Survivors (Stranded) by Jeff Probst, Christopher Tebbetts

when Buzz sat on the couch at home, deep inside a game of FarQuest or Reverb Alley.
    “What are you doing?” Vanessa asked.
    “I thought I saw a grub,” Buzz said.
    “A what?”
    He withdrew the knife now and stuck two fingers inside. When he pulled them out, he had a pinch hold on a lumpy white worm the size of his pinkie.
    Buzz dropped it onto his palm and held the thing out to show them. “These little suckers are pure protein,” he said.
    Jane leaned in to see. “We’re supposed to eat
those
?” she asked.
    “I’m not saying they’re candy bars,” Buzz told her. “I’m just saying they’re edible. And there’s probably a lot more of them here, too.”
    The grub was more like a caterpillar than a worm, Vanessa realized. It had a shiny dark head at one end and tiny legs that sent it wriggling across Buzz’s palm. Snails were one thing, but the grub was ten times as big and probably twice as disgusting.
    Her empty stomach seemed to fold in on itself. She knew exactly what she had to do, and she didn’t like the answer one bit. It was another
island moment
. That’s how Vanessa thought of them now.
    She was going to eat grubs. Not because she liked them. Not because she thought it would be fun. But simply because there was one thing about them that mattered more than anything else.
    They were edible.

CHAPTER 10

    C arter startled himself awake.
    He’d been dreaming—about what, he wasn’t even sure. Something had been chasing him. Something getting closer. Reaching out to grab him. And then—
    He sat up on the deck, breathing heavily and remembering where he was. This fever wasn’t doing him any favors—that was for sure.
    The campfire had burned down while he slept. Its embers were still bright orange, but he needed to feed it soon if he didn’t want to lose it. With Buzz, Vanessa, and Jane off sweating in the jungle, it was the very least he could do.
    Carter shuffled across the deck and into the wheelhouse for more of the dry wood Buzz had stacked there. His bad hand was swollen stiff, but he could still grip certain things like pieces of firewood, as long as they weren’t too small. He bent down, grabbed an armload, and stood up.
    His head swam. The room started spinning. Carter dropped the wood, leaned against the wall, and slid back down to the floor.
    Tears squeezed out from the corners of his eyes. Even standing too fast was a problem. It was beyond frustrating. When they’d landed on the island, he had been the strong one. He had been the one they could all count on to get the most done. But not anymore.
    Without thinking, he pounded the steel deck with his bad hand. It sent a nauseating bolt of pain up his arm, and he screamed—as much from the frustration as anything else. He took up a piece of the firewood with his good hand and flung it as hard as he could, not caring where it went.
    A small crash sounded from the other side of the room, followed by the sound of broken glass falling onto the floor. Carter looked over to see a row of framed photographs above the wheelhouse windows. Two of them were smashed, their frames splintered at the corners.
    He’d walked by those photos a hundred times without ever really noticing them. Now he saw that they were fishing pictures. In one, several men were casting off the back of a boat. In another, someone stood on a dock next to an enormous swordfish.
    It was a painful reminder of Carter’s own empty belly and everything he hadn’t been able to accomplish here. He picked up another piece of wood and took out two more of the photos with one throw.
    For a long time, Carter didn’t move. The anger that coursed through him was a paralyzing feeling. His muscles and his mind seemed locked up together inside of it. And who was there to blame for all this?
No one.
Not even himself.
    They’d done nothing wrong. This was all supposed to have been a fun sailing trip, a week on the boat with Uncle Dexter. Their parents thought it would be a chance for