it could take them off. She’d spent days perfecting it, though it was likely dangerous enough the moment she fished it out of the tide pool. Rust and tetanus were their own kind of weapons, after all.
She stood, brushed the dirt off her legs, and pulled the tarp aside. The sun was sinking fast, painting the horizon in blood-orange streaks. Another day slipping into night. They’d need a fire soon, and she didn’t feel like fumbling around for kindling in the dark.
Her eyes caught her companion deep in the tide pools. He was wailing on a busted pinball machine with a big stick, cursing to himself with every wallop, like some caveman who’d just discovered an alien artifact fallen from the sky. Mari shook her head. A neanderthal in designer denim, beating the crap out of something he couldn’t understand.
“Oi,” she yelled, hands on her hips. “What are you doing?”
He looked up, panting. He gestured dramatically at the mangled machine with his stick. “What’s it look like? Badass shit.”
Mari sighed. They’d just had a blowout earlier, and she wasn’t about to start another.
“Go crazy,” she said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Who knows, maybe he was onto something. Neither of them really had a handle on how this “badass progression” system worked, but violence always seemed to do the trick. If beating the hell out of a pinball machine got them closer to their next prize, she’d take it. Worst-case, it kept her companion’s hands busy and off his junk for a while. She dropped the tarp and turned back into the cave, intending to grab some water before beginning her trek for firewood.
That’s when she heard it — the squeak of wheels. Slow and ominous, like a cart rolling across a grocery store parking lot in the middle of the night. Mari froze, hand tightening on her spear. Then it emerged from the shadows: the beverage cart, with that ridiculous pink panda perched on top. Behind the cart was the last person she wanted to see.
The purple-legged man had been pathetic the first time she’d laid eyes on him, a sunburned wreck who reeked faintly of piss. Now he had been reborn a bandit, rocking party shades like he’d pulled a heist in Cancun. He gave her a cheery wave as he rolled the cart, her cart, forward.
“Howdy,” he said, every bit the outlaw making off with his treasure.
If you looked past his sunburns, the massive welt on his head, it was clear to see he was feeling better, no-doubt thanks to the stash of water he’d stolen. And by the look of it, he planned to take the whole damn cart with him. Mari’s eyes narrowed as she calculated her next move. She could call for her companion, rush the guy, or—
The purple-legged man waved the thing in his hand, grinning like he’d just discovered fire. “Don’t stab me, alright?” he said, giving his weapon another little shake for emphasis. “Just put your pig-sticker down or I’ll, you know, bop you one.”
Mari froze. She knew what she was looking at before he even finished his little cowboy act. Slowly, she lowered her spear, making sure to remember its exact location on the cave floor. “Alright,” she said, her voice calm. “Take it easy. What’chu want?”
The man blinked, clearly impressed by how well his brandishing routine was working. He pointed the thing at her raft, wagging it like a finger. “Take a seat,” he said. “Let’s talk. That’s all I want. I’m not here to club anybody like a baby seal, but I will if I have to.”
Mari didn’t argue. There was no point. The purple-pants man was getting a taste of power, and she knew what that did to people. She had spent her life surrounded by it, growing up in a place where generals, guerrilla leaders, and gang lords fought endlessly over a crown of shit.
She sized him up, this swaggering fool in party shades, and saw someone way in over their heads. He was playing dress-up as a bandit, thinking he had it all figured out.
But Mari knew better. She knew danger when she saw it. Knew how to spot it before it blew up in her face.
And she definitely knew what a grenade looked like, even if the dumbass holding it had no clue.