Reckless Girls(39)

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, then shrugs. “That shit still happened, though.”

“We can’t know—” Brittany says, but to my surprise, Nico cuts her off.

“We do, actually. Dude’s right. When the HMS Meroe wrecked here, there were thirty-two survivors. Only eight walked off this island. There was a trial and everything. The stuff about cannibalism didn’t make it into the papers, but there’s no doubt they wouldn’t have made it without eating the ones that died.” He grins, tearing apart a shrimp with his teeth. “Long pig. Apparently tastes just like barbecue.”

My stomach churns, and I look at the still half-full plate of food in front of me. It was fish, grilled and savory and nothing at all like what Nico’s talking about, but I know I can’t stomach any more food tonight.

“But maybe they were just … I don’t know, stronger or something. Tougher.”

That makes Robbie laugh again, only this time, it sounds more menacing. “Oh, they were tougher,” he agrees. “Place like this, it does things to people. Reveals who you really are, when you strip all the bullshit away.”

He gives me that grin again, his teeth yellowed and slightly crooked.

“That’s why they survived.”





SIXTEEN





I wake up too early the next morning, the light in the cabin a soft lilac as I gently disentangle myself from Nico, slipping on the still-damp swimsuit I have hanging on one of the kitchen cabinet doors.

The whole main cabin is a bit of a mess, I realize as I look around, and I wonder if I should come back later this afternoon and straighten up a bit. We spend so much time on the island lately that the Susannah, which was supposed to be our home base, is starting to feel more like a staging area. The place where we sleep and get dressed and occasionally grab food, but nothing more.

When I step out onto the deck, the sun is just rising, turning both the sky and water the prettiest shades of pink and orange, and I grin as I leap over the side of the boat, the water sliding over me, warm and salty.

The swim to shore takes just a few minutes, and I immediately head for the little lean-to Jake set up the other day. There are some books in there, courtesy of my collection, a few towels, and usually some protein bars—another one of the Susannah’s few contributions to the shared rations.

But as I walk up the slight rise to the edge of the trees, I see someone has already beaten me there.

“Morning!” Robbie calls. He’s claimed one of Eliza’s batik blankets, his arms around his skinny knees, one of the protein bars in his hand, spilling crumbs. There’s also an open bottle of beer next to him, half-full.

“Tell you what, can’t beat a breakfast beer and getting to watch a beautiful woman come out of the water.”

He says it easily, his tone friendly, but I still don’t like it, don’t like the way his eyes skate over me, admiring.

But it’s his first full day here, and maybe he’s just one of those guys, the type that doesn’t even realize they’re being creepy. I make myself smile as I reply, “Can’t say I’ve ever had a breakfast beer.”

“Oh girl, best thing in the fucking world,” he says, offering me a sip from his bottle. “Beer first thing in the morning sets the tone, you know. The motherfucking tone for your whole day.”

I shake my head at the offered bottle.

“No, thanks.”

“Your loss,” he says cheerfully, taking another drink and then a bite of the protein bar. I notice there are two other empty wrappers discarded next to him and once again fight down my irritation.

Still, I hear the sharpness in my tone when I ask, “So how long are you planning on staying?”

He shrugs. “Dunno, man. Gonna see which way the wind blows, you know?”

Mouth full, he gestures with what’s left of his—our—protein bar back at the jungle. “Or maybe I’ll just find a place to camp out. Live the dream forever.”

When he flashes his teeth at me this time, there’s a chunk of dried blueberry stuck there, and I feel my stomach roll a little.

“What, live here?” I ask, reaching past him into the shelter for a bottle of water. It’s warm and tastes like chemicals, but it still helps.

Robbie nods. “People have. Like, I read this one story about a dude who was stationed here in World War II. War ended, he didn’t feel like going back. My buddy who stopped by here a couple of years ago said he found the dude’s shack in the jungle. Dude was long gone, obviously. Fucker would be, like, ninety or something by now. But he did it. He did the damn thing!”

Another chortle, and Robbie leans back on his elbows. “Maybe I’ll do the damn thing, too.”

I think of spending our last week here with Robbie and have to fight to keep myself from grimacing.

“And he wasn’t the only one,” Robbie continues, looking at me. “Not the only one who said, ‘to hell with it,’ and set up permanent camp. The guy I knew who came here, Chipper, he said he was sure there was someone else living on the island. He kept hearing noises, and finding, like, traps in the trees and shit.”

“No one could survive here that long,” I say, even as I remember the skull at the airstrip, the concrete proof that people had lived, and died, on Meroe. “Not without replenishing supplies.”