“Here for tackle and fishing stuff,” I said to Sean.

The sun was up, maybe it was nine in the morning. All the fishing I’d ever done successfully was early, early EARLY. This was practically the end of the day, fishing-wise.

He was on the beach, arms straight down, hands shoved into the roomy pockets of those cargo shorts. Master of all he surveyed, all muscles and sunburn. His feet were widely spaced, his shoulders back, standing tall and straight. It was a pose I’d long thought of as “douche stance.”

He didn’t look at me. “I don’t have anything for you. Doc clearly said that our goal is food independence, so do that.” Sean watched the other campers as they milled about on the shore. “Look at those idiots, I told them.” He shouted at the gaggle of young men and women for a while.

I didn’t like him, of course. Who would? Maybe other guys with personalities like his? Perplexing. “I need some stuff for fishing,” I said, hoping to clarify matters. “You’re in charge; where’s the equipment?”

Sean sighed elaborately. He still wasn’t looking at me. "You want to eat? You gotta work. No handouts here. Unless you’re cool with the slop in the mess tent. Want a fishing rod? Real alphas make their own gear. The forest has everything you need - bamboo, vines, whatever. Figure it out. That's what separates the wolves from the sheep."

Oh. One more try. “If you’re in charge of the fishing crew, it’s my job to help you succeed. I don’t see those people catching anything; what about if I made a fishnet with some of the stuff lying around?”

He turned to face me; I’d annoyed him more than the other people who had been annoying him. "A net? Real men wade into the water and spear fish with tools they carved themselves. You want to just sit around waiting for food to come to you?”

I shrugged. “Yes, exactly. Any bait?”

“Find it yourself.” he turned away again, resuming the dominant alpha-man stance.

But I’d never been a cool alpha dude, so trying to out-manosphere him wasn’t a concern. What I had been was someone who’d lived with rules; the rules said that the world protected guys like Sean from the people they irritated.

No rules here. We were far from the rules.

He had no idea how vulnerable his groin was to a solid kick when he stood that way. What laws were there on this island that would keep him from simply being beaten until he was better at middle-management? A group of us could handle that, if the will was there. I couldn’t to that, not alone, and there was probably no point in it. And I was leaving.

He turned again and saw me eyeing him speculatively. To his credit, he seemed to snap out of his dominance trance. His eyes widened, seeing me standing there, not hopping to obey. “Problem?” He asked, an eyebrow rising in challenge.

I didn’t answer. I was deciding what to do with him; something needed to be done with him. How about giving him a chance to straighten up first?

“I’m leaving. I was serious when I said that,” I told him. “You should leave too. Let’s get a mess of people and leave. Right now.”

“It’s just too dangerous, Brian.” He sighed. “I want to get out there and explore too. I do. But people die if they leave this island.”

“Die of what?”

He frowned at being questioned by someone like me. “Dangerous things are out there. Doc has defenses here that keep them away.”

I snorted. “All that manliness crap you spout and you’re afraid. You’re just a wolf in cheap clothing, Sean.” It was a lot to come out of me. I was surprised. But it was all true, as I saw it.

“Do you remember me?” he said suddenly. The boy inside, the kid, was visible. Not Sean the manosphere screwup. This was a person, peeking out from under all that.

“I’ve never met you before coming here,” I said. “I don’t know how I could have.”

He swallowed. “I remember you,” he said. “I remember the fires. Nobody wants fires, Owen. Just go fishing, okay?” He was asking. Almost pleading. “I don’t know why Doc put you here but just…” he pointed at the water. “Okay?”

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“Okay, sure.” And off I went. I was confused and didn’t know what to make of it. His lack of nastiness had short-circuited my two-volt brain.

Fires? Fires, eh? Fires.

Sean’s fishing crew was inept. He had us go into the jungle and make baskets from palm fronds. Then he wanted us to stand in the water and catch fish with our baskets.

It was a disaster. People ran around, waving whatever they’d been able to weave together and call a basket. Sean supervised, shouting constructive criticism like “Don’t be a dumbass,” and “Quit screwin’ around,” or “Food independence, people! It’s not rocket surgery!”

I’m no rocket surgeon, but I’d never caught any fish by pursuing them on foot. I trudged up the hill and found a roll of the ubiquitous plastic tent material. I poked holes in it with a tent stake until it felt like a possible fishnet. Since nobody was taking inventory, I grabbed a fistful of the stakes. They were the same worn-out plastic as all the rest of the gear, too dull to be used as a weapon.

Then I found a spot in the shallows where I could wade in up to my knees, unrolled my makeshift net and waited. The fish might have been okay with getting caught in it, but the tarp kept drifting up and tangling with itself.

“What if you put rocks on the corners,” asked Armand; the only other guy who had spoken up the previous night. He was a thin, spidery dude with brown skin and that mop of hair. He had a ready grin and big hands.

