This and my other fanfic is archived at my web site at
http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/fk/forever.html
Disclaimer: 'Forever Knight' is owned by Sony/Tristar, created by James
Parriott, et, al. 'Survivor' is owned by CBS, created by Mark Burnett.
After episode three of 'Survivor,' I had to write this. No real people are named
or even referenced very well.
*************************************************************************
Xover: Outlast (1/1)
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge
The man and the woman sat by the fire, the light reflecting the hunger in their
eyes as bleak beacons. It was Day 12 on the island; five of them had made it
this far. After a week, they'd reached a point where they felt like the tribe had
gelled. They'd found a food source beyond the minnows and grubs to amend their
rations of rice, a surprisingly tasty one.
They'd celebrated the end of their famine too soon.
A swift rush of hope swept through the pair holding camp. They could see the
other two men in the group in the distance, approaching along the beach. Had they
been successful?
Another moment, as the distance between them whittled away, that optimism
vanished. Yet again, they were empty-handed.
"Nothing in the traps again?" the woman called.
"Bare," one of the men called back, his voice filled with frustrated disgust.
They left the fireside and met the others halfway. "I just don't get it,"
another of the men commented. "From the moment we crawled on shore, those critters
were in our hair messing with our supplies. They practically fell into our laps!
What the hell happened?"
"Yeah," the last man agreed. "Bam! All of the sudden, not a tail or a whisker."
"Well, we're going to have to come up with an alternative tomorrow," the woman
said. "We can't keep scratching our heads over the empty traps while our
stomachs growl. Everybody's getting weaker. We barely pulled out that last
immunity challenge. Next time, we may not be so lucky."
The three men nodded, agreeing silently as they trudged back to the fire. There
are three parts to the motto of 'Survivor.' The first is 'Outwit.' Something was
going on with the rat population of Pulau Tiga island. Could the rodents be
outwitting the traps? They would have to put their minds together and solve
the puzzle, or the Butok larvae would start looking chewable again.
The fifth group member, the second woman, stumbled out of the foliage. She had
five canteens, the weight distributed between her shoulders. "Guys, I found
something weird on my hike to the water hole. I wandered off the path a little
to see if I could spot anything to eat, and there it was. Everyone should
come and look."
One of the men looked suspiciously up at the burnished sky. "The sun's starting
to set. It's not a good time to start wandering through the jungle. Can't
this wait until morning?"
She shook her head. "No. It's has to do with our rat problem. We can get dinner
out of it, I'm sure. It's just with all the canteens, I couldn't carry
anything else."
The promise of rats roasting over an open fire to a toasty brown had their
mouths watering. It was like butter pecan ice cream to beggars. Within a
minute, the group set out on a trek back into the rapidly darkening jungle.
The second woman checked the map before directing the others off the beaten
path. "This is where it was." She peered through the trees and vines, the
increased shadows causing her to strain to see through the light of her
torch. "Here! Look!"
She lowered her torch, highlighting a jumbled mound supported by one tree trunk.
It was a pile of dead Malaysian rats, at least twenty of them.
One of the men grunted in surprise. "They look like they've been chewed!"
Another of the men waved at the air over the pile, then flicked a beetle
crawling over one furry, stiff paw with his thumb. "How long have they been
here? Sure, it's a feast of rat, but they aren't *fresh* rats, now are they?"
"Picky, picky," the first woman said dismissively. "Frankly, I'm too hungry to
care. Once they're roasted, you won't be able to tell the difference."
"In the kind of sun we've been getting," the third man observed, "there's no way
the pile's been out here more than a day. I bet something killed them last
night."
The woman who had discovered the pile spoke up. "*Something's* right. I mean,
what on the island besides us would want to kill this many rats, then stack
them like this? It's like a stockpile."
"Or a trash heap," the first man pointed out as he picked up a rat. "Hey, these
things are bone dry. No blood."
"What would do that?" the female discoverer repeated.
"Maybe it's a who," the other woman reasoned. "Could it be something to do with
the show? Another challenge?"
"We're due for another tomorrow," the third man admitted. "Maybe this means we
have an advantage. A head start."
There are three parts to the motto of 'Survivor.' The second is 'Outplay.' You
are only as good as your last challenge, and losing cost more with each passing
day. The potential of having a lead over the island's other tribe lifted their
spirits.
"It's dark," the second man said. "We should take the rats back to camp, clean a
few for the fire, *then* think about what it might mean."
The others agreed, and they began to load the bodies into their satchels. One of
the women was brushing off her hands when the noise came. "Did you hear that?"
she asked.
"Hear what?"
"It was like something moving, then a squeaking sound." Her eyes flared with
fresh interest. "A *live* rat sound."
"Let's check it out," the first man said.
The pair stepped deeper into the jungle, leaving the other three to their
loading. The strange sounds intensified - the brushing of branches, a
squeal, followed by smacking noises.
"Do you think it's an animal?" the woman whispered.
The man unfastened his knife from his belt. "Hopefully it's something bigger
than a rat that tastes even *more* like chicken," he whispered back.
Their progress brought them into a clearing of sorts. The firelight of the
woman's torch brought a man's figure into relief. His back was turned to
them, and he was strangely clad in a sweater - highly impractical considering
the island's weather.
"Hey!" the woman exclaimed. "Are you with the show?"
The man spun around, his eyes glaring defensively at the torch the woman held.
With a start, she realized that the color of his eyes demonically matched that
of the flames. His head was bare of any hair, earth clinging in its place as
though he'd been sleeping in the dirt. The pale white skin flecked with soil
reminded her briefly of the bellies of the Butok larvae they eaten in the second
challenge, and her stomach flip-flopped. Her gaze lowered to the animal in
his hands, another chewed rat, then darted back up to his mouth. Blood smeared
his chin, and as he snarled...
Fangs.
"Oh god."
She dropped the torch out of shock. There was a rush of wind, and the flame went
out. Suddenly they were drenched in darkness.
The three contestants filling their packs with the dead rats heard the sound. It
was another squeal, this time not rat in nature.
***************************************************************
Screed patted the roulette table as if it was an old friend. "As Aye was saying,
mate, me sea 'oliday really paid off. Aye'm refreshed, re-invigged, and
re-financed."
"I can see that," Vachon said. "While I'm not going to scoff at the free trip to
Vegas, I have to wonder if you didn't take the whole 'lone survivor' concept
overboard. Did you have to eat the *whole* camera crew?"
"Wot? An' leave 'em with tha' empirical evidence, Enforcers knockin' at me squat
fer a bout o' pin the stake in ol' Screed? Not screaming likely."
"So how'd you get the money? Technically, you weren't a contestant, and the
execs wouldn't take a premature shutdown of their new hit show very well."
"A wee boozle on one of the Powers That Be. Yew know how prone they are tew
acceptin' a su-gestation tha' makes no sense."
Screed proceeded to gamble away his million.
**************************************************************
There are three parts to the motto of 'Survivor.' The final is 'Outlast.'
Who can outlast a carouche sailor on a rat-infested island?
**************************************************************
Fin
Send comments and virtual charred rodents to br1035@ix.netcom.com
No grubs, please.
(
geocities.com/~br1035)