Castaways by Brian Keene Page A

care.
    Mark walked on and commenced with his humming. Jesse followed him. He'd gone about five steps when something sharp and pointed pressed against his lower back, right between his spine and left kidney.
    "That's far enough," Matthew said. "Move and you'll be pissing into a bag for the rest of your life."
    Confused and angry, Jesse started to spin around. The pain and pressure in his back increased. The point—it had to be Matthew's bamboo spear— pierced his flesh. Jesse gasped, wincing in pain.
    "I mean it," Matthew said. "Don't you fucking move."
    Mark turned. "What's going on?" He froze, staring at them. Had circumstances been different, Jesse might have been amused by the
    expression on his friend's face. Mark's jaw grew slack. He gaped, mouth open like a cartoon character. Whatever was happening, it was enough to shock the usually unflappable Mark. Seeing that, Jesse felt the first twinge of real fear. Dropping his equipment, he put his hands up in the air.
    "Quit messing around, now," he said. "You don—"
    Matthew prodded him with the spear again. The pain grew worse. Jesse moaned.
    "Shut up, and stand real still. Mark, you turn on that fucking camera and start filming."
    Mark licked his lips and started to speak, but Matthew jabbed Jesse again. This time, the pain was enough to make him cry out.
    "Do it. I won't tell you again."
    Hands trembling, Mark fumbled with the camera.
    "T-take it easy," he stammered. "You're the boss. What's the p-plan?"
    Matthew put a hand on Jesse's shoulder and forced him down. "Kneel."
    Jesse obeyed. His eyes locked with Mark's. Pebbles and branches dug into his knees and mosquitoes whirled around his face, but he ignored them all. He tried to pray and realized that he'd forgotten how.
    Please, he thought. Please . . . please . . . please.
    The pressure in his back vanished. Jesse sighed. He sensed movement behind him and saw Mark flinch. A second later, Matthew grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. Before Jesse could resist, the point of the spear returned. This
    time it was pressed against his neck. Jesse's breath caught in his throat.
    "Now," Matthew said, "I want you both to listen to me very carefully. I've been working on this piece of bamboo since the night we arrived. It is very, very sharp. Yes, I'd prefer a knife or a handgun, but since we weren't allowed to bring those along as our luxury items, this will have to do—and it can, if you force me to use it. Believe it."
    "What do you want?" Jesse wheezed. "Is this about winning?"
    Matthew laughed. "No, this is about something more important."
    "What?" The pain in his throat grew worse.
    "Mark is going to film me, and you're going to play the part of the good little hostage. If either one of you does anything stupid—anything at all—I will shove this thing into your throat and bleed you like a stuck pig. It means nothing to me. I slaughtered pigs back home when I was a boy, and I've got no qualms about doing it now. Do you both understand?"
    "Y-yes," Mark whispered. His eyes were wet.
    Jesse started to respond, but found that talking made the spear point sink deeper into his skin. He tried to stay as motionless as possible.
    "Tell me when you're ready," Matthew said.
    Mark nodded. "Y-you can go ahead. Just stay cool, okay?"
    "Don't you have to give me a countdown or something?"
    "I-I can if you want me to."
    "I'd like that. Keeps things professional. And
    Mark, you'd better be filming. No fucking around here. Not unless you want to help paint this jungle red."
    Jesse closed his eyes and tried to keep from shaking. He listened to Mark count down from three and heard the fear in his friend's voice.
    "Two ... one . . ."
    "Hello, America." Matthew's voice was calm and measured. "Your regularly scheduled broadcast of mind-numbing shit has been interrupted tonight by the Sons of the Constitution."
    Jesse shuddered. Like most Americans, he was familiar with the name, and it filled