We put rocks on the corners and perched like gargoyles on the boulders nearby. “Good idea,” I said. “Do you have any bait?”

He shook his head. “The theme is chaos.”

“What’s that mean, anyway?”

“No idea.”

We made sullen small talk. I detected an accent and learned Armand was bilingual. I could hablar some Español, so that’s how we ended up sharing the scuttlebutt.

“What happened to the guy from yesterday?” I asked.

“He’s fine,” said Armand. “He’ll be back soon, if he’s not already.”

“She didn’t kill him, then. Why did everyone go quiet? Why won’t anyone talk about this? Why don’t we leave?”

He looked uncomfortable. “You’re new. Not just new. Brand new.” He used the inglés

words: brand new.

“What does that mean–”

“Owen,” said a female voice, speaking English. “Armand, what are you guys doing?”

She was willowy, tall and blonde, big-eyed and thin. A yoga instructor, or perhaps a fashion model. Pretty and bony, exhausted-looking. She perched next to Armand, the third gargoyle in our group. She was graceful and lithe and nervous, pensive.

Her voice went low, conspiratorial. “You busting out?” she whispered, like a gangster in a black-and-white movie. Her dark eyes darted left and right, watching for them lousy coppers, one assumed.

I should have asked how she knew my name.

Armand let out a forced laugh, his cheeks flushing. "This is Cassie," he said, his voice a touch too high. "In case you didn't know."

I nodded, noting how Armand angled his body towards her, his gaze rarely leaving her face.

Cassie watched as I dropped a plastic tent stake in the water. It sank a little, then floated. Very nice. I threw three of them into the ocean as far as I could.

“Littering?” She asked.

“Yeah, sorry.” As I watched, the tent stakes drifted slowly away from the shore. I wasn’t surprised; the sea in general was pushing on the other side of the island. With no swell to move things back to shore, the current carried things off.

Away from here. Phase one was underway.

Cassie was hitting me with what Dr. Harrigan might have called the Eye of Sauron. Her gaze went to me, then to the tent stakes as they shrank in the distance.

Mind your own business, Cassie. “Hey look!” I crowed, then lowered my voice. Some fish, alarmingly purple but plump, were nosing their way into our ridiculous plastic net despite the lack of bait. I hoped they weren’t poisonous.

“It’s working!” She shouted. Then in a lower voice: “Mandy was here yesterday.”

“I saw her,” I said. “She just hauled that guy off.”

She nodded. “Dumbass Tyler, he wouldn’t go away. He was bugging me and some of the others. He was new. Brand new, not a recent arrival.”

I nodded. I had no idea what she meant.

“And there he is,” said Armand, pointing. “Told you.”

Because the neckless guy from yesterday, Tyler, was there on the beach with us, shouting along with Sean at the hapless fishing crew. Tyler looked fine; none of the horror I’d seen on his face had left a mark. He was avoiding work by supervising, just like Sean.

“He looks…better,” I said. He didn’t just look better. He looked cheerful. Like he’d learned absolutely nothing from his disciplinary beatdown from the previous day.

Cassie made a disgusted sound. “There he goes again.” And sure enough, Tyler was laughing and looming over a nervous-looking young woman. Sean laughed with Tyler as well. Boys will be boys, right? Oh such fun.

Cassie left us, running over to the girl, putting an arm around her shoulders and guiding her away. She shot a look over her shoulder at Sean and Tyler, a bolt of pretty-girl disgust that would have slain lesser men. The two guys laughed and made jokey noises of sadness.

I looked at Armand. He was uncomfortable. He wanted to say something, I suspected. I waited.

Finally, he sighed. Pointed at a spot on the treeline. “Mira hacia allá, entre los árboles.”

And he left our cool fishing spot, even though more purple fish were happily, unsuspectingly frolicking in it, ready to be scooped up. He went and started speaking with Cassie. Both of them turned and watched me. Be nice to him, Cassie. And be nice, Armand, or you’ll end up meeting Mandy.

I found it, where he’d pointed. Concealed by bushes, partially buried in the white sand.

A raft.

Not much of one; it was three logs lashed together by rubbery ropes of seaweed. Kelp just like from home, where you could feel it brushing your feet under your board. The logs were old, sun-bleached. The lashings were newer. I found a design scratched into one of the logs, possibly with a sharp rock. A zigzag and a worn semicircle, like a letter C.

A handsome, bold nautical adventurer could lay on this thing, paddling it like a surfboard, and head out with the aid of the recently-tested current.

Okay. Okay. Getting somewhere. When would be the best time to sneak away? Nightfall.

Nightfall.

“Be careful,” said Mandy. She leaned against a nearby tree, watching me from the shade. She wore what we all wore, but her outfit was visibly damp. “If he sees you it’s over again.”