“Works for me.” Dean stomped off to the middle of the small area that I’d cleared and dug his heel down in the center. “We’ll build our fire pit here. You can stay on that side, and I’ll stay on the other.”
“That’s fine with me,” I said in my iciest voice. “And are you going to make a fire?”
“Why, no I’m not,” he said with a drawl. “I’m going to go see if I can find myself something to eat.”
“Fine then!”
“Fine!”
We glared at each other for a minute longer and then he stormed off again, tearing through the brushy leaves at the outskirts of camp and spraying sand with each furious step he took. As he left, I caught a glimpse of the cameraman, a delighted look on his face as he filmed me standing in camp.
Hell, he’d just caught everything. How embarrassing. My cheeks flushed with color, I turned away and began to head into the brushy jungle to see what I could find.
Dean had taken the axe with him, so I was forced to do everything by hand. I’d managed to find a few fallen tree branches that would be large enough and straight enough to serve as baseboards for the bed I was going to create. I used some more equally long wood that I placed crosswise, forming a really sorry, hard, and uncomfortable bed two feet off the ground. But at least it was off the sand (which I suspected would be crawling with sand fleas and crabs as soon as the sun went down).
To make up for the discomfort of my bed, I grabbed as much loose greenery and palm fronds as I could, stacking them all into a makeshift bed. When I had several feet of padding on the bed, I climbed onto it and tested it out. Just as I had predicted, the palm fronds flattened within an inch or two, and I was left with a moderately fluffy bed. It’d do for now.
By the time the sun had set entirely, I had gathered enough wood for a fire and dug out the fire pit, but I was too tired to even attempt fire on my own. I lay on my narrow bed (just wide enough to fit my body) and stared up at the intensely beautiful stars overhead, using my bag—hard can of peanut butter and all—as a pillow.
It was unnerving to lay in the darkness, all alone, with things inching and creeping and rustling as things on a deserted island were wont to do. I tried not to think about how I didn’t have a roof over my head, or any real protection from anything. I supposed I could drag a palm leaf over my head if it rained, but if anything tried to attack? I was pretty much laid out to snack on, a human pu pu platter.
The underbrush rustled in an alarming way and I glanced up from my bed to see Dean returning to camp, flipping the axe in his hands in an almost-frustrated fashion. I couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders seemed tense, and I was a little more gleeful than I should have been. He hadn’t found anything to eat, either. I patted the jar of peanut butter under my ear. I was hungry right now, but not so hungry that I’d break into my stash. It could wait until tomorrow.
He fumbled around in the darkness. “No fire, I see.”
“Nope.”
I’m sure he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. In the distance I saw the small red dots signifying that our cameraman was still there, filming, and I glanced over at Dean again. He was shaking out something long and thick and it rustled like fabric… a blanket? I sat upright on my hard, rustling bed. “Where did you get that?”
In the thick darkness, I could just about make out that he was laying it on the ground underneath him and then curled up in it to sleep. “It’s my prize. You know, like the peanut butter is yours. And just like that, it’s not for sharing.”
Bastard. I rubbed my arms, covered in goose bumps. At least he had more than a few pink bikinis to wear, and it was getting chilly. Everything else I had was laying out flat, though, as I tried to dry them off for tomorrow. Shoes, pants, everything still had a damp cast to them. “I don’t need your blanket,” I retorted. “It’s not that cold.”
“Not yet,” he agreed in a too-amiable voice. “Good night.”
Irritated, I flopped back down on my palm leaves and tried to get comfortable.
It was the longest, most miserable night of my life. Dean was right—it did get cold. Extremely cold, to the point that I’d put back on all my damp clothing in the hopes that it would help protect me from the elements—not so much. It got even worse somewhere in the middle of the night when the weather broke and it began to sprinkle. My teeth chattered as I shivered on top of the palm leaves.
At least Dean wasn’t much better. All night, I could hear him rustling and itching, and I knew that the sand fleas and the crabs and other creepy-crawly things were driving him insane. I doubted he slept much either. Of course, I wasn’t about to invite him up on my bed. Screw him. There wasn’t enough room anyhow, and I wasn’t about to hug my enemy close all night, even if he did have a lot of body heat.
Morning crawled around an infinite amount of hours later, and with it there was a slight warming to the air. Just enough that my teeth stopped chattering, but not enough to revive me. I felt wrung out and exhausted, and dirty. I glanced over at Dean on the far side of our small camp, and his short hair stuck up at weird angles, and he looked equally as drained as I was.
Good. At least I wasn’t alone in my misery. He nodded over at something in the distance. “What’s that?”
I looked behind me to where he was pointing. Sometime in the middle of the night, someone in the production crew had stolen into our camp. A small red box had shown up on a stump at the edge of camp. I wandered over to it, peeling a damp palm leaf off the back of my leg. “Tribal Summons” the lid read. “Challenge today.”
I groaned and threw it back down. “Bad news.”
Chapter Four
Something’s got to give. Either Abby and I need to start working together, or I’m going to have to kill her and eat her. That’s a joke, by the way.—Dean Woodall, Day 2 Interview
A small boat came by to pick us up and take us to the Challenge Island. I wore my tankini and my still water-swollen sneakers (thanks to the rain) and kept my bag between my feet, since the message had instructed us to bring our possessions.
“Elimination Round,” Dean had said, and I didn’t bother to let him know that I thought he was right.
We arrived just as the other teams did. Twelve tables were set up at the far end of the beach, each one a different color. Each team walked up to their table and planted their flag, then turned to the host, awaiting instructions.
“Hey, everyone! Did we all sleep well?” Chip flashed us a cheerful smile. “How was your first night on the beach?”
“It was marvelous,” Shanna drawled on the end. “Leon is a great partner.”
“Everyone having a good time with their partners, then?” Chip’s gaze swung down the line and focused on me.
“Just peachy,” I said in a flat voice.
“Partnership,” Chip sang out in a condescending voice. “It’s so important in a survival situation, and it’s what today’s challenge is about! Each team is going to paint a series of pictures on a series of flags that you see before you. These pictures will be items that pertain to the history of the Cook Islands and to the native people. You will have five minutes to complete as many flags as possible, as accurately as possible. A judge will then be brought around and will determine which two groups have the worst flags. Those two groups will go to Judgment tonight, where the other teams will decide which one to vote out. Understood?”
We nodded our understanding and Chip continued. “Here’s how this works. One person on the team will be blindfolded. That person will be the painter. The other will be the caller, who, when I say go, will tear open a sealed packet to uncover the pictures. The caller will then describe each picture to their partner. You must work together,” he emphasized and repeated it again just in case we were dumb. “You must work together. Partnership is the key to this challenge. I’ll give you all a moment to strategize.”
Dean glanced over at me. “You any good with a paintbrush?”
I glared. “Why do I have to be the one to paint? Because I’m the girl?”
He gave me an exasperated look out of his impossibly blue eyes. And he seemed just as tired and cranky as I was. “Look, can you not bite my head off for just one challenge, please? Is that so very hard?”
“Fine,” I agreed, feeling just a teensy bit apologetic that I was being difficult to get along with.
“Good,” he emphasized.
And just like that, my goodwill vanished. I ground my jaw as he came around behind me to tie my blindfold and accidentally snared a few strands of my curly brown hair in the knot. It just irritated me even more, especially now that he was acting smug and high-handed as he tied my arm behind my back and treated me like a child while he did so.
I hated him so much in that moment.
“Are the teams ready to go?” I heard Chip call. I lifted my head, bands of sunlight showing under the thick darkness of the blindfold. The day was getting hot and sweat was starting to make the blindfold stick to my face. I could hear the other contestants moving and whispering to each other, preparing for the competition. A strong, warm hand grabbed my free one and shoved a paintbrush in it. “Here,” Dean said quickly.
“Ready!” called Chip. “You will have five minutes at the start of the competition… GO!”
At that, I heard the sound of a dozen paper packets tearing open and I tilted my head, trying to determine where my partner was.
“It’s a turtle,” Dean’s voice yelled in my ear, startling me so badly that I jumped and dropped my brush.
“You scared me—”
“Pick up your brush! Pick up your brush!” Dean’s voice took on an impatient edge. “I can’t pick up your brush for you, Abby. Pick up your brush! It’s on the ground!”
Yeah, we were off to a great start. With my free hand, I knelt below the table, feeling around. No brush.
“Hurry up, Abby,” my partner said helpfully. “You need to draw this goddamn turtle.”
“I can’t find the brush,” I told him, trying to be patient.
“It’s on the ground—”
“I’m on the ground, you ass, and I can’t find it. Where on the ground? I’m blindfolded, remember?”
He paused for a moment. “Left of your hand,” he finally instructed. “Now hurry up and grab it!”
After another infinitely long moment of searching, I felt the smooth length of the brush and wrapped my fingers around it, jumping up… and smacking the back of my head into the table so hard I almost blacked out. Pain shot through my head and stars lit in front of my eyes. I groaned in pain.
“Get up here! Come on!”
I shook it off and made a mental note to kill him. Slowly, I pulled myself back up again and tried to refocus. People were shouting and talking all around me, making it hard to concentrate on Dean’s grating voice.
“Turtle,” he repeated, his voice urgent. “Draw a turtle.”
I slapped the brush down onto the fabric and drew a circle